Czytaj książkę: «Cleopatra's Perfume»

Selected praise for award-winning author

JINA BACARR

THE BLONDE GEISHA

“An astounding, wonderful debut novel from Jina Bacarr,

an author not to be missed!”

—The Mystic Castle

“Erotic romance fans should be prepared for lots of teasing.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A highly sensual coming-of-age story that, when read,

one should focus on Bacarr’s gift of writing.”

—Romance Reader at Heart

“Ms. Bacarr’s voice is like a songbird; many will fall under

its sensuous currents…[a] remarkable book.”

—A Romance Review

“The Blonde Geisha had me spellbound… Ms. Bacarr pens a rare work of art…an extraordinary tale.”

—Coffee Time Romance

NAUGHTY PARIS

“Rich in historical detail and dialogue, sizzling with sexual energy…

a lush and sensual novel of one woman coming into her own.”

—Erotica Romance Writers

“Ms. Bacarr once again demonstrates her talent of erotic pencrafting

that is not only titillating, but wantonly different. With a voice so

naturally sensual, Ms. Bacarr is in a class of her own. It is decadence,

superbly delivered, fresh and highly creative.”

—ParaNormal Romance

“Naughty Paris is a read that I will not soon forget… I love the touch of magic instilled in this great read.”

—The Romance Studio

“A humorous, erotic tale…a beautifully written love story…[it] will

make readers believe in love in all its major transformations.”

—Romance Junkies

“This book is fantastic! It is erotica combined with a hint of

paranormal time travel, featuring sex scenes that will run away

with your imagination. Bacarr is brilliant as she masterminds

a true tale of sexual exploration.”

—Romance Reader at Heart

“Naughty Paris is a fascinating journey…a magnificent view into a time and place that many can only imagine…breathtaking!”

—Coffee Time Romance

SPIES, LIES & NAKED THIGHS

“The talented Bacarr delivers another strikingly original, fast-paced

romp highlighted by a smoking-hot hero and a sassy heroine.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Filled with action, [this] is a fun chick-lit thriller with a touch of

romance to add spice to a fun tale of intrigue.”

—Harriet Klausner

Cleopatra’s Perfume
An Erotic Novel
Jina Bacarr

www.spice-books.co.uk

For my husband, Len, who took the journey with me.

And never looked back.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

War is hell. Ask anyone on the front lines. The fighting, the bombing, the killing. But there was another kind of war fought during World War II. A war behind the scenes in elegant hotels, loud cabarets and dark alleys. Brave men and women standing up to Hitler’s war machine and giving everything they had to keep the world free.

A few years ago I found myself in the Latin Quarter in Paris on a cold winter night, the chilly wind whipping my coat around me, footsteps behind me seemingly coming out of nowhere. I looked up and saw a plaque on the wall of a building proclaiming that on this spot two French Resistance fighters lost their lives fighting against the Nazis in 1942. I shivered, their presence very real to me. As if it was their footsteps I heard and they still guarded this spot. I knew then in my heart I wanted to tell a story about the intrigue of that war and the lives that were changed forever.

I became fascinated with the men and women who dared to take on the dangerous job of working for the underground. I pored through first-person accounts, letters, newspapers, magazines, history books and newsreels of spies, Resistance fighters, downed pilots and ordinary people who gave up everything they held most dear to fight against the Nazi invasion. I thank them for their sacrifice and dedication to freedom.

I also wish to acknowledge the tireless efforts of my editor, Susan Swinwood, who gives me the freedom to explore my worlds and who guides me with her expertise. And finally, I wish to thank my wonderful agent, Roberta Brown, a classy lady in any era and my dear friend, for her encouragement and for staying the course with me.

1

A secluded lake outside Berlin

April 29, 1941

Blondes always did get him in trouble. This one could get him killed. Tall, statuesque, with big breasts and a seductive walk that communicated with the world in a way he’d never seen. Slow and easy, with just enough wiggle to let him know she was all woman.

This blonde also had a sharp-nosed Nazi squeezing the soft flesh of her arm in a tight grip.

“Strip her!” the German officer yelled, pushing the woman toward him.

“I don’t assault women.” Even if she is a fraud and a liar, he finished silently. A strange, hot light burned in the SS officer’s eyes, sending a driving itch up his backside. He stood his ground, his legs spread apart, his hands on his hips, though he longed to overpower the man.

“I said, strip her. Now!” The sun-bleached blond Nazi cracked his whip so close to his skin it scorched the hairs on the back of his neck with heat. He swallowed, choking on his own saliva, a rotten taste in his mouth turning his stomach but not his courage. No doubt the German fueled his obsession with power with cruel, lascivious acts, setting up a bitter rivalry between the two of them, but why? And who would win?

“Since you’re so reluctant to do what the Nazi officer asks,” she said, her voice calm and precise, “I’ll show you how to undress a woman.”

She unfastened the ornate buttons on her dress then slid her fingers across them as if wiping off the sticky sweat. Then she wiggled out of the blue silk garment, kicked off her Sunday-white pumps and removed her sheer silk stockings and garters. Underneath she wore nothing but a nude-colored slip. Her breathing ragged, her eyes squinting against an approving sun overhead, she waited for him to say something.

“You want me to fuck you,” he said, disbelieving.

“Yes.”

“Then why this silly game?”

She smiled. “It makes it more interesting.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re crazy if you don’t take advantage of the situation.”

“I don’t get it. After what happened in Cairo when I—”

“That’s in the past.” Her eyes warned him not to say anything more, though her lips invited his touch when she moistened them with her tongue. He reached out to grab her, but before he could wrap his hands around her waist, she raced over to the edge of the lake and climbed up on a large granite rock.

Poised on the edge like a mermaid, the platinum beauty wiggled her firm breasts and smiled, coy, teasing, as if she were about to divulge to him a hidden entry into her. He smiled. Soft and wet and smelling of the salty sea, he had no doubt he would fuck her before this strange scenario came to an end.

She stretched her arms over her head as if reaching up to rip through the dark clouds of war overhead. He was in too deep now to retreat, escape. Only by the whim of a forgotten water nymph had peace survived in this tranquil setting. But not for long.

A flash of red sparked from the huge ruby and pearl ring she wore on her forefinger, guiding his eye in his appraisal of her, up and down, in and around every curve, as if she were already nude. The slip fit so tightly around her body he swore it was a second skin.

“I must warn you,” cooed the audacious, powder-white blonde, pushing down a thin strap over her pure ivory shoulder. “Contrary to what the Nazi believes, I’ve never met a man who could satisfy me.”

“I remember the first time I heard you say those words. I proved you wrong then and I’ll prove you wrong now.”

“Will you?”

The other strap came down next, her gesture deliberate and slow, gauged to make him sweat. Tempting him like an odalisque, but every inch a female with her own mind, she pushed her breasts together to emphasize her ample cleavage. He went numb, his emotions shaken, knowing what he did about her. How she used men to satisfy her lust.

Anger rushed through his veins like quicksilver, the foul taste of her perversities lingering on his lips, but he remained silent. Instead, he let out a low whistle, making her smile. Without so much as a hint of embarrassment at the boldness of her statement or her actions, she went one step further with her challenge.

“Many men have tried to tame my hunger, including you…” She paused, the faint memory of a hot night in a smoky nightclub sparking both their imaginations, then it was gone. “But none have succeeded.”

“I don’t get it. What the hell kind of game are you playing?” He pulled in his breath, then before he could reach out and grab her she slid off the rock with the grace of a mythical water creature and, as if by fairy-tale magic, stood before him on two beautiful bare legs. She turned around, her back facing him.

“Would you mind?” she said, her voice hot and breathy. A long, delicate zipper snaked up and down her spine, tempting him. She’d issued him a challenge, knowing he couldn’t resist taking her up on it. The thought of bringing the blonde to her knees had obsessed him since the moment he saw her in Cairo two years ago. A beauty with a cold heart, he knew, and he hated her for it. She proved it to him again when they met up in London a few weeks ago. He shivered, a cool breeze rising off the lake. He remembered they weren’t alone. A pair of flickering silver-blue eyes, cold and hungry, watched everything they did, no matter how intimate. And waited.

“My pleasure,” he said, drawing down the finely sewn zipper in one pull. “And yours.”

She turned around and moved in a manner he could only describe as a shimmy. Down came the slip, sliding over her breasts then down around her hips and off, forming a satin puddle of expensive femininity at her feet. She stood tall, though she was barefoot, with shapely legs he ached to wrap around his waist. She stepped out of the slip and posed for him. Hands on her hips, legs crossed, one foot in front of the other, she pointed her right toe and dug it into the soft brownish-colored sand at the base of the rock as if drawing a line and daring him to come closer.

He held in his breath. She was nude. Big, beautiful breasts curved and round. Large nipples, pointy and brown. Slim hips, flat stomach. She tilted her head toward him in a coy manner, something she did often, he remembered, and gave him a look that said his reaction pleased her. That look aroused him more, heightened his desire in a manner he’d never experienced. He always thought of sexual desire as a summer storm, created by combustible changes in the atmosphere, and just as unpredictable.

Not this time. She could make a man stay hard. With her long wavy hair curling over the curve of her shoulder, the blonde had a seductive way of carrying herself, her gestures light and graceful, like the girls he’d seen strutting across the stage. Saucy, nude, except for the fan-blown feathers covering their breasts and buttocks, they ignited a man’s desire for the forbidden, though the woman they desired existed only in front of stage lights and soft halos.

This girl wiggled her shoulders toward him in a similar manner, and he swore a luminous essence sparkled off her pale skin, making him squint, as if an invisible spotlight popped on and made her center stage.

He prepared himself for a leisurely pursuit of his female prey. So what if they were standing next to a lake under the watchful eye of the SS? Dark woods surrounded them, no one to disturb their elaborate game of sex and deceit. The secluded area had once served as a naturist camp in the days of the Weimar Republic, before the Brownshirts and swastikas put an end to all the fun.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders. Again the huge ring on her forefinger caught his eye, reminding him of that night in Cairo, making him wonder about the poor bastard who gave it to her. He never did find out. Acting on hot-blooded impulse, indulging his hunger, had he succumbed to her challenge, only to fail? Then putting the blame for his failure on her? Did she drive all men to ruin?

Or just him?

A chance meeting had led him here. Slouched in a chair, trying to evade capture, he’d recognized her coming down the elegant stairway at the main entrance at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin. When he confronted her about their liaison, she claimed to be American. Mistaken identity, she insisted and left. She had no idea he was in danger of being picked up by the Gestapo, tortured, killed. Would it have mattered to her? He doubted it. Later, he found her drinking in the bar with the SS officer. When he confronted her again, she covered herself by convincing the German he was her American lover and she must get him out of Berlin before her fiancé arrived from Stockholm and discovered her indiscretion.

Why not go to the American embassy on Pariser Platz? the SS officer wanted to know.

He can’t return to the States, she insisted, pushing out her breasts straining against the buttons on her formfitting blue silk dress. She bent over to straighten her seams, exposing a tight derriere, and explained to the Nazi it was a matter of a murder rap on his head. The SS officer turned and looked him up and down, a curious smile curving over full, pale lips. He almost believed the Nazi seemed more interested in him, but it must have been his imagination. What mattered to the German was that from what she told him her fiancé had ties to the iron-ore industry and his reputation must be protected for the sake of the Reich. Yes, he could be persuaded to use his influence as an officer from the Foreign Office to secure an exit visa for him from the Argentinean embassy if the American woman was willing to play his game.

American? She was a British subject. Why the masquerade?

Chuck Dawn knew her to be an Englishwoman with a title, a cold, calculating creature who took as many lovers as her sexual appetite could handle. All she knew about him was that he was an American flier who hated her guts. It hadn’t always been that way. She couldn’t wait to fall into his arms, naked and wanting, when he saw her in that club of supplicants hidden on a backstreet in Cairo. But all that changed when he’d been accused of the heinous crime of murder. He did it to save her, but the police didn’t see it that way. Now his own life was in jeopardy. Though his better judgment warned him to put aside his personal vendetta and get the hell out of Berlin before the Gestapo found him, he didn’t. He wanted to know more about her, and if he dared admit it, he wanted her. Again.

So he had agreed to her game. An exit visa for an afternoon of sex. The perfect way out and right under the nose of the Abwehr, German intelligence. Before he knew it, he was on his way to a secret nudist retreat nestled among the many lakes outside Berlin. Surrounded by forests, the idyllic lakeside beach with grass growing out of the water was difficult to find. Earlier they’d driven down the dirt road behind the post office of a nameless village, all the windows open, dust blowing in their faces, then they turned right at an outdoor fruit stand before the official black Mercedes with the Gestapo license plate passed under a bridge then through a barbwire fence. The SS officer ordered them out of the car and their clothes. The Nazi insisted Chuck was lucky he was so agreeable to such a diversion. Many people trying to get out of Berlin ended up in Gestapo headquarters. Not a pleasant place if one had something to hide.

Chuck examined his own motives. He must have been insane to allow his emotions to get in the way and now the charade had gone too far. Convincing the SS officer they were lovers in need of an exit visa was a daring plan and put both their lives in jeopardy. Yet his instincts told him this would turn into a suicide mission if he didn’t make love to her. His own personal philosophy had been shaken by her willingness to make them vulnerable by initiating the sex act, but he had little choice. Give up now and they’d both be shot.

Chuck needed more than luck to get him out of the situation. Though he knew her curvy fish-fin silhouette was only a shiny illusion in the hot afternoon sun, he stood imprisoned by his own fantasy, unable to move. Though she had professed to the Nazi to be indifferent to her physical needs, she was as hungry for sex as he was and just as obsessed by a driving fever to dissolve the gnawing ache that resided within her.

Edging closer toward her, he could smell her. Profound and unusual, musky, her familiar perfume affected his senses, making his head spin, as if he was impelled by a need to get lost in her sensual net from which no man escaped. Her scent was spicy and sweet and threatened to draw him deeper into her mysterious game. Was she but a mirage, an elusive creature who would escape before he could fuse both his desire and fantasy into one hell of a fuck?

An impossible illusion to hold on to, woman, elusive and at the same time wanton, moist, wet, hungry.

He anticipated the warmth of her body pressing against his, nuzzling his nose and lips into her soft platinum hair as he breathed her scent. Kissing her ear, then down to her neck, whispering explicit descriptions of what he was going to do to her, his fingers inside her increasing her wetness, her body hot and fragrant, then withdrawing his fingers and showing her the glistening juices coating them. Then he’d twist his fingers so they sparkled in the peach-golden sun before he placed them between her dry red lips then his own so they could both taste her essence.

Then, before she could lick the juices off her lips, he’d be inside her, satisfying her every desire with each thrust, pleasuring her until she burned for him, begged for him, her jaws locked, her sweat coating her nakedness with an icy crawl. When she cried out for him to stop, he wouldn’t. He’d make her pay for what she did to him. A tightness formed in his chest. Why did that bother him? Tear at his insides and drag from him a fragile part of his manhood he showed to no woman, swore he never would, yet she had exposed him for what he was?

A desperate man.

She’d ripped the peace and security from his life with one word, not knowing he was ready to sacrifice his personal needs and wants to go to war, to die if he had to, and it was that unsettling way she had of understanding him without knowing him, how since he was a kid his courage came from risking death, not living life, that made him want to grab her and fuck her so hard she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take from any other man what she’d taken from him.

One word, that’s all she said, but it sent him into a spiraling hell. He’d escaped once. He’d do it again. For now, he ignored the ranting of his poet’s soul, concentrating instead on the brilliant ruby nestled between two large iridescent pearls. He couldn’t stop thinking about how it resembled a woman’s wet pinkness hugged by throbbing pussy lips.

She must have sensed his prurient thoughts because she pushed her lower body into his groin, making him uncomfortable. His erection strained against his pants, eliciting a moan from his lips. He didn’t protest when she stood on her tiptoes, making her breasts jut out and brush against him. He removed his jacket then unbuttoned his shirt, though he spent so much time staring at her naked body, he missed the last two buttons. Coming to his rescue, she pushed her breasts against his chest, then reached over and pulled down his zipper.

“Returning the favor,” she murmured, then she unsnapped his boxers and slid a hand along each hip, making him harder, if that was possible. He couldn’t believe this female had his pants down, then his shorts, her hands exploring him like he was a prime bull. Isn’t that what the Nazi had ordered? Play the game of seduction or they’d find themselves answering questions down at Gestapo headquarters?

Before he could stop her, she bent down and ran her slender fingers along his legs and untied his shoes. Her lips brushed his erection, and was that her tongue stinging his cock with a fleeting kiss of fire?

Pulverized into action, he shed his shirt and tie, though his eyes didn’t leave her magnificent body. Not young, over thirty, but well cared for and pampered, befitting her noble station in life, though she professed to be American. Yet he had no doubt their lives depended on his sexual performance. Not more than fifteen feet from where they stripped off each other’s clothes, the SS officer awaited his turn.

He couldn’t wait, his pants pushed down around his ankles with the beautiful woman trying to take his shoes off.

“Our audience is getting restless,” he said, nodding toward the Nazi sitting atop a large boulder and cracking his whip against the granite. Massive chest, striking blond hair cut military short, bulging arms, massive thighs, the sometime personal bodyguard to Hitler observed their sexual antics with a loud, sadistic growl. Striding around in his high boots, the black-and-silver honor ring on his left hand sparking off the naked sun behind him, swinging his whip, he made it clear what he wanted them to do. Fuck. Hard and loud, while he watched. He loosened the collar on his black uniform, but the whip crackled at his side as he struck the ground with the well-used black leather.

Chuck reached down, took her by the shoulders and pulled her up off her knees. She wiggled her hips then put her foot between his legs and stepped on his pants. Without missing a beat, she pushed her knee between his legs and wrapped her arms around him.

“Let’s give him what he wants,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear.

“I don’t take orders from a woman,” he began, holding her tighter, his fingers pushing apart her thighs then dipping his fingers into her and circling the throbbing hard bud slick with her moisture. He knew she’d be wet. “Even one as beautiful as you.”

“I don’t have time to massage your male ego,” she dared to tell him, making him squirm, then: “I have a job to do and whether you like me or my tactics doesn’t concern me.”

Her urgent voice was anything but that of a woman in search of an orgasm. Job? This society dame? What was her game? He thought about giving her a piece of his mind, then decided he’d rather continue stroking her clit.

