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Belinda laughed as if it were all a wonderful joke, but Alexi Savagar made her uneasy. No one had ever treated her with so much courtesy. Her feelings confused her. He was an important man, but he wasn’t a movie star—he wasn’t Errol Flynn—so why should she be so disturbed by him?
For the next week, Alexi became her constant companion. They drove everywhere at breakneck speed in a red Ferrari that seemed like an extension of Alexi’s well-tuned body. She watched his hands on the controls, observed the sureness of his touch, the steady grip of his fingers. What would it be like to have such self-confidence? As they roared through the streets of Beverly Hills, she felt the surge of the car’s engine through her thighs. She imagined everyone speculating about her. Who was this blond-haired woman who’d managed to capture the interest of two such important men?
In the evening they went to Ciro’s or Chasen’s. Sometimes they spoke French, with Alexi keeping his vocabulary simple so she could follow it. He described his classic car collection, he detailed the beauties of Paris, and one night, with the Ferrari parked on a hill and the city lights spread at her feet, he spoke more personally.
“My father was a Russian aristocrat wise enough to leave for Paris before the First World War broke out. He met my mother there. She convinced him to shorten his name from Savagarin to Savagar so he’d fit into Parisian society. I was born a year before the war ended, and a week before my father died. I’ve received my love of fine things from my French mother. But do not fool yourself. Beneath it all, I remain relentlessly Russian.”
Alexi’s ruthlessness both fascinated and frightened Belinda. She told him about herself, describing her parents and the loneliness of her early life. He listened with flattering intensity as she shared her dreams of stardom and confided things she’d never told anyone. He spoke to her about Flynn. “He will leave you, ma chère. You must understand that.”
“I know. He probably sent me off with you so he could be with other women. Maybe even his wife.” She looked imploringly at him. “Please don’t tell me if you know. He can’t help himself. I understand that.”
“Such adoration.” Alexi’s mouth gave a slight twist. “As always, my friend is a lucky man. It’s a pity he doesn’t appreciate you. Perhaps you’ll be luckier next time in your choice of companions.”
“You make me sound like some sort of tramp,” Belinda snapped. “I don’t like it.”
Alexi’s strange, slanted eyes pierced through her clothing, through her skin, into a place so secret that only he knew it existed. “A woman like you, ma chère, will always need a man.” He picked up her hand and played with her fingertips, sending a little shiver through her. “You are not one of those fierce, modern women. You need to be sheltered and protected, molded into something precious and fine.” For a moment she thought she saw pain in his eyes, but the impression faded as his voice grew harsh. “You sell yourself too cheaply.”
She snatched her hand away. He didn’t understand. There was nothing cheap about giving herself to Flynn.
Everything came to a crashing end shortly after Christmas when Flynn tired of the game they were playing. As they all sat at a banquette in Romanoff’s, he slipped a cigarette into his amber holder and said he’d be leaving to spend a few months in Europe. From the way he avoided looking at her, Belinda understood she wasn’t invited to go along.
A great, suffocating mass expanded in her chest, and her eyes flooded with tears. Just as the last vestige of control slipped from her, a sharp pain gripped her thigh. Alexi’s hand squeezed her under the table, forbidding her to humiliate herself. His strength flowed through her, and she managed to endure the rest of the evening. When Flynn left on New Year’s Day, Alexi took her in his arms and let her cry. Later, she read in the newspaper that Flynn’s new traveling companion was fifteen years old.
Although Alexi had finished his business in California long ago, he made no move to return to Paris. The rental on the bungalow had been paid through the end of January—not, she suspected, by Flynn—and, for the next few weeks, they spent nearly every evening together. One night, unexpectedly, he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Don’t!” She jumped up, angry with him for the intimacy. Alexi wasn’t Flynn, and she wasn’t a tramp. She rushed through the patio doors into the living room and snatched a cigarette from the china holder that sat on the coffee table.
Outside on the patio, years of iron control and self-discipline shattered inside Alexi Savagar. He jumped up and strode into the room. “You stupid little bitch.”
