Love Storm (2 page)

Zena ignored the barbed jibes concerning her mother, having been as proud of her enchanting mother's heritage as of her father's more conventional nobility. Baroness Turku's father was a powerful mountain chieftain whose clan had ruled in the Caucasus for centuries.

The last three years since her mother's death had been sadly unhappy as Zena watched the slow, lingering disintegration of her once proud, vigorous father. He had hardly seemed the same man after his wife's death. Almost overnight the baron had changed into a remote, detached, perfunctorily polite figure of a man.

Baroness Adelberg had constantly and bitterly badgered the young girl, who was turning into a rare beauty in a gloomy and solitary environment. On infrequent occasions, when her father had still been alive, he would come out of his room in the afternoon and his eyes would mist over as he discerned in his growing daughter a startling resemblance to his beloved wife. The reminders were too poignantly wounding, and he had brutally avoided his young daughter more and more in the last few months of his life.

The week before the Dolgorouky ball had been a turmoil of vicious emotional altercations between Baroness Adelberg and Zena, the furious older woman finally threatening to throw her selfish ward out of the house if she did not agree to wed the general. Zena was still adamant; more stubbornly inclined than ever to do anything—anything, at all—rather than marry that hateful old man, with his florid face and tiny, evil repellent eyes that looked upon her so lecherously. He had been hovering near her every evening, whispering sweet phrases that were ludicrous coming from a man old enough to be her grandfather; touching her in a disgusting, familiar way when her aunt wasn't looking; leering at her undisguisedly as he informed the baroness that he wished the engagement to be short.

Having to dance with the general this evening had further hardened Zena's determination to resist marrying him at any price. He had held her too intimately, pressing his flabby paunch against her rib cage; and, shuddering with revulsion, she'd had to steel herself to keep from running from the dance floor. The minute the dance ended, she had begged to be excused for a moment to refresh her hairdo, and practically bolting from the room, she had rushed down the stairs and impulsively asked for her wrap, a driving need to get away from the contemptible old general outweighing all considerations of etiquette.

Zena had been standing on the steps of the palace now for several minutes, frantically searching her mind for any possible avenue of escape
from
the future her aunt had planned for her. Fleetingly, she'd even considered throwing herself into the Neva, but had rapidly discarded the idea when she realized that jumping from a bridge onto the frozen ice of the river would probably result in broken legs and a slow, freezing death. Zena was still youthfully optimistic enough to desire life rather than death; in any case, Bobby needed someone to care for him. With an energetic mind, a young, healthy body, and a resourceful personality, surely she could survive. She
would
survive! But first she must take herself as far away from St. Petersburg, and pursuit by a vengeful aunt and a lecherous suitor, as her wits would allow. After swiftly appraising the minimal options open to an eighteen-year-old woman with a three-year-old brother in tow, she came to a decision: She would go to her grandfather in the mountains. Somehow she would find him.

"Ivan! Ivan! Wake up!" The young noble was shaking his sleeping driver, who, muffled in fur carriage robes, had dozed off. "Ivan, wake up! We're off to Podolsk.
Vite, Vite.
¹
"
The tall, dark-haired prince chuckled indulgently as he vigorously shook the burly peasant.

Podolsk—
that
certainly was far enough away from St. Petersburg! Zena speculated tersely. A split second later, the decision made, she prepared herself to approach the stranger, then hesitated, all the training of a lifetime opposed to such shameless behavior. But, when she saw that the driver was now fully awake and the horses were prancing in their harness, in desperation she ran down to the sable-clad figure and tugged at his arm.

The prince swung around in surprise, and his heavy-lidded golden eyes swiftly appraised the slim young girl standing before him, wrapped in a much-worn gray cashmere cape with black lamb trim. The top of her head scarcely came to his shoulder, and lifted to his gaze was a beautiful, delicate face with large, deep-blue, imploring eyes.

"Well?" he said impassively.

Zena raised her hand, distractedly pushing aside a heavy tress of auburn waves that had fallen over her forehead, and shook the long cascades of hair back with a nervous shake of her dainty head. "Please,
monsieur
..."
She spoke haltingly in French, paused, then took a deep breath and

plunged on rapidly: "Please, sir, could
…
could you allow me to go with you to Podolsk?"

Her lashes fell before the prince's bold, deliberate scrutiny, and she held her breath in an agony of embarrassment and trepidation. Oh, God, how could she have sunk so low as to ask a perfect stranger for a ride? Humiliation overwhelmed her; then, with a vacillating seesaw of nervous anxiety, her mind swung full circle, desperation overcoming any wavering scruples. Holy Mother, what would she do if he said no? Sweet Jesus, let him say yes and she would be far from St. Petersburg and the repellent general by morning.

Alexander Nikolaevich coolly surveyed the young girl. She couldn't be more than sixteen, he decided, with her petite, innocent beauty. Not particularly young for a woman of the streets, however. Many of them commenced their trade at twelve or thirteen; at sixteen she was probably a practiced veteran, and in another three years her beauty would begin to fade. These fair flowers of the night withered rapidly.

"So you want a ride with me to Podolsk. Why?" he asked, as his eyes insolently raked her slim form from head to foot and slowly returned to the pale face.

"I
...
I can't say," Zena stammered, and her eyes fell again before the candid regard of the tall, handsome aristocrat towering above her. She involuntarily shivered as another gust of wind whirled the snow around her satin-slippered feet, and she tugged the cape closer for warmth.

The girl was obviously not dressed to survive very long in this below-zero winter night, the prince thought, measuring her with his cool, taw
n
y eyes; and, if he took her with him (she was pretty enough—in fact, a rare, dainty little beauty), it would save him the trouble of driving to the Islands to find a gypsy girl to bring along.

