To Disappear

TO DISAPPEAR

by

NATASHA ROSTOVA

To Disappear first
published in 2003 by

Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Digital edition converted and published by

Andrews UK Limited 2010

www.andrewsuk.com

New Authors Welcome

New Authors Welcome

Copyright © Natasha Rostova

The right of Natasha Rostova to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

‘You didn’t tell me you were going to hurt me.’

‘Ah, Lydia, we would never hurt you,’ Preston replied gently. His blue eyes indicated sympathy as he stood and approached her, placing his hands on her shoulders. He turned her around and lifted her skirt to exposed the rounded globes of her bottom, the enticing sight of her flared hips parted by the shadowy crevice. He stroked a hand over the fleshy mounds, making her shudder in response.

‘Well, let me amend that,’ he continued. ‘We would never hurt you unless you truly deserve it. And you are clearly in need of some discipline to remind you that you want to be here.’

Three men stood on the wrought-iron balcony, their gazes directed with unerring precision towards a young woman walking on the street below. Ropes of wisteria, their petals and leaves moist with morning dew, twisted around the curvilinear bars of the balcony. Wisps of fog clung to the air as the sun began a slow scorching of the city streets.

The young woman wore white, slim-fitting cotton pants and a striped shirt that reached mid-thigh. Her feet were encased in strapped sandals, and she carried a large leather bag over her shoulder. She moved well with an easy, purposeful gait, as if knowing her destination and how she would arrive there.

The men were not able to fully view her face, for her eyes were shielded by a pair of dark glasses, but her high cheekbones sloped downward to a strong chin and a mouth that carried the promise of sensuality. Her straight brown hair fell to her shoulders, capturing and holding the watery glow of the sun.

Two of the men had been informed that the young woman was not beautiful, but none was seeking beauty in its conventional form.

‘What is her name?’ one of the men asked.

Preston Severine looked away from the woman, reaching for a paper-thin china cup filled with coffee. He inhaled deeply, appreciating the dark, chicory scent. ‘We will call her Lydia.’

‘She knows?’

Preston settled into a chair and nodded.

‘She is… aware, shall we say?’ A corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. ‘I wouldn’t say that anyone truly knows.’

He sipped the rich coffee and returned his gaze to the woman. His next words were soft and certain.

‘I believe she will do very nicely.’

Swamps edged the perimeter of the plantation grounds. The wet heat rising from the waters had caused the wooden casing of the house to warp, giving it an air of forgotten elegance. Antique white in color and accented with green shutters and trim, the house stood in the middle of the grounds like a lord presiding over his underlings.

Willow trees dipped and swayed in the hot breeze wafting from the north, and wild vines climbed rampantly over trestles. Disorder ruled the garden, plants and flowers taking freedom in the humid warmth of the Louisiana climate as they stretched over fountains and flagstone paths, invading the territory as if claiming it for their own.

She sat on a wooden garden bench, the rich scent of gardenias rising around her. Her body was taut with defiance, a sharp contrast to the yielding vegetation and atmosphere of succulence. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the call of birds and the rhythmic buzz of insects.

A noise came from behind her, and she turned to look for the source. The tall, broad-shouldered man stepped onto the wraparound veranda. She suspected he had Creole blood; the evidence lay in the taut, light coffee-colored skin stretched over the sharp planes of his face and the fathomless depths of his black eyes. His name was Kruin. It sounded exotic and strange, like a name from the ancient deserts of Egypt or that of a cruel, medieval king.

‘Your legs.’ His expression was impassive.

Her breath hissed outward in annoyance. She and Kruin looked at each other for a long moment in a silent battle of wills. They both knew who would win.

‘Lydia.’

Lydia
. She would have to become accustomed to that name. She tore her gaze from Kruin and stoically separated her legs from their crossed position, both a symbolic and physical expression of her availability.

The posture had been the very first thing she learned in this place, that was both her haven and her prison.

