part one

 

 

He dropped his room key on the bureau and headed for the ice bucket, thinking that a Martini would be good about now, or a gin and tonic. He had forgotten to ask about the availability of room service, and doubted that the hotel bar would be open anymore. Jet lag gave him a sense of late afternoon, though the clock said early morning. He was thinking that he should try to arrange transportation to the caverns, or find a guide. He was distracted, and didn't see the naked girl right away.

She was kneeling on the carpet beside the bed. Her back was straight, and her gaze was fixed on the seascape across the room. Her hands rested palms up on her knees, which were open to display her shaven sex. She wasn't entirely naked after all. There was a stainless steel collar around her neck and the trace of a smile on her lips.

He saw all of this with a glance, then propriety tore his eyes away and he turned to the window. "At least one of us," he told the less preferable view, a mere moonset over the Caribbean, "has wandered into the wrong room." His tone was jocular, a feeble attempt to erase her image from his mind with humor. It wasn't working. The blatant eroticism of her pale, pink flesh was burned into his memory.

He still believed that there was a reasonable explanation for this. Years from now, he would share this story with friends. The punchline would be something like- "Can you believe it? The lady was waiting in the room to surprise her boyfriend!"

One rationalizes during embarrassing moments, searching for the logic behind the surreal. He expected her to snatch up the bedspread and drape herself, run from the room with a stammered apology, or order him out.

"You are Gordon Wheeler, Sir?" Her voice carried a slight tremor. He feared that he had missed a cue. No one had taught him the proper protocol for receiving collared girls in a hotel room, and his bad manners had to be making her uneasy.

Her voice was musical, but her accent was as much of a surprise as the girl herself. She seemed such a rare and exotic creature, like a tropical butterfly, that he would not have been surprised if she communicated with a trilling birdcall, or chimes, like Tinkerbell. Instead, she spoke American English, with a flat Midwestern accent.

"Yes?" His trip to the island was no secret, of course, but he hadn't advertised it in the local paper either.

"I am here for you, Sir."

He pivoted on his heel, too abruptly; she startled slightly, thinking he was angry. He softened his voice to reassure her. "I think that perhaps there has been some sort of misunderstanding here. I never invited you up to this room-and I'm sure that I would remember if we had ever met."

She flushed a little at this. He almost laughed. How absurd that an unabashedly naked woman was disconcerted by a mere compliment. She stared at the wall beyond him, unable to meet his eyes. He thought that she was only being shy, shutting him out of her purview to pretend he wasn't watching.

Her lack of eye contact made him feel entitled to stare. It made her remote and impersonal, like an art object. His eyes wandered freely; encouraged by the way she thrust her shoulders back to present her breasts. How long had it been since such flawless skin and supple limbs were so openly displayed for him? She was petite, a little under five feet tall, he guessed, with slender arms and delicate hands. Her large brown eyes matched her hair, which had been cropped close enough to expose the gleaming collar encircling her long neck. Her features were pert and her chin slightly pointed, giving her an elfin appearance. Her belly was flat. Her breasts were small but high and well formed, with pale nipples that had grown erect in the air-conditioned room.

"Do you want me to leave, Sir?" He looked closely to be sure, thinking that he saw the gleam of a tear in her eyes.

He would have been flattered, if he were fool enough to forget what the calendar told him and the mirror confirmed.

"Wait a minute," he said. "I just need to sort this out."

There was a phone on the bureau. He picked it up, heard a dial tone, and fumbled through his pockets for the number he had been given earlier. He started stabbing numbers, got it wrong, swore, and started over.

"Lestrade! What is this?"

Lestrade chuckled on the other end of the line. "Do you like your gift?"

"Usually I find a mint on the pillow." Gordon was trying to be as cool as Lestrade seemed to be.

The life of an art historian is seldom so blessed, but Gordon didn't want to seem too ingenuous. "A naked girl is not the sort of amenity I expected!"

Lestrade seemed determined to get a rise out of him. "If you don't like her, I can send someone else-a male perhaps. I just want you to feel at home."

Gordon sighed. "I'm tired. I don't care if it's a joke or a real offer..."

"The offer is sincere," Lestrade interrupted.

"Look, I'm sure you have some very quaint customs on your little island, but this isn't some third world country where the Pasha sends a girl around to serve his guests. I hope you won't be offended if I pay the lady and send her home."

Behind him, the girl caught her breath, stifling a cry. Lestrade's words seemed to underline Gordon's sudden unease.