Zena shrank back under that hard gaze. The gentleman's features had a vaguely predatory look about them-— like some fierce black panther, both beautiful and terrifying in its cruelty: swar
t
hy skin drawn tight over the patrician bones of his face; feline eyes distinctly slanted and framed by vivid black brows sweeping upward; a haughty aquiline nose and a finely modeled mouth, now pursed in reflection. It was a face without a trace of gentleness or pity but with a savage beauty that drew the eye. Looking up timorously into those cold, calculating eyes, Zena felt a sudden urge to turn and flee.

An imperceptible shrug of his muscular shoulders indicated the prince's decision. "Why not,
ma petite}"
he drawled indifferently, offering his arm and courteously handing her into the troika.

Zena, with immense relief but a heart still palpitating wildly, sank into the cushion of soft furs Ivan arranged around her. The prince lounged comfortably next to her in the small sleigh, and within seconds they were galloping at breakneck speed through the broad streets.

The prince spoke not a word to his passenger, his thoughts concentrated on the few necessities he required for the journey. Since his country estate at Podolsk was always kept at the ready for his erratic visits, very little had to be conveyed there. However, he did want those guns and the wine and maybe that new pastry assistant to his chef who made such glorious
croissants.
Alex's mornings had been infinitely improved, regardless of the state of his pounding head, with the appearance of those new
croissants
on his breakfast tray. To this day, he had a prodigious fancy for sweets and often disgusted his fellow gamblers at the Yacht Club by devouring 'bonbons and pastries with his brandy in the wee hours of the morning when everyone else's stomach was slightly queasy after ten or twelve hours of drinking and smoking. This idiosyncrasy was the result, plainly, of a spoiled and pampered childhood, which Alex's certainly had been, but then, a Kuzan never questioned his whims; he simply indulged them. Yes, the pastry cook would come along.

When they reached the imposing pink marble Kuzan palace on the Neva Quay, given long ago by Catherine the Great to her favorite
Platon
Kuzan, the prince issued a few abrupt instructions to Ivan, then helped Zena out of the troika and escorted her up the pretentious marble stairway rising gracefully from the street. Elaborate cast-bronze double doors were swept open before they reached the entrance, as though unseen eyes had been on the alert for their master's return.

Alex informed a very correct English butler that he was leaving forthwith for Podolsk and had only to change his evening clothes. "Rutledge, would you please show
Mademoiselle
...
er
..."
He glanced at Zena inquiringly.

"Turku," she quickly responded, and then, fearful the name might be recognized, amended rapidly,
"Mademoiselle
Turkuaminen."

"Ah, of course, Rutledge,
Mademoiselle
Turkuaminen would no doubt like to freshen up a bit before the journey. Show her to the lapis guest room and send a lady's maid to her."

"Very good, my lord prince," the butler replied, assessing the inelegant appearance of the young woman with a cool dignity, immediately placing her precisely where she belonged in his very rigid hierarchy of rank. The Kuzan household was used to dealing with the sudden appearance of beautiful and colorful women in their master's company, and, as he had so often in the past, Rutledge rose nobly to the occasion.

Alex turned again to Zena' and brusquely, in the manner of one accustomed to command, added, "Please,
mademoiselle,
no more than fifteen minutes. I detest waiting and I'm impatient to be off."

With the imperturbable calm of one long familiar with the gross idiosyncrasies of the entire Kuzan family menagerie, Rutledge conducted Zena to the lapis room, inquiring politely if she required anything in addition to a lady's maid.

"No
…t
hank you," Zena softly declined, awed by both the opulent magnificence of the rococo palace and the restrained hauteur of the formidable butler. Her family's servants had always been Russian peasants, who, though childishly lovable and accommodating, never approached the noble, proud grace of this creature.

Minutes later, back downstairs, Rutledge permitted himself one raised eyebrow as he informed the housekeeper of the prince's "guest." "Mrs. Chase, we have seen a multitude of, ah, females come and go into the young master's bedroom, but usually he knows their names."

"No doubt he will know this one's name by morning," Mrs. Chase dryly retorted, as they both calmly waited at the bottom of the stairs in the event the prince had any final directions for them before taking his leave.

Within ten minutes Alex reappeared at the top landing, casually dressed in a cream-colored muzhik shirt belted with red suede over black cashmere trousers tucked into beautifully embroidered black kid boots, his overlong black hair tossed carelessly in disarray, for, in his haste to change, raking fingers had sufficed for a comb. He was slipping his arms into the sleeves of a greatcoat of pearl-gray lynx as he unhurriedly strolled down the ornate marble staircase flanked by Falconet marble nymphs of exquisite proportions. "Did Ivan send a messenger to hold the Moscow train?"

"Yes, my lord. It has been«taken care of."

"Is the young cook up and dressed?"

"Yes, Prince, already on his way to the Moscow Vauxhall."
²

"My guns and wines gone on as well?"

"Yes, my lord," Rutledge assured Alex confidently, for he ran a well-ordered establishment. "Is there anything more you wish?"

"No, thank you, Rutledge. And thank you, Mrs. Chase; you are ever efficient."

The prince began to pace the immense entrance hall, while Rutledge and Mrs. Chase remained quietly at attention. On the third traverse of the inlaid-marble floor, he impatiently slapped his gloves against the palm of his hand and gruffly noted,
" Mademoiselle
s
toilette must have exceeded fifteen minutes by now. Please send someone to hurry her along."

Damnation, he thought, was there ever a woman who was on time? He'd give her five more minutes and then leave the impertinent female behind. She could fine someone else to convey her to Podolsk. Just as his ready temper was beginning to smolder, Zena came running down the stairs, breathlessly apologizing for the delay: