Page 5 of Passion's Wicked Torment

“I told you to get out of here.”

“That’s right,” she said. She let her eyes glance out at her audience of the four hoodlums, who were staring at her in amazement as she held the towel tightly about herself, barely covering the lower part of her bosom. She braced herself, then took the fearsome plunge. In a taunting voice she added, “But I thought that by now you’d have had a chance to get over your fear of me.” “Fear of you?” He tightened his grip on her hair and jerked her head close to his. He glared at her.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “A lot of men are afraid of attractive women.”

He flung her away from him so hard, she hit the wall with her back. She could see that Hunter was furious and was fighting to control himself. She sensed that what he wanted to do was yell at her to get out of here now, and never return. But she had backed him into a corner. The thugs in the room were staring at him. And Ironman Gianelli had an amused grin. If Hunter ordered her away, she was sure the amused grin would change to something more dangerous. Kristin had openly challenged Hunter, and anything other than taking her up on her offer would be a show of weakness. And weakness was not tolerated in the hoodlum jungle Hunter inhabited. To display it could be fatal; it was an invitation for the vultures to move in.

Hunter stared at her coldly. Then he grasped her and flung her back into the washroom. “Shower,” he said harshly. “I’ll take care of you when I’m finished here.” He yanked the towel and took it with him back into the office. Kristin was exposed for only a second. She closed the washroom door quickly.

“That’s quite a piece of merchandise you got there,” Ironman said admiringly.

“I’ll give her to you for your birthday.”

“Don’t make promises like that idly. I might take you up on it.”

Hunter snorted a brief, derisive laugh. He turned the subject back to the warehouse attack that was in the planning stages. But then he seemed to decide against having Kristin in the washroom naked while Ironman was here in the office, so near, with his eyes returning repeatedly to the washroom door.

“Blackie,” Hunter said casually, “get her out of there. Take her up to my suite. We’ll be here for a while.”

Blackie nodded and did as he was told. Ironman’s eyes seemed to become darker for an instant when Kristin went past, but he said nothing. The discussion continued on into the night.

Hunter’s spacious living room on the top floor of the building was comfortably furnished but not elaborate. The walls were paneled in light redwood, the carpeting and drapes were in light earth tones. Blackie let Kristin into the room, but he did not enter himself.

“The boss said to make yourself at home,” he told her. “He’ll be with you when he’s done.” Then he shut the door, leaving her alone.

Well, Kristin thought, now she’d done it. Now she was in for it. She’d made her bed, and now she was going to have to lie in it . . . literally. She felt nervous at the prospect. It was a very strange feeling, to be aware that soon he would come for her—this total stranger, this brutal gangster—and she would lose her virginity to him.

For years she had wondered what it would be like when the moment came. She had daydreamed about what the circumstances would be. Though she had toyed with the idea of some brazen affair with a dashing Romeo who would sweep her off her feet, she never really believed it would be like that. No, Kristin knew she was a pretty conservative girl, though she liked to pretend otherwise, mostly just to shock her friends and to see the looks on their faces. But the truth was, she was quite moral, and deep in her heart she had believed that when the moment came for her to give up her virginity, it would be to her husband. Or at the very least to the man who would soon become her husband.

But that’s not the way it’s going to be, she thought now. I’ll lose my virginity to a ruthless hoodlum and gambler who’ll have no more love or respect for me than he would for a rag doll.

For a moment she felt very sad at what she was being forced to give up without getting anything in return. No love. No . . . appreciation, that was the word in her mind. When she had always daydreamed about how her new husband would respond to their wedding night, she had thought he would appreciate this great gift she was giving him, and all the love and warmth that went with it. The fact that she would be giving it to him, to her loving husband, that was significant.

Stop it, she ordered herself. She was getting too maudlin. Besides, now was not the time for self-pity. She had to prepare herself. But how? One thing was sure. She didn’t want him to know how inexperienced she was. She couldn’t greet him like this when he came through the door—fully dressed and made-up, with her shoes still on. She had quickly dressed after her shower, before Blackie had come for her. No, she knew she shouldn’t remain this way. But, God, what effort of willpower it took to force herself to undress!