"Don't be hasty. Take a little time to get accustomed to her face before you throw her out."

"Perhaps she could serve as my travel guide," Gordon suggested. "I need someone who knows their way around the island." He sensed that rejecting her outright might place the girl in some sort of jeopardy.

Lestrade laughed. "Oh, she does know her way around well enough, but if you insist on restricting yourself to sightseeing, the waste of good pussy will be tragic!"

"This is why you warned me that life is lived differently on Domain," Gordon turned as he talked, studying the girl with new interest. She had been a surprise initially; then he had seen her as a problem to be solved. An imp had been whispering obscenities into his ear all along, telling him that the girl was a rare gift, and might be enjoyed without culpability. He had ignored that voice until now.

With bitter self mockery, Gordon reflected that his equipment was probably rusty from disuse, but if it could be polished, he wasn't likely to find a more talented or attractive volunteer.

"I tried to explain it to you earlier," Lestrade was saying, "but you were quick to remind me that you were an experienced globe trotter who had eaten roast beetles in Africa and watched circumcision ceremonies in Australia. I guess I underestimated your sophistication."

Lestrade was challenging him now, teasing him a bit. "You told me that the population of Domain was drawn mainly from European and American expatriates," Gordon reminded him. "I assumed that you would observe the same common law values and Judeo-Christian ethics. I didn't think that you would have concubines here."

Lestrade laughed heartily. "Concubines! That's rich. Don't flatter the girl like that. She's a slave."

The word fell heavily against Gordon's ear.

Slave-an atavistic word in an age of affirmative action and sexual harassment laws, a legal impossibility, unthinkable, unimaginable...

Wasn't it?

He had arrived on Domain in the middle of the night, his helicopter settling on a private landing pad only a few hundred yards from the hotel. Lestrade had shown him to his room before retiring. Gordon had not seen the island by daylight. He knew nothing of the people and customs here.

He remembered how difficult it had been to meet with Lestrade. Attracted by rumors that ancient cave paintings might be found on a private island in the Caribbean, Gordon had investigated and learned that the island had declared itself an independent nation. Mr. Lestrade, the ruler of this modern monarchy, was a reclusive, eccentric billionaire who guarded the island's secrets carefully. It had taken Gordon several tries to arrange an interview with the man. Expecting a tight-lipped fascist or a raving demagogue, Gordon was surprised to discover that Lestrade was an avuncular charmer, a clever businessman, and a cheerful iconoclast.

Lestrade had an office on the mainland, where he received Gordon warmly but repeatedly denied his requests. He yielded finally, when he realized how passionate Gordon was about art, but warned him that the island was a special place and might offend him with some of its peculiarities. Even after Gordon re-assured him that he was only interested in seeing the cave paintings, Lestrade had insisted on running a background check that the FBI would have envied.

"How do the local authorities feel about your practice of owning slaves?" Gordon hoped that his comment didn't sound like a threat.

"I am the local authorities!" Lestrade laughed. "I own the island, and established this little colony, so I suppose that makes me a king of some sort. Slavery is completely acceptable here, and commonly practiced. Domain is more like a private club than a nation. That's why I swore you to secrecy. We can't have the place crawling with casual tourists and curiosity seekers. Your invitation was a rare compliment. I thought that you were worldly enough to handle our cultural idiosyncrasy."

Gordon stared at the girl with eyes grown suddenly hot, damning himself for the unwelcome erection that swelled against his thigh. "She's yours for the night," said Lestrade. "If she makes you happy, you can have her again tomorrow."

"What if she doesn't make me happy?" overhearing him, the girl winced almost imperceptibly.

"She will most likely get her ass whipped," Lestrade chuckled. "You can do it yourself if you like. She doesn't even have to do anything to deserve it."

"This is the twenty first century," Gordon sputtered. "You can't keep people against their will!"

"Of course!" Lestrade was having fun with him again, pretending to be filled with horror by his own villainy. "What was I thinking! Ask the girl if she is being held against her will. If she is, you can take her home and introduce her to all your friends at Amnesty International and the ACLU."

Gordon lowered the phone a bit, feeling foolish. He cleared his throat. "What's your name?" he asked.

The girl raised her eyes just enough to be sure that he was addressing her. "It pleases my Masters to call me 'Nymph', Sir."

"I'm going to ask you a question, Nymph. You mustn't be afraid to answer with the truth."

"Slaves must always tell the truth, Sir!" said Nymph. She seemed dismayed that he could expect anything less.