When she had first arrived – had it really only been two days ago? – Kruin had been the one to take the small valise she carried, murmuring in his deep voice that she would not be needing it. She had followed him down the dusty road leading to La Lierre et le Chêne and into the foyer, her gaze moving over the flowing curves of the staircase, the chandelier overhead, the polished, hardwood floors.

Lydia’s stomach had tightened with nerves and apprehension of the unknown. She looked down at her hands, the neat, manicured nails that required little or no polish, the small scar on her forefinger from a minor accident when she was a child. No rings; not even the sterling silver band that had once belonged to her grandmother. She was to wear no jewelry, Preston had said, no cosmetics unless they told her to.

Preston appeared then through a set of carved, mahogany doors. Blond-haired and handsome with strong, aristocratic features, he looked the epitome of a regal man in command. He wore black trousers and a crisp white linen shirt that bore no wrinkles despite the heat.

He smiled at Lydia and kissed her cheek. ‘Your trip was fine?’

‘Yes.’ Lydia’s voice was icy, her posture rigid despite Preston’s welcoming demeanor. He had once been a childhood friend, but she had not seen him for over ten years until just last month.

‘Good.’ Preston smiled again, appearing not to notice her tension. ‘Come and have some tea, then.’

He took her arm and led her into the drawing room.

Velvet drapes were pulled back from the high windows that dominated the room, allowing the eerie twilight of dusk to permeate the air. Elegant antique furniture gave the room an atmosphere of the past. Lydia silently approved. The archaic house and grounds of La Lierre et le Chêne cried out for heirlooms and history.

It was there that Preston had introduced her to the youngest of the three men, Gabriel; tall with thick black hair, sea-green eyes, and an aura of gentleness that the other two men lacked. He gave her a smile that was both welcoming and reassuring, as if he understood her anxiety. A pale glimmer of solace went through Lydia as she murmured a greeting.

‘Sit down.’ Preston walked to a nearby tea setting and lifted a silver carafe.

‘I’d prefer to stand.’

Preston’s eyes flashed in warning. ‘Sit down, Lydia.’

Lydia sat stiffly on the edge of a chair. She shot both Gabriel and Kruin quick glances, but their expressions revealed nothing. Preston handed her a cup of tea, then put both hands on her knees and pushed her crossed legs gently apart.

‘Never cross your legs in front of us,’ he said.

A flush heated Lydia’s face.

‘So, Lydia,’ Preston settled into a chesterfield across from her, ‘is there anything you want to tell Gabriel or Kruin?’

Lydia wondered what kind of answer he expected. She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Perhaps something about why you’re here?’ Preston urged.

‘You know why I’m here.’

A lengthy silence filled the room, during which the hostile tone of Lydia’s words echoed against the paneled walls. Apprehension tightened in her gut.

Preston placed his cup on a side-table and leaned forward slightly, his eyes on Lydia.

‘Let me ask you again,’ he suggested, his voice soft. ‘Why don’t you tell Gabriel and Kruin why you’re here?’

Lydia looked at Gabriel, since Kruin’s dark eyes disturbed her. ‘I want to be here.’

‘Because?’ Preston prompted.

‘Because…’ her voice faltered.

‘You’re here of your own free will, aren’t you, Lydia?’

She nodded. Her throat felt tight. Her options had been limited, but Preston’s seductive enticement had broken through her desperation.

To disappear, that’s what you want, isn’t it? If you disappear, you’ll never have to face what you’ve done, never have to confront those who trusted you
.

He had explained it in what Lydia thought of as vague detail. She understood what was expected from her and, in return, she would be protected and dissolved. In the eyes of the world, she would no longer exist.

She trusted Preston enough that she knew he was capable of fulfilling his promise. The results of her vast embezzlement from the corporation she had worked at for years would be placed in a secret bank account, untraceable by the law enforcement agencies who were scurrying about like mice trying to compile evidence against her.

For ten years she had skimmed the top until the money seemed to accumulate itself, despite the luxuries in which she had indulged. Her anger at herself for having been discovered was mitigated by her awareness that she needed to escape. Preston had been the first thought in her mind, for over the years she had kept well informed of his insidious ways and connections.