She spun around, stunned by his venom. The well-polished Gallic mask had dropped away, baring the naked, atavistic product of countless generations of noble Russian breeding.
“How dare you think you can refuse me,” he said on a snarl. “You’re just another whore. But instead of fucking a man for his money, you fuck him for his fame.”
She let out a muffled cry as he advanced on her. He caught her by the shoulders and jammed her against the wall. His hand grabbed her jaw, but before she could scream again, he’d covered her mouth with his own. He bit at her lips, forcing them open. She tried to clamp down on the tongue he thrust into her, but his fingers closed tightly around her throat, their message clear. He was Count Alexi Nikolai Vasily Savagarin, omnipotent overlord of serfs, entitled by birth to take possession of whatever he desired, and she must subjugate herself to him.
When his rape of her mouth was complete, he pulled back. “I am worthy of respect. Flynn is a fool, a court jester. He lives on charm and then whines when things go badly. But you are too stupid to see that, so I must teach you.”
She gave a strangled sob as he reached under her skirt. He pulled at her panties and separated her legs with his knee. Ignoring her sobs, he possessed her with his aristocratic fingers, invading each place he imagined Flynn had claimed. Through her horror she felt his arousal hard against her thigh. His assault was an act of possession, a living out of the divine right of czars, an indelible reaffirmation of the proper social order in which the nobility outranked any movie star.
She was crying when he opened her blouse, so she didn’t notice his gentler touch. Her tears fell on his hands as he pushed her bra aside and caressed her breasts, kissing them with a tenderness Flynn had never displayed, murmuring to her in French, perhaps even Russian, words she didn’t understand.
Slowly he so
othed her. “I am sorry, my little one. I am sorry to have frightened you.” He turned off the lights, picked her up, and cradled her in his lap. “I have done a terrible thing to you,” he whispered, “and you must forgive me—for your own sake as well as mine.” His lips touched her hair. “I am your only hope, chérie. Without me, your promise as a woman will never be realized. Without me, you will drift through your days trying to see your reflection in the eyes of men who are unworthy of you.”
He stroked her hair until her body relaxed.
As Belinda fell asleep in his arms, Alexi stared into the quiet darkness. How could he have let himself fall so foolishly in love? This woman, whose hyacinth-blue eyes worshipped men with anthems of adoration, stirred feelings in him he hadn’t known he possessed. He’d been raised to live his life only from a position of strength, and for the first time in years he was uncertain what to do. He didn’t doubt his ability to win her love—such a task was trivial, and she already cared far more than she was willing to admit. No, winning her love didn’t frighten him. It was the power she’d gained over him that was so terrifying.
He’d been taught self-discipline at an early age. He remembered as a small boy being ill with some childhood disease that left him burning with fever. His mother had come into his bedroom, a composition book dangling from her ringed fingers, her eyes hard. Was it true that he had not finished his Latin translation? He explained he was sick.
Only peasants find excuses to shirk their responsibilities. His mother pulled him from his bed and set him at his desk. Eyes bright with fever, hand shaking, he worked until the translation was done while she stood at the window, ruby bracelets glittering in the sunlight, and smoked one cigarette after another.
Spartan boarding schools shaped the heirs to France’s great fortunes into men worthy of their family names. That was where the last remnants of childhood had been stripped from him. At eighteen, he began gaining control of the Savagar fortune—first wresting power from the aging trustees who’d grown fat and lazy on his money, then from his mother. He’d become one of the most powerful men in France, with homes on two continents, a priceless collection of European masterpieces, and a string of teenage mistresses who catered to his every whim. Until he’d met Belinda Britton, with her untainted optimism and child’s bright view of the world, he hadn’t realized anything was missing from his life.
Belinda awakened the next morning, still dressed in her clothes from the night before, the thin chenille spread thrown over her. Her eyes fell on a piece of hotel stationery propped against the pillow. Quickly she read the few lines of spidery handwriting:
Ma chére,
