The Courtesan's Bed (18 page)

“What happened?”

He gave her a withering look he probably reserved for the lowliest of peasants. “What do you think happened? My father and the driver were hurt, and the wolves attacked. As far as we could tell, they fought them off as best they could, but both men were weak from losing blood. After the wolves killed the horses, they went after my father and his driver.”

Ivy stared at the remaining food on her plate, her appetite killed by the gruesome picture filling her mind.

Serge drained his glass and poured himself yet another. “My mother remarried. Her new husband thought I was a spoiled weakling and made me wish that I'd died with my father. My own mother did nothing to stop him. Nothing!” He swore in Russian. “I left Russia as soon as I came into my inheritance. I haven't been back since, except to visit my sister and her family.”

Ivy wanted to take him in her arms and rock him like a hurt little boy. But that would be a grave mistake. Strong men interpreted sympathy as pity, and pity was weakness.

“How horrid for you,” she said. “You must've been very strong to survive.”

A grim smile twisted his mouth. “I was.”

He fell silent, staring into space. He drank another glass of wine, and another, until the bottle was empty. By the time dessert arrived, Serge was thoroughly drunk.

Ivy eyed him warily, the first prickle of alarm rising along the back of her neck. She had memorized every single detail of Odile de la Montaigne's death. At least Serge's friends were nowhere to be found tonight, and he wasn't armed.

Now his attention focused on her, his troubled dark eyes turning to midnight with lust. He stood so fast, his chair toppled over with a resounding crash, making Ivy start.

He extended his hand. “Come.” His words weren't slurred, and he remained steady on his feet, so he was holding all of the alcohol he'd imbibed.

Ivy rose, her heart hammering, wondering what he had in store for her tonight. She prayed it wouldn't be too painful.

She must've risen too slowly, for Serge uttered an impatient growl, rounded the table and grabbed her wrist, dragging her toward the dining room door.

She followed him up the stairs and down the hall. When he came to his bedroom, which was adjacent to hers, he unlocked the door and released Ivy long enough to turn on the gaslight.

He kept the main door to his bedroom and the connecting door to Ivy's bedroom locked. Now her blood ran cold when she saw what Serge was keeping hidden from her.

Across from his bed stood a wooden frame with a crossbar attached three quarters of the way from the top and another bar at the base. Thick leather straps were attached to the ends.

Ivy had heard Madame Soubrise's other girls talk about devices certain men liked to employ. Seeing a woman helplessly bound heightened their sexual arousal. Some even enjoyed inflicting pain while they restrained their mistress.

She looked around nervously for any whips, but saw nothing.

She was about to pay dearly for her beautiful gowns and living in this posh house. For one mutinous second, she considered telling Serge she'd changed her mind about being his mistress and to take her back to Madame Soubrise's at once. But the feeling passed quickly. She would do anything to stay with him.

“Afraid?” Serge's tone held a challenge.

She regarded him coolly and with great dignity. “I'm not afraid of you.”

He pulled her against him. “You should be.”

Then he turned her around and began unbuttoning her gown with surprisingly gentle fingers. When he finished, he tugged the fabric off her shoulders and peeled it down her body. Then he unlaced her corset, tugged down her drawers and pulled her chemise over her head until she was naked.

She stepped out of her clothes and faced her lover, trying not to reveal her nervousness.

“Do you trust me?” he said.

“With my life.” She wished she believed her own brave words, but Serge needed to hear them.

His eyes shown with fire, and he kissed her, his mouth tasting strongly of wine. Then he led her over to the wooden device, turned her back to the smooth wood and strapped her wrists down so she stood helpless and exposed before him.

He knelt on one knee. “Spread your legs.”

She did as he commanded.

“Wider.” When she complied, he fastened the straps about her ankles.

“They're too tight,” she said.

With a grunt, he adjusted them.

Satisfied, he caressed her gently and relentlessly, kissing her face, her neck, her breasts, working his way down her body while his fingers toyed with her clit. She tried to close her legs, but couldn't, and groaned as the flames of passion licked at her, taking her higher and higher.

