She sat up slowly to lean against the teak bench. Her head throbbed. Who was the woman? Why was Rith holding her captive—and were there other women hidden away somewhere inside the house?
She felt a vibration in the air and rose to her feet, an abrupt movement that caused her head to swim.
Greaves materialized in front of her. His brows rose as he looked her up and down. A frown appeared between his thick arched black brows.
She reached up and felt through her hair. Some of the elegant loops had come loose and now hung in an awkward mass down her back. She glanced at her gown and saw the grass stains where her knees must have slid over the ground. There was blood on the fabric as well, but she had no idea whether it was from her or Rith or Fiona.
Rith came running from the house. “My most humble apologies, master. We had an unfortunate accident just a moment ago. I will make the woman ready for you.”
Greaves turned slightly toward him and inclined his head. “Yes, please do.”
Rith swept to Parisa’s side, hooked her beneath her arm, and dragged her on running feet from the garden. “How dare you involve yourself in that way?” he hissed, over and over.
A few minutes later, with her coiffure restored by two trembling Burmese servants, Parisa returned to the garden as ordered. She wore a new gown, a light green silk dress, tight at the waist and long at mid-calf, very conservative.
Reentering the garden, she saw Greaves from behind. He sat in a large teak chair, elbows planted on the wide arms. From her vantage, since the teacup was missing from the saucer, she presumed he was drinking his tea.
His bald head reflected the dancing shadows of the lacy tamarind leaves overhead. She rounded the table upon which the tea service sat and took up her place again on the teak bench.
He wore a charcoal-gray suit that bore a faint and oh-so-elegant pinstripe. His tie was lavender silk; a black onyx ring graced his right pinkie. He was handsome, though completely bald, and had the most innocent expression in his large, round brown eyes, a look akin to child-like wonder.
Whatever else this monster was, his appearance was tailored, crisp, clean. Yes, a very tidy monster. His sole imperfection was his left hand, which he held curled inward as though slightly crippled.
The elegant monster smiled, showing even white teeth.
Parisa sat with her hands held in a loose clasp over the fine green silk. Her fingers trembled but then why wouldn’t they since her mind kept flashing on images of Fiona. Where was Rith keeping the woman?
She kept her expression calm, however, and measured her blinks. Only her elevated heart rate would give away the state of her emotions. Somehow she knew Greaves could detect each beat, track the rise in tempo, and even now smiled at her fear.
He had never paid her a visit before, so she couldn’t imagine his reason for coming today. This couldn’t be good.
He sipped the traditional local black tea enhanced with condensed milk. Parisa didn’t care for the tea or much of the food. Her appetite still lagged despite the luxury of her captivity. She knew now why zoo animals often seemed so lethargic: Without her freedom, her spirit had shriveled.
“There is no need to fear me, Parisa.” The monster’s voice had a soothing quality, a gentle bubbling stream, a delight.
“I suppose not. I’ve been here three months and I’ve received excellent care.”
“I have no doubt of that. Rith is one of my best servants. He always follows my orders to the letter—and where you are concerned, your care is of the upmost importance.”
“But why have you brought me here, to Burma, Commander Greaves? I hope you’ve come to tell me your purpose. Better yet, to release me.” Where was this boldness coming from?
He smiled. “I must say you smell of heaven.”
She repressed a sigh. Was that the only answer he would give her? You smell of heaven? “I am bathed daily in fragrant oils.” She knew enough to give a good report. Rith would hurt her otherwise. Given her misdemeanor earlier, she thought it likely a punishment already waited for her. Great.
Greaves nodded.
He settled the white teacup on its companion saucer, rising from his chair. Her heart rate took another step up, a quick fluttering that descended into heavy bass thumps. She lowered her gaze to the grass at her feet. She began counting blades.
He sat down beside her. He put a hand on her nape, a very controlling gesture. Rith must have pinned her hair in loops to give him access. For a moment, she wondered if he meant to take her blood.
“So beautiful,” Greaves whispered. His left hand brushed over her left arm.
She tried not to breathe through her nose because, for all of Greaves’s finery, he smelled strange. It was lemon furniture polish—or at least that was the closest she could come to approximating his scent. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, just odd.
She drew a shallow breath and tried to relax. Unfortunately, she felt his mind against hers. She could sense his desire to penetrate her head in what she had heard described as deep-mind engagement. But with each breath, she slammed her shields in place, one mental steel wall sliding down over another, working hard to keep him out.
He groaned. Your shields are magnificent.
She closed her eyes.
Let me in, he whispered through her brain. Please, lovely Parisa. Let me in, or I shall have to hurt you.
But she held fast.
The pain began as she felt him hammering against her shields, the sound like a sledgehammer striking against an enormous brass bell. Her teeth ached.
She didn’t want this.
More pain. More pounding. Oh, God, slicing now.
Tears flowed. She couldn’t have held them back if she’d wanted to. In some distant part of her mind she knew she was screaming.
Release your shields.
No. She might have to endure a captivity she didn’t understand, she might have to do as she was told and follow Rith’s schedule, she might have to fear that at any moment she could be killed. But by God she would keep her mind sacrosanct.
I need to be inside your head.
He eased his efforts, but it was only a respite.
Parisa sobbed at the sudden release from pain. Did he enjoy her suffering? She turned to look at him, his hand still a weight on the back of her neck. He dipped down toward her very suddenly and his lips were on hers, a soft, cool, dry touch.
Her thoughts slid strangely to Antony … and it happened. As though the mere thought of him was enough, her shields fell away, a kind of quick shimmering of leaves. She rose to her feet even though she couldn’t quite see. She ran forward but collided with something hard. She fell … then … nothing.