Steeling herself with determination, she slipped off her silver gown, folded it and draped it over the arm of an easy chair. She removed her slip and her shoes and garters and hose. She felt so exposed now, in only her underwear. She removed her jewelry and put it in an empty marble ashtray.

All right, now what? she asked herself. The thought of standing here in the living room to greet him, half naked, frightened her. And besides, she was shaking like a leaf. If he saw her this way, he might actually change his mind, though that seemed rather far-fetched at this point. Still, she had to become his moll. She had to make sure he . . . did it to her.

She wandered into the bedroom, walking very softly, feeling the plush tan carpet beneath her bare feet. Well, there it is, she thought, looking at the large bed with the thick floral pattern quilt on it. She tried to make a joke of it so she could make herself smile. She had always been playful with herself in times of stress; it had been something she prided herself on. And her friends had appreciated her ability to find sarcastic humor in even the most unappealing situations. But now her mind was devoid of jokes.

The bureau lamp was on. She shut it off. She went to the bed, pulled back the quilt cover and got in, quickly covering herself. It was cool and silky. Should she take off her underpants? she wondered. She didn’t want to. But she was supposed to be a big girl now, after all. She pushed them down to her hips, over her legs, then dropped them at the side of the bed farthest from the door. Then she lay there naked, half sitting in bed, hugging her knees up to her chin, the quilt covering her.

What would it be like? Her body was tense and quivering with anticipation. This was supposed to be the age of liberation. Her generation was reputed to have more sexual freedom than any generation previously. All her elders and those of her friends were shocked by the raised hemlines; the bobbed hair; the frenetic dances like the Charleston. Still, most of the hullabaloo was phony. Kristin didn’t know a single one of her friends who had actually done it with a man. Or if they had, they weren’t talking about it.

Kristin had always considered herself more liberal than most, and open to new things. Why, she had even been to a petting party once, with some Dartmouth students. How brazen she had felt then! But now . . .

The front door of the suite opened, then closed. She heard him in the living room. She froze. After a moment he came into the dark bedroom. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the living room. He stood straight and tall, but his jacket was off now, and his tie was hanging loosely about his opened collar. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A glowing cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He dragged at it, the tip burning bright orange in the semidarkness. He exhaled and then crashed the cigarette into an ashtray.

“I . . . I’m here,” Kristin said in a voice that was weaker than she intended.

“I know it.” His voice was firm and low and masculine.

“How was your . . . conference?”

He shrugged.

“This is a nice apartment you have.” She was making small talk because she was so nervous. She couldn’t bear the silence. Still, she knew she should shut up, or she would give herself away as a nervous amateur. To counter the betraying effect of her giddiness, she said in a voice she tried to make brazen, “Come here. Kiss me.”

He turned on the bureau light, which gave off a low glow. Then he sauntered over to her while unbuttoning his shirt. He was smiling in a way that was almost gentle, almost understanding. It disoriented her. She had never expected to see such an expression on the face of such a hard, ruthless man. And he was ruthless, she reminded herself. He was the man who had ordered Chad beaten and abducted.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, next to her, looking at her, continuing to unbutton his shirt. She withdrew her bare arms from under the quilt and put her hands on his shoulders. She bent forward and tried to draw him near, to kiss him quickly, to get the start of this torturous thing over with. But he did not let himself be kissed. He drew his head back slightly, beyond her range.

She looked at him, startled, frowning with worry. Had she done something wrong?

He stood up and went into the bathroom. She heard the faucet running for a moment, then he came back and sat down again on the bed. He had a wet washcloth in his hand. “You’re too pretty to wear all that gunk on your face. I know it’s supposed to make you look sophisticated or fashionable. But it’s not for you.” He began removing her makeup, washing around her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. He was not gentle, but he was not rough either. “Do you always do this with all your makeup on?”

She did not know what he was talking about at first. Then she understood that he was asking if she always made love with her makeup on. “Yes,” she said. “Most of the time.”

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