LITMIR.BIZ

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here. Her presence was a distraction, diluting and disturbing his focus on Hawkwood’s coming annihilation. Though he’d known she would be at this travesty of a dinner, the reality of seeing her again was worse than he had expected. In the last twenty-four hours he’d ruthlessly refused to let himself think about her.

      Yet the first sight of her as he’d walked into the stateroom had made a mockery of his resolution. It had been like a punch to the solar plexus.

      It still was. But now he was slamming down hard on his reaction to her. He had to. It was essential. Essential to be able merely to look at her with his eyes veiled, betraying none of the turbulent thoughts within. Refusing to allow her to use her skills on him.

      And she was, as she had been the day before, very skilful indeed.

      She was wearing cream tonight, another simple column of fine layers of fabric, caught at each shoulder with a pearled clasp. It was a demure design, and yet the impulse that filled him, instantly and insistently, was not a response to the demure design. It was a response that made him want to stride across to her, slide his hands down her bare arms and draw her towards him as he had done last night, in the moonlight, by the sea’s edge…

      He hauled his mind back from memory and desire.

      She was not that woman. That woman was a mirage.

      She was Eve Hawkwood, a woman prepared to engage in sex with men chosen for her by her father, for his own financial advantage—and hers.

      Not that one would guess it. It was not her cool, untouchable appearance, but her whole manner and demeanour. She sat, poised and graceful, her crystal-cut tones moving effortlessly, smoothly, from one innocuous topic to another as she played the dutiful role of attentive dinner party hostess. Making not one reference, by sign or by word, to what had happened not twenty-four hours ago, when he had kissed her in the moonlight.

      It was as if it had never happened.

      But then, of course—his mouth twisted briefly—what he had thought had happened, had not. All that had really taken place was that Eve Hawkwood had, whether opportunistically or calculatedly, tried out her wiles on him.

      Well, she wasn’t trying them out tonight—not in that way, at any rate. Tonight a different Eve Hawkwood was on show. The society hostess—a role she executed to perfection.

      She had already exhausted the flora and fauna, folk customs and natural features of Dalaczia, and had now moved on to art.

      ‘Do you collect art, Mr Constantin?’ came the polite enquiry, with a slight lift of her eyebrow in his direction as she gracefully forked up a mouthful of sole Veronique.

      ‘No,’ he replied.

      It was almost true. He owned only one work of art—a Dutch still life of flowers. Though small, scarcely more than the size of a computer screen, its tumbling, vibrant blooms painted in exquisite detail so that minute ladybirds were visible on leaves and drops of water gleamed on petals, it was like an icon to him.

      Ileana had loved flowers…

      For a moment the pain was as harsh as ever.

      He could see again, so vividly, so real, the way her dark fall of hair had caught the sunlight as she’d picked a meadow flower and given it to him—the smile on her face the one that was just for him, her special smile…

      No—the steel door slammed down, impenetrable to all memory, all pain.

      Forcibly, he turned his mind back to where he was now—the present. The past was gone; it would never come back. The present was now. And the future—the future would bring justice. That was all he asked of it.

      ‘It doesn’t appeal to you, art?’ Eve Hawkwood’s crystal tones came again.

      Alexei reached to lift the glass of vintage wine to his mouth.

      ‘Art is not for private consumption or financial investment,’ he replied tersely.

      He watched her raise delicate eyebrows at his assertion.

      ‘An admirably purist view,’ she responded.

      Pure? What did Eve Hawkwood know of pure? Derision curled in Alexei. A sudden desire to pierce her appearance of demure untouchability—so deceptive, so deceiving—possessed him.

      ‘Besides—’ he looked straight at her ‘—so much art was commissioned as pornography—Louis XV of France liked to see his mistresses naked on canvas for his private pleasure.’

      Not a flicker showed in Eve Hawkwood’s eyes at his deliberately provocative remark. She merely maintained an expression of polite but indifferent interest in a guest’s conversation.

      ‘The decadence of Louis XV’s private life must certainly have been a factor in the growing disillusion with the French monarchy in the eighteenth century,’ she merely observed concurringly, and paused to request some more mineral water from a steward.

      ‘Talking of nudes, Constantin.’ Giles Hawkwood’s heavy tones suddenly interjected into the pause, as he swivelled his head towards his guest. ‘I’ve got a private film collection of my own I can show you. Every colour and size of girl to suit all tastes—as many as you like at a time, in any combination. I had them filmed to my own specification. Acts like a catalogue—they all work for the same agency, and I fly them in when I want them. The agency gets fresh girls all the time—never delivered a dud yet.’ He leant back heavily in his chair, taking a large mouthful from his glass of wine, from which he’d been drinking freely all evening. ‘Last time they sent me a woman who could do things with her thighs you wouldn’t think physically possible!’ He gave a crack of crude laughter. ‘You should come along some time—I’ll organise something special for you. Something really memorable.’

      Another crack of laughter came from him, and he drained his glass, signalling to the steward to refill it. While the man was pouring, Giles Hawkwood looked across at his guest with pouched eyes.

      ‘You’ll have to tell me what you like, Constantin. I can lay on any type of girl you want—and any equipment and accessories you enjoy. All top quality. Just say the word.’

      He started to drink from his refilled glass.

      Alexei’s face had stilled. Drained of all expression.

      He felt his fists start to curl—felt murderous rage sear through him.

      No! He would not soil his hands on Giles Hawkwood. The man was dead meat already—he simply did not know it yet.

      Forcibly, with rigid self-control, he made his hands relax. To his left he saw from the edge of his vision that Eve Hawkwood was continuing with her meal. His eyes turned to her. She was cutting a piece of lamb on her plate, and it was as if nothing exceptional had been said at all, as if she were perfectly at ease as the subject of her father’s sexual proclivities arose.

      And yet—

      There was a rigidity in her jaw that was almost imperceptible, but Alexei could detect it all the same. A momentary glazing of her eyes, as if she were shutting something out of her consciousness.

      Then, as she proceeded to spear the chunk of meat with her fork, she remarked, ‘I can remember reading an article once—it was quite serious, I believe—about how one could use nude portraiture as a guide to the nutritional habits of the societies that produced those works of art. It might have been pretentious, but I suppose it must be true, after all. Who considers Rubens’ rotund females to be healthy these days?’

      There was just the right amount of light humour in her voice, just the right amount of amused questioning. It would have served just as well if she’d been talking to a bevy of bishops or a division of dowagers.

      Did she think she was going to get an answer? Alexei’s eyes narrowed even more. Then, abruptly, he spoke. It was an impulse that came from somewhere he thought had ceased to exist in relation to Eve Hawkwood.

      But it was something to do with the punishing rigidity of her throat, the blankness

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