Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

For a moment Giana did not know what he was talking about. Alex watched her eyes widen, ever so innocently, he thought, congratulating her silently. To his surprise, she stiffened, and he saw understanding in her eyes, and something else, something like pain.

“That is none of your business,” Giana snapped, drawing herself up. She thought she heard him chuckle, and wished she could strike that smug, confident smile from his face.

“Perhaps you would like to come to Paris with me? I am most generous, if you please me, and would buy you pretty gowns and the like.”

Please you? “I would be delighted to see you off to hell. You would likely feel quite at home there, in the company of other lechers.”

He drew back, momentarily annoyed at her blatant rudeness. The hunter in him rose to the fore, and he laughed, and taunted her. “I do not think that whores ascend to the heavens, Helen. After all, if it were not for whores, there would be no need for lechers.”

“On the contrary, if there were no lechers, there would be no need for whores. It is men who make the rules, not women.”

He reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist in his fingers. She gasped in fear and tried to pull away from him. “You can’t touch me,” she hissed as his fingers tightened. “Let me go.”

“You are right, of course,” he said, releasing her. “The merchandise is not to be handled, save by the buyer.”

Giana scrambled to her feet. “I am not an animal and I am not merchandise. I . . . I do not wish to speak with you anymore.” Before he could stop her, she turned and fled, her wide skirts swishing between the chairs.

Santelo whistled. “What did you say to the girl, Alex? Never have I seen such an ill-mannered chit at the Flower Auction.”

Alex stared after her thoughtfully. She had managed to skirt the rest of the gentlemen and was standing with her back pressed tight against one of the marble fireplaces.

“She dished out insults faster than I could return them. She wants taming, and manners.”

“Perhaps Signore Cippolo will buy her,” Santelo said, pointing toward a heavy older gentleman whose attention had veered toward her.

Alex looked closely at the man’s dissipated face and felt a knot of distaste in his belly. Cippolo would hurt her; Alex could see it in his eyes.

“Ah,” Santelo said, “the auction begins.”

Signora Lamponni stood on the dais, a tall hat in her hand, shaking it gently.

“The girls will draw numbers, to determine their order,” Santelo explained softly to Alex.

Alex watched Helen reach into the hat with the other girls and pull out her number. He thought her hand was shaking. Alex shook his head. Dammit, the chit couldn’t be frightened. All the girls were here because they wanted to be.

“And now, the little doves will leave us,” Signora Lamponni announced in her deep voice, waving the girls out of the salon, “until their numbers are called. I hope, gentlemen, that you approve this season’s offerings.”

There was a murmur of approval.

“We will now begin the bidding. Number one is Claudia, a delightful—well, delight, from Milan.”

Claudia pranced onto the dais and curtsied to the gentlemen.

“Isn’t she lovely, gentlemen? What is my bid for this charming little virgin?”

Someone called out a hundred lire. There was some laughter, then another bid. Claudia slowly pulled off one of her long gloves. She grinned and tossed it to a gentleman who sat near the dais.

Giana watched Claudia from behind the curtain. She was the center of attention, and seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. She heard bids in francs, lire, and pounds.

She looked down at her number—four. What would Daniele do, she thought wildly, if she simply refused to take her turn on the dais? What could he do? She tried to picture Randall in her mind, as she had many times before when she was frightened, but somehow his image would not weave itself together, and she could feel nothing but uncertainty. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek.

Claudia was standing only in her petticoats and chemise. There were raucous cheers from the men, and the bidding slowed. The men knew the game, and none would end it until Claudia was naked.

Claudia’s petticoats dropped to the floor, one after the other. Soon she was standing only in her chemise, a lacy affair that reached just to her knees. Her silk stockings were held up by frilly black garters.

There was another bid, in lire, and Giana quickly reckoned how much it was in English currency. Two hundred pounds.

Giana’s face went perfectly white when Claudia at last stood naked. Her hands rested enticingly on her hips, her shoulders pressed forward to push her breasts closer together. She was running her tongue over her pouting lips.