June 1860 - Boston
He was a carnal man. Sleek. Polished. Every movement,
every word, every look was drenched with an animal heat that made
a woman weak. The way he looked at her, his eyelids heavy and sensual
as he slowly moved his gaze over her, resting at places no decent
man would. The way he walked toward her, all loose limbed and dangerous.
Then he stood before her, the unasked question in the lift of one
raven-wing eyebrow. His voice was the final seduction, for when he
was in the mood, the words oozed out like warm honey, making a woman's
blood thicken and her skin come alive. He was both wild and tame,
and no woman on earth could refuse him.
It was his indifference that drew both men and women
to him, for each wanted to believe they would be the first to charm
him. Coax him to put money into a failing business. Lure him into
an affair. Few realized that Dante could not be bought or enticed.
Fewer yet knew that he had little respect for most men, finding them
braggarts and bores. And to him, women were a nuisance. A hazard to
be avoided. A complete and total waste of time, for anything other
than his animal needs.
The woman, his current mistress, studied him as he read
the newspaper, his rich black hair falling forward to cover part of
his face. His arms were thick, the muscles sculpted beneath his bronzed
skin, the veins standing out like rivers of granite. He had beautiful
hands, large with square palms. His fingers were long and strong,
yet the power in his touch could be gentle and seductive when he wanted
it to be.
She looked at the strange tattoos that covered his body.
Only those who knew him as intimately as she did would ever know they
were there.
She had hated them at first - the coiled snake, the
soaring hawk, the masterful ship with the skull and crossbones banner
on the mast.
The largest one was a green and yellow dragon with nostrils
that licked flames up Dante's neck. It covered his chest and stomach.
Once she had seen that enormous, fierce looking dragon, the other
tattoos were nothing. Beneath it was a mass Of whip-like scars that
looked like part of the dragon's corded skin. She had traced those
scars many times with her fingers and her tongue. When she had asked
how he had gotten them, she had been met with a taciturn, icy stare.
She had never asked again.
He was still reading, ignoring her. She wondered if
he remembered she was in his bed.
Her gaze wandered to the far wall, which displayed one
of his many collections of erotic art. Every woman she knew and most
men as well would blush at what Dante considered art. He had a fine,
rosewood corner cupboard with glass doors that held Greek and Roman
objects d'art, all of which were, as far as she was concerned, lewd
and immoral. But that was exactly what excited her.
The cup bearing the image of a bearded Greek male entering
the smiling, compliant female from behind, the da Vinci cross-section
of a couple making love, in which one can see the huge, erect penis
as it enters the female body, the stone relief of ancient Indian temple
art depicting a fornicating foursome in which the man is somehow,
miraculously, able to make the three women who surround him happy
- two with his hands and one with his enormous, oversized penis. All
of them were, of course, male fantasy pieces, but the mistress became
aroused just the same.
She opened her eyes and, with a finger, traced the dragon
that slid over the muscles of his chest, appearing to move each time
he took a breath. "Put down the paper, Dante."
His gaze was held captive by an article in the newspaper
and she knew that at least for the moment, she had lost him.
Suddenly he scowled. "I'll be damned."
He folded the newspaper back and smiled a cold smile
and kept reading.
She loved his face. His cheekbones were sharp as glass,
and deep grooves bracketed his sensual mouth - a mouth that could
usually bring her to the heights of ecstasy. But even when it did
not, she feigned pleasure, for she didn't want to vex him.
"What's so interesting that you can't put the newspaper
down?" Her waspishness began to show.
"The obituary of a man I wish I'd killed myself. Ah,
but it's fitting that he died in a whaleboat trying to slay a whale."
The venom in his voice startled her. She looked at the
page. "Amos Rayburn?"
"Yes." His voice was clipped.
"I met him once. And his wife. Eleanor, I think he called
her." She laughed.
Dante turned toward her, one eyebrow raised, his brilliant
blue eyes glittering dangerously. "What is so amusing about Amos Rayburn's
wife?"
Marguerite kicked off the bed linens so her whole body
was available to him. "We met them at a party." She ran her fingers
over her stomach, threading them through her pubic hair. Her stirrings
deepened. "She spent the entire evening either sitting in a corner
by herself or cleaning up after the guests."
She pressed her thighs together to stem her desire,
then turned and propped her chin on her hands, her body pressed against
his. "She acted like the hired help. Truthfully, she was so plain
I don't think I'd recognize her if I bumped into her again. I just
remember brown eyes, brown hair, and a shapeless brown dress."
Marguerite knew she had lost him again, for his expression
became hooded, his jaw tensed, and he tapped the paper against his
hand.