She smiled, but not before taking in her breath along with a whiff of her desire. Her breasts lifted, making him groan. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

“I don’t like the setup, why you strip yourself naked and allow your body to be a gift for any male who’s got a stiff dick.” He slowed down his stroking. “Are you so hungry for a man, any man to light a dark glow in the pit of your belly, make you scream for him to fuck you? Do you care so little about yourself, your body, your soul?”

Why he went off like that, he didn’t know.

“My personal needs are no concern of yours.” He thought he saw her eyes soften, the veil of illusion she was determined to keep up, which made her game bearable, torn from her pale face, then it was gone. “If you hadn’t recognized me, I would have been on my way and out of Germany. Now we may not get out of here alive.”

So she also guessed the Nazi’s game.

“If I don’t make it—” she began, then paused as if debating whether or not to continue “—retrieve my diary hidden in the false bottom of my steamer trunk at the Adlon and deliver it personally to my secretary, Mrs. Wills, in London.” She whispered her hotel-suite number in his ear, her words hot and breathy. “Tell her she must give the diary to a certain gentleman in the Foreign Office, she’ll know who I mean, before the Nazis discover the purpose of my trip to Berlin. And take the perfume with you. You may need it.”

“Perfume?”

“Cleopatra’s perfume. Please, don’t ask me any more questions.”

He stared at her, not understanding but intrigued nonetheless. Probing, he asked, “What are you involved in? The truth or I’ll—”

“Your country is not yet at war, but people you don’t know, I don’t know, are innocents in this madman’s game that threatens us all with his Final Solution.” As if on cue, she pinched her nipples, sighing as she did so. Though she took full advantage of his stroking, he sensed she attempted trying to put off climaxing until she had her say. “This is my chance to prove my life was not in vain, lived without a trace or shred of anything decent to say I was here. Please, do as I ask.”

“What won’t you tell me?” He rubbed her clit harder, making her groan.

“Oh, don’t stop…” she sighed, closing her eyes, the hard lines on her face disappearing, as if the mask she wore melted like a virgin’s resistance, this disguise she took on to fight back against the blows she suffered from an indignant world.

He applied his fingers in a circular manner to her throbbing bud faster and faster until she couldn’t hold back. She cried out, a starkness to her beauty that shook him, a fierceness in her eyes that pulsated with fear then anger then pain. Then it was gone.

She took a moment to catch her breath then became once again the quintessential blond vixen wrapped in her hunger for a man. Sweating, she threw her head back and cupped her breasts, twisting her nipples, then moaning, her eyes closed, her lips whispering, “Fuck me, now.”

Using the excuse this was no pulp-fiction plot but his life and he had no intention of losing it, he picked her up in his arms and laid her down on the soft white blanket in the sand. His heartbeat quickened when he felt her shudder underneath him. Then, teasing her, he inserted his impatient finger again and, feeling her wet, he plunged deeper, drawing his digit back and forth across the hard ridge of her clit, increasing his rhythm. He sensed she was exaggerating her emotions to impress the SS officer, gritting her teeth to avoid allowing herself to enjoy it. He moved across her pleasure bud faster, stroking it, then bending down and drawing it between his lips and sucking at it, nibbling and torturing her with the tip of his tongue. He pressed her body to his lips and she shivered uncontrollably.

He had her where he wanted her.

He inserted two fingers and she trembled, her body arching upward, riding his hand, a rapturous expression on her face giving her away. He knew that expression well, whether it was the farm girls he’d fucked in the hay when he was barnstorming cross-country in his open-cockpit biplane or the sophisticated girls behind the perfume counter with their dark red lipstick and sheer black stockings. She was different. She was a member of the British aristocracy yet she possessed the same hunger for a man inside her, cock or tongue, she didn’t care. She wanted more, craved that glow in her belly that made wetness seep between her legs so she’d be slick and easy when he entered her.

Without missing a beat, he removed his fingers then pushed apart her thighs and entered her, moving in and out, slowly at first, making her moan and begging him to go faster. He picked up his speed as her body matched his rhythm, stroke for stroke. Yet never did he take his eyes off her face, her mouth as red as the ruby ring she wore, her lips glistening with the same sparkle.

Her eyes widened when he thrust deeper into her, her body closing around him, exciting him to the point where he couldn’t stop. The deeper he thrust, the more he swore she opened up to him, yes, but not in her eyes. Cool green eyes that made him shiver in spite of the heat of passion making their bodies sweat, eyes with enough dark green in them to shade her thoughts, her soul, something he wanted to see, had to, for only then could he satisfy her and himself.