Then, just when she thought she was going to explode, Serge stopped.

“Don't. Not yet. Please.”

With a devilish smirk, he left her to walk over to his bed.

“Serge, please! I burn for you.”

“Not yet.” He proceeded to remove his own clothing, slowly, deliberately.

He sensed at once when her ardor cooled, because he came back and began arousing her again.

Just when she was on the verge of coming from his clever mouth and fingers, he stopped.

She panted and strained at the straps that restrained her. “Damn you!”

He merely laughed, seeming to draw a sadistic amusement from her distress.

When her yearning subsided and he began to torment her with his skillful, fiery touch yet again, she willed her body not to respond, but her desperate flesh cruelly betrayed her. In minutes, she was his helpless slave again, moaning at every caress.

“Please, Serge. No more.”

This time, the minute he finally unstrapped her wrists, she lunged at him with a feral snarl of rage and thwarted desire. Laughing, he held her off and backed toward the bed. The minute he hit the edge and stopped, Ivy pushed him down, then pounced like a ravenous beast, pulling his stiff cock out of his trousers and impaling herself, bouncing up and down, seeking the orgasm he'd deliberately withheld from her.

She came so hard and violently, she screamed in triumph, and when she was spent, she rolled off him, turned her back and closed her eyes, daring to let him know of her displeasure at such cruel treatment.

“Aren't you going to finish me off?” he whispered in her ear.

“Go to hell.”

The Russian merely laughed and pulled her against him, where he fell asleep with his heavy arm securely around her waist, making her feel more cherished than she had ever been in her life.

Chapter Fourteen

A couple hours later Serge had just finished bringing Ivy to another screaming climax with Odile's dildo when he sat up and slapped her bare thigh. “We're returning to Paris.”

She buried her face in the pillow. “But we just got here. You promised to show me the rest of your estate.”

“Wouldn't you prefer to go to Maxim's?”

Joy surged through her like the rippling aftershocks of her orgasm. He was taking her to Maxim's. At last! He'd realized how much she meant to him and would finally publicly acknowledge her as his mistress. She sat up and squealed in delight. “Maxim's!” She clapped her hands like a child given a whole box of forbidden confections. “I've always wanted to go there.”

“I don't see why. It's just an overblown cafe where people drink champagne, eat caviar and gossip.”

One of her brooding Russian's less attractive attributes was his penchant for souring every drop of pleasure in life. He was Ivy's complete opposite in that regard, and she despaired of changing him.

He rose from the bed in one fluid movement. “Wear the dark blue gown.”

The dark blue gown that Serge had insisted Madame Racette make for her was Ivy's least favorite. She thought pastel blues and pale peach favored her delicate coloring. But she would wear whatever he wanted, or even parade naked through the Bois if he so ordered, because she wanted to please him.

Yet Ivy considered herself spirited enough to try to wear what she thought looked best on her.

“Don't you think I'd look better in the peach?”

He turned and gave her a stern, sour look. “You shall wear the dark blue because I wish it. Besides, it will complement the gift I'm about to give you.”

What else complemented a gown except jewels? Ivy sat up, hardly daring to hope. What accented dark blue? Diamonds could be worn with any color and any style gown. The necklace he'd bought for that other woman had emeralds. Though she had never owned any sapphire jewelry, Ivy knew instinctively that she would look splendid in sapphires.

Serge opened the topmost drawer of his bureau and took out a flat jewel case. He walked back to the bed and handed it to her.

“Oh, Serge…” She lifted the lid, readying her gasp for when she was awed by the cold sparkle of diamonds.

The gasp died in her throat. She stared down at the ugliest necklace and earrings she'd ever seen. Large, oval stones of an unflattering transparent dark yellow were set, not even in gold, but silver.

She struggled to hide her bitter disappointment. “How…unusual.”

“The stones are amber,” he said as if he'd just given her carte blanche to buy whatever gems she wanted from Cartier's. “From Mother Russia.”

Common amber. That other woman was worth diamonds and emeralds. She, Ivy Doucette, was not. Envy mingled with dislike and growing resentment.

