“I . . . I love you, Mistress,” I said, warmth and pain tearing at my chest in equal amounts and for unknown reasons. Even though my heart said I loved her, there was something else that was breaking, as if I was enacting a betrayal. But to what? To whom? “I will serve you and be yours forever.”
Her hand stroked my cheek again, and I moaned when her lips caressed mine. Her kiss lingered, and it took every ounce of my willpower to not pull her to me, I was so hungry for her touch and her caress. Instead, our kiss continued, her tongue tracing my lips before we tasted each other. “I ask because I’m not happy, Spartak.”
I felt her reach behind my head, and the knot on my blindfold loosened. The black cloth tumbled from my eyes, and I could see again. The first thing I saw was my Mistress, her blue eyes swimming in tears, but a smile on her perfect face. She sat back, and I could see what she was wearing, a white teddy with silk stockings and matching high heels. She was beauty personified, as precious as the finest diamond, and her tears pierced my heart. “What can I do to help you find happiness?”
She reached out and took my hand, placing it on her left breast, where I could feel her heart pounding under my fingertips. “Am I beautiful?”
“Of course. Even if I didn’t love you, even a blind man could see that.”
“If I wanted men to be my slave, I have only to snap my fingers. Uncle Vladimir has ensured that. But I need more than that.”
“What do you need?”
“I need a companion that not only loves me, but I can love as well. But to love him, I must respect him. Your efforts over the past weeks have shown me that you are a man of remarkable strength, intelligence and ability. But you still have a ways to go to earn my respect. You won’t be sleeping with me tonight, Spartak, but you’ve moved one step closer.”
Chapter 37
Francois
I had just finished a workout and felt wonderful. All of my strength was back after my coronation, and in the past week I had come to terms not only with Jordan's concerns but also with what had to be done with Syeira. Even my planning for how to break into the museum in Marrakesh seemed to be falling into place.
Leaving the gymnasium, I decided to run back to the barge instead of taking the bus. Charani had been using the car almost exclusively, and I still didn't feel like getting my Porsche out of storage — it just wasn't time. Maybe after Syeira was taken care of, and Jordan was ready to let her hair down again, I thought as I jogged along the Seine. The weather was starting to show signs of the end of winter, which in Paris usually meant that things were more miserable than the winter itself. In winter, you tended to have either gray clouds that promised snow, or bright blue days that seemed to sear their way into your mind with unrelenting electric hues.
Rounding the final curve in the river bank, I looked across the river to where the barge was, surprised when I saw three vehicles parked along the street in front of our Renault. I didn't recognize them, and I doubted that Charani would have let strangers just park their vehicles near our barge without giving me a call first. I picked up my pace, crossing the bridge that let me get on the right side of the river and over to the barge. “Hello? Maman? Où es-tu?"
There was no answer from the barge, and I sprinted up the gangplank, worry flooding my body. Thundering my way down the steps and inside, I threw open the door, already preparing to find something that would shatter my life.
What I found instead made me come to a complete halt, as Syeira and Jordan sat casually around the dining table, Charani in between to them. With them were three men I didn't know, but who looked Romani to me. “What is this?”
“Come, have a seat my son,” Charani said, indicating the empty chair across from her. “We have visitors.”
“I can see that,” I said, trying to regain my calm. “I’m surprised, though, I would have thought that I'd be informed.”
“Unfortunately, this was very short notice meeting,” one of the men said in heavily accented English that smacked of his Spanish roots. “Forgive me. I am Francisco Cordoba de la Rosa.”
I repressed my inner shiver, knowing the name. The De la Rosas were the heads of the largest tribe of Romani in the entire Iberian and Italian peninsulas, and in fact laid claim to most of southern France, with the defined borderlands being the small area that surrounded my family's property on the Rhone and in Paris. That had belonged to Guillaume Hardy before he married my mother, and as such was considered neutral territory. When grandfather died, the De la Rosa chief visited with Felix, to confirm the arrangement. They'd integrated themselves more into Spanish culture than a lot of the Romani, having even given up their Romani names and many not even speaking Rom. “Of course, Se?or De la Rosa. It’s a pleasure to have you in my home. What brings you to Paris?”