Grunting, he locked his body tighter onto hers with each thrust, his tall frame threatening to overtake her with his power. He held her by the hips, not too hard so he wouldn’t mark her skin, knowing when she reached that point of madness when neither of them could hold back, all reason would be lost. Then came pleasure, with its price to pay, for then he would also lose control and be at his most vulnerable.

The crack of the whip echoed in his ears, closer now. The SS officer also enjoyed their excitement, relished it, but would he take advantage of them? He couldn’t take the chance.

He pulled out, damn his own agony, sliding from her in one quick movement. She gasped, shook her head in denial. She was so close to that moment of release, her body shivered, her lower lip quivering, as she yelled, “You bastard!”

Yes, he was a bastard and he hated himself for it. He could smell her juices mixing with her perfume, the scent so intoxicating he felt compelled to enter her again and finish her off. What was all this nonsense about Cleopatra’s perfume? A strange request she’d made, asking him to retrieve that and her diary. Was she nothing but a selfish hedonist after all? He held back, knowing he’d taken away what had been their pleasure and turned it into their pain, but he had no choice if they were to survive.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

“I made you hot…for him.”

With a sly glance at her beautiful face, sweating, glowing, her eyes alight with excitement, begging him for more, he peeled open her lower lips, her juices nestled in her pink folds, and exposed her without shame to the man walking toward him, cracking his whip. The impact of black leather hitting the brown sandy dirt blew a small dust wind around them like smoke. He held his breath, refusing to inhale, then:

“The woman is very beautiful and worthy of fucking an officer of the Reich,” the SS officer said in accented English, winding the whip around his hand. “If I were so inclined.”

The flier turned toward the elitist officer, his senses alert. What the hell did he mean by that?

“She would be honored to receive the cock of a member of the SS,” Chuck said, keeping his emotions in check.

“I prefer to watch you fuck her,” said the Nazi, “while I amuse myself with a different game.”

A large smooth hand slipped over his thigh, rubbing it with caution. The strong smell of Aryan maleness tinged with the spice of perversity invaded his nostrils. The game had changed and he didn’t like the smell of it.

Why he didn’t make his move during the naked silence that followed, he didn’t know. Surprise, shock, fear? Not for his own life, but hers. Something about the fervent way she looked into his eyes and begged him to understand something else was at play here made him realize this was no ordinary tryst. But what?

He looked around and caught the SS officer staring at him as he removed his black tunic jacket with its single shoulder strap and thin aluminum collar piping. It took all his strength not to rip off the cotton hand-embroidered SS armband or kick him in the balls when he dropped his black breeches. Not a smart move when he had a service weapon trained on him. He recognized the sleek Walther P-38 pistol. An excellent design. Fit the hand as smoothly as a black glove. He knew he was in deep trouble when he saw the Nazi release the safety and cock the hammer in one motion as he pulled it from his side holster under his black jacket. Unlike most Prussians he’d seen since he arrived in the land of boot clickers, this one didn’t need time to unwind. His firm, muscular body reeked of desire, sweat glistening off the twin lightning bolts tattooed on his forearm like a glaring spotlight.

He made his interest in him clear, striding around in nothing but his high boots and his hat bearing the Death’s Head badge, the Totenkopf, swinging a whip and crackling it at his side as he struck the ground with the well-used black leather.

Chuck tried not to show it but he couldn’t control his fast breathing, one hand behind his back to hide what he knew was his hand shaking. What bothered him was how he’d reacted to the warmth of the man’s hands on his skin. Damn, he was hot, ready to climax, and his touch, any touch, he told himself, would have made him explode. He wouldn’t accept any other explanation. He had no doubt if the Nazi tried to brush his skin again with that hand, he’d deck him. He’d heard rumors about the proclivity of certain members of the SS for sex with other men. They shunned the effeminate side of the equation, preferring raucous, beer-drinking sexual antics where a man’s cock found penetration of a different kind to his liking. Dark, secret places that made his skin fester as if purulent sores covered it.

He scratched at his thigh, more from the crawling dread seeping over him than from the clouds of mosquitoes hiding in the thickets of dense shrubbery surrounding the lake.

“I have a game,” said the Nazi,“one I’m certain you’ll both enjoy.”

“And what if I don’t like your game?” Chuck dared to venture.

“I’m sure we can accommodate the captain,” cried out the Englishwoman, her soft hair wisps clouding the nervous expression he’d seen in her eyes. “I’ll fuck you both!”

“No,” said the SS guard. “I will fuck you both.” He grabbed the American’s buttocks with his large, smooth hand, making his stiffen. Chuck dug his fingers into his palm so hard he swore he pierced the skin.

“I swear, if you touch me again—”

The SS officer laughed. “You will fuck her, mein herr, and I will, as you Americans say, bring up the rear.” He laughed.

“And if I refuse?”