But she smiled at her oblivious lover and blew him a kiss. “They're beautiful and unique, and since they're from your homeland, they will always have a special place in my heart.”

He smiled, obviously pleased with her response and not fathoming its insincerity. “We'll have supper at Durand's, and then on to Maxim's.”

Maxim's!

Ivy became a fairy princess entering her enchanted kingdom. Dashing, handsome men in white tie…gorgeous women in sparkling jewels and softly rustling silks in every color imaginable…the ebb and flow of conversation that seemed richer and more sprightly than ordinary talk.

Standing with Serge in the entrance, waiting for the maitre d' to seat them, Ivy felt the nervous flutter of butterflies deep in her stomach. What kind of impression would she make on these elegant, sophisticated people? The midnight blue of her gown and the contrasting deep yellow amber jewelry made her shimmer with vibrancy. Instead of looking like a fragile, pastel flower that would fade into the background, the vivid, darker colors made her stand out and added an air of mystery.

Now the maitre d' was striding toward them. “Welcome to Maxim's, Count Dragomilov, and your lovely lady.” He nodded respectfully. “Your usual table, sir?”

“Of course,” Serge replied.

Ivy placed her hand on Serge's arm, and he led the way.

The minute she strode down the aisle, heads turned and gazes filled with interest and speculation followed her.

She looked up at Serge and smiled provocatively. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“You've been very good.” He ogled her neckline and the swell of her breasts. “I believe in rewarding my mistresses if they are very good.”

Not exactly the soft, sweet words of a lover, but Ivy was learning not to expect soft, sweet words from the count. She could overlook any of his many faults as long as he continued to buy her beautiful gowns and take her to fashionable places.

When they reached their table, the maitre d' seated her at the banquette so she could be displayed to the room, while Serge sat across from her.

Their waiter arrived to take Serge's order of champagne and caviar.

Ivy looked around. “Who's that man seated over there, the serious-looking one with the open notebook? He's staring at me.”

Serge looked over his shoulder. “Anatole Beaucaire, the nosy journalist. He's never seen you here before, so he's curious.”

“Anatole Beaucaire of
Le Figaro
?” Ivy's heart beat faster. She read his column as faithfully as if it were her mother's Bible. Maybe he'd mention her in the next edition and everyone in Paris would know her name. “Should I go over and introduce myself?”

“Don't be gauche. If he wants to know your identity, he'll ask around.”

Their champagne arrived, the waiter poured two flutes, and set the bottle in a silver bucket of ice.

Over the rim of her glass, Ivy's startled gaze met that of Max Montblanc, looking as pale as if he'd just seen a ghost. She smiled triumphantly and turned her attention back to Serge.

She wondered if Max would come over to their table and speak to her. And the next time he patronized the brothel, would he mention seeing her to Madame Soubrise? Well, Ivy wasn't afraid of Madame
.

The caviar arrived, bringing a wide smile to Serge's handsome face. “Ah, prime Russian caviar. The best in the world.”

Ivy followed his lead, spooning the tiny black pearls onto a small coin of toast, and nibbling it delicately. She resisted wrinkling her nose, deciding that caviar was one of those delicacies that sounded much more glamorous than the reality of its salty, fishy taste. But she pretended to enjoy it because of Serge's expectations.

“Mmmm, delicious.” She took another nibble, holding her breath so she wouldn't actually taste it.

Serge piled on the caviar and devoured it with gusto.

Without warning, all conversation trickled to a stop, and all eyes turned collectively to Maxim's entrance. Such a reaction could only mean that someone important had arrived. Ivy craned her neck to see.

Régine Laflamme, the Queen of Fire herself, stood there, a breathtaking vision in a gown of gossamer gold tissue and a splendid crown set with multicolored gems the likes of which Ivy had never seen.

Her companion, an equally handsome and engaging man, had eyes only for her. Ivy sighed. She wished Serge would look at her with such single-minded devotion.

As they followed the maitre d', Régine smiled warmly at people she knew and even stopped at a table or two. Anatole Beaucaire rose to kiss both her cheeks, obviously a good friend. Ivy wished that she had such an influential circle of friends.