Whatever he was involved with, she had known it was somehow sexual, that Preston’s sharply elegant manner concealed a streak of deviance. Still, that had not stopped her and perhaps even intrigued her. She had sought him out.

But she had not expected this. She recoiled when he first mentioned it, detesting the very idea of surrendering to anyone when she had been so aggressively independent. She refused, of course, even as she knew it was the least horrid of her choices.

You need to disappear, love. You know I can do that for you
.

She hated Preston for placing the choice in front of her, hated him for not helping her without expecting something in return. To be certain, a hidden part of her was curiously mesmerized by the whole idea. Her inner self, however, was not an aspect that Lydia had ever considered exploring in reality.

Why won’t you just help me? Why does it have to be this?

It doesn’t. I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do.

I don’t want to do this!

Then don’t.

You won’t help me unless I do, will you?

This is utterly your choice. You contacted me, remember? And I promise you nothing, except the unequivocal guarantee that no one will ever find you. You will cease to exist.

Who will I become?

Preston had smiled then.
Ours
.

She understood, even as disgust with Preston and his tactics sickened her. And she also understood her lack of options. The thought of court, penalties, public trials, and ultimately, prison, terrified her more than this.

The damage to her family would be even worse; her father’s campaign for a senate seat would be destroyed, her mother’s reputation as philanthropist skewered beyond repair. Not to mention her brothers and sisters and God knew how many other members of their extended family.

She had written letters telling them not to worry about her, but she knew they would wonder what had become of her. Preston assured her that he would even take care of her family’s concerns, assuage their fears with promises of her safety and well-being. Occasional contact from her would further serve to pacify them.

Lydia recognized that she was entering a different kind of prison, one she had created for herself, but at least she had the comfort of knowing she had made the choice. It had been her decision to the end, until the moment she stepped out of the car onto the grounds of the plantation.

‘You understand what is expected of you?’

The words came from Gabriel. His voice was deep and somehow soothing, a welcome contrast to Preston’s elegant amusement and Kruin’s stoic silence.

‘I think so.’

‘And you understand that you cannot leave?’

Lydia almost laughed. Oh, yes, she understood that part very well. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘I do.’

‘You don’t want to leave, do you, Lydia?’ Preston asked.

‘No. No, I don’t.’ She didn’t either, not if it meant returning to the person she had been.

It was there, that first night in the drawing room, when they had subjected her to the start of her initiation into their cryptic world. Under a short command from Kruin, she unbuttoned her blouse and removed it to allow them to critique her breasts, which were proclaimed to be small, firm, and nicely shaped. To Lydia’s embarrassment, Gabriel plucked at the rosy tips of her nipples to make them stiffen, and the three men began a discussion on the merits of the size of the large crests in contrast to her breasts.

When that course of conversation had been exhausted, Preston told her to bend over an inlaid, cherry wood table that stood near the windows. And she did so, her face burning with humiliation as she was instructed to bend fully over the table and lift her skirt to her waist, thus participating in her own exposure to the intrigued gazes of the three men.

She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the table and tried not to start shaking as a rush of humid air swept over the backs of her naked thighs and disgust rose to choke her throat.

Gabriel had slipped his hands between the succulent roundness of her thighs, startling her as he pushed them apart and reminded her in rather polite tones that she was to always keep her legs apart when in their presence. His hands moved over her legs, stroking the arched curves of her calves as he told the other two men that although her legs were not long, they were well-formed and firm.

Preston murmured his approval over the shape of her waist and the flare of her hips that, in her exposed position, caused the cotton of her briefs to stretch delightfully over her buttocks and even into the furrow of her sex, creating an alluring little pouch. Gabriel then removed the underwear that provided her with her last vestige of modesty, leaving it to dangle round her legs like a crushed tissue.

The three men examined her firm buttocks that jutted upward, her labia glistening with moisture from the heat, the plump knot of her clitoris peeking out from beneath a nest of luxurious curls.