“There will be no exit visa.” He ran his hand along Chuck’s inner thigh then he snapped the whip against his flank when he tried to grab the gun away from the Nazi. The American grunted, pulling in his gut and swallowing the pain, rather than cry out.

“I demand you take us back to Berlin,” Chuck said. “Your game has gone far enough.”

“I’ll take you back—” the Nazi shoved the gun into his ribs “—straight to Gestapo headquarters to explain your presence in Berlin.”

“I have no intention of explaining anything to you or your Nazi friends. America isn’t at war with Germany—”

“Aren’t you forgetting our agreement?” the Englishwoman interrupted, her tone cold and formal, her coquettish mannerisms gone. She glared at Chuck, silently telling him to let her take over. Her look told him she wasn’t playing games now that she knew the SS officer wasn’t interested in her.

“It’s too late for that, Fräulein.” He pointed the gun at her. Chuck clenched his fists, ignoring the cascade of frenzy invading his brain. Whatever his personal feelings were in this game, he couldn’t allow the Nazi to strike her down in a stabbing flash of gunfire, bullets slicing along her belly, her breasts, jerking her straight up, spinning in a macabre dance of death.

“No!” she cried out, the late-afternoon sun sparking off her ring and striking the Nazi in the eye, causing him to look away. Chuck gathered up a handful of gravel mixed among the sandy dirt and gripped it in his palm, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“I regret having to destroy such a lovely female body,” the SS officer said, straining to perfect his aim in the harsh glare, “a perfect example of curve and line, but in the name of the Reich—”

“Run!” Chuck cried out, then spun around and threw the handful of gravel into the Nazi’s face. The man jerked backward, his hat falling off and onto the sand. Chuck stomped on it, smashing the skull-and-crossbones SS insignia under his bare foot and ignoring the sharp pain digging into his flesh. Then, before the German could react, he kicked him in the groin so hard he screamed out, but not before his pistol fired and the bullet hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of sand.

The Englishwoman didn’t wait. He watched in horror as she raced toward the lake, her white-blond hair shimmering around her shoulders like the crests of a wave. Then for an instant she pirouetted and stood on the large boulder, her arms folded across her breasts, her ruby-and-pearl ring catching the eye of the sun and making it flutter. Her last look was at him, her eyes begging him not to forget her. Then, another shot. The Nazi. Before he could get to her, she screamed then dived into the lake. Seconds, only seconds, yet he’d never forget that look.

Had the second bullet found its mark?

Before he could go after her, the Nazi was on him like a lizard crawling up a mud bank. He struggled with the German, kicking him again and, using the sparring techniques he’d learned on his numerous trips ashore to Hong Kong ferrying the mail, forced him to drop the gun. Knowing his attacks had to be fast and accurate, he threw a right cross to the Nazi’s chin. The Aryan ducked, surprising him, then came back at him with a double punch to his gut. They exchanged blows, skin splitting open, sweat mixing in a macabre blurring of male flesh and hard muscle into one blur until the Nazi retrieved the gun. Chuck kicked it out of the man’s hand and he went down on the sand. He jumped on top of him, but the Nazi threw dirt into his face. Eyes burning like hell, he reached out blindly, withstanding the man’s punches, until his hands wrapped around the German’s neck and he pushed down on his windpipe hard, not letting up, until he went still beneath him.

He sat back on his haunches and caught his breath. Eyes wide open, shock of blond hair hanging down low over his face, the Nazi had the look of a demonic creature cast in stone. He checked his pulse. He was dead.

Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, Chuck looked toward the lake. No movement, no splashing. Nothing. What happened to the Englishwoman? A sharp pain tore at his gut, eating him up with dread. He jumped to his feet and dived into the crystalclear water, afraid of what he’d find.

An hour later—or was it two?—the dead Nazi lay in the mud on the lake bottom with two large rocks tied around his ankles. Chuck came up again to get some air, his lungs bursting. No sign of the Englishwoman. No blood, no body. Nothing. Again and again he searched the area, but it was as if she’d dived into the lake and disappeared. He almost believed she was a mermaid and had swum out to sea.

God, he was losing his mind. Nothing made sense. The platinum blonde. The SS officer. What had he stumbled into? An intricate Nazi plot to pick him up? No, that was impossible. No one could have known he’d duck into the Hotel Adlon to get some rest after he’d been shot down during a bombing mission over Berlin. He was an American flier in the RAF and he’d been on the run for two, three days, trying to escape into the human blur that swarmed through the hotels in a never-ending bustle, moving at night when the city was thrust into darkness to evade the British bombers. Living on cold pasta tossed out from Italian restaurants, since food was rationed. His crew had been captured, but he escaped into the woods, burying his uniform jacket then stealing clothes drying on a line from an unsuspecting Hausfrau.

He wiped the water from his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe away the doubts, the puzzle that eluded him. It didn’t make sense. He dived in again, searching the lake that must have been over two hundred feet deep in the middle. And cold. Still nothing. He had no choice but to give up the search and find his way back over the German lines to the Allies. Forget what she said about a diary. Why should he risk his own life to retrieve a piece of female vanity?

Dressing quickly in the dead Nazi’s silver-and-black uniform—he intended to dump it as soon as possible—he got behind the wheel of the Mercedes 260D diesel car and drove off. He found himself weaving from one lane to another, his mind troubled. A hint of her spicy fragrance wafted off the black ribbed seat and hung in the air around him, torturing him with its power. What happened to the Englishwoman? Lady Eve Marlowe of Mayfair was how he’d known her in Cairo. Where was she? Though her beauty haunted him, her death haunted him more. Nothing was left to show she’d ever been there, shivered in his arms, teased him with her beguiling smile, pleasured him when he stroked her with his cock until she cried out at the peak of her desire.

Nothing. Just the redolent scent of her perfume.

Damn her.

It took him less than five minutes to change his mind and turn the car around and head back toward Berlin. It wasn’t that he faced a nearly impossible journey in enemy territory to get to France and the underground that made him change his mind. He’d survived worse. It wasn’t that he was certain Lady Marlowe had cash in her suite he could use in his escape, since when he searched through her clothes and purse before tossing them behind some brush, he’d found nothing. No, it was something he didn’t dare put into words. A hunch that this gorgeous woman was mixed up in more than sex and decadence, that she’d begged him to help her and if he didn’t, her life would have been in vain. Whatever they’d had in Cairo, it ended here, today. He couldn’t change that. He could change course, play out this insane caper and see where it led him. He hated the feeling eating at his insides, that her death was his fault. He owed her that much.

An hour later, he parked the big, black sedan blocks away from the Adlon then ducked in under the hotel awning and strode past the doorman and into the lobby, saluting and mumbling “Heil, Hitler!” to anyone who crossed his path. He avoided the black-suited desk clerk and the admiring eyes of the uniformed bellboy wearing white gloves and made his way upstairs, then grabbed a maid and threatened her with gestures and grunts until she allowed him access to the blonde’s suite. Who would deny an SS officer? He didn’t know more than a few words of German, but it worked. He was inside.

There, in the middle of the room, was a steamer trunk. It stood three feet long and two feet high with four rollers, edged in leather with wood strapping and brass rivets. He tapped his fingers over the cracking Damier pattern, noting the tiny tears in the canvas covering the trunk—

Rrring.

He waited.

The phone rang again and again and still he did nothing. He dare not answer it, but the presence of its irritating sound filled the air between himself and the unknown caller. Then the ringing stopped and the silence became his ticking clock. He glanced at the phone then looked at the door. Whoever had called could be on their way up here.

What was he waiting for? Staring at the trunk wasn’t going to bring back the Englishwoman. He tugged on the brass lock, but it wouldn’t give. Locked.

And no key in sight.

That wouldn’t stop him. He had plenty of practice picking the lock on his father’s gun cabinet when he was a kid, so he could practice shooting tin cans with his kid brother when the old man was away. He searched through the female items on the vanity table until he found what he needed: a nail file and a long hatpin. With the hatpin in one hand and the nail file in the other, he got to work on the lock. Using the hatpin, he picked the lock by raising the pins to their so-called breaking point as a key would, then used the nail file to rotate the cylinder to operate the cam at the rear of the lock’s cylinder to unlock the mechanism. It took a few tries, but it wasn’t long until he heard the welcome click and the lock popped open. Inside, he found a blue suit, navy pumps, chemises, garters and silk stockings. Beneath the clothes, he found a square box wrapped in black velvet about the size of a small jewelry box. He felt along the bottom of the trunk until it gave way and he uncovered a red silk-bound diary, its deep lush color still as fresh as the blush of a rose. He opened the book and the scent wafting from its pages overpowered him. Her scent. Spicy and pungent, like a kaleidoscope of powerful fragrances shuffled together that emitted a slightly different aroma every time he turned a page. Florid, feminine handwriting flowed from the linen sheets, jumping out at him as though the writer had jotted her thoughts down in a hurry. Voluptuous scenes, lusty descriptions, all filled with savagery.

Fascinated by what he’d seen, he flipped back to the first entry. It was all there in her handwriting. Loneliness, pleasure, the desire to submit, the indiscretions. All the passions of a woman possessed by the secret of what she called Cleopatra’s perfume. No wonder her image, her touch, her scent held him captive and wouldn’t let him go. He no longer saw her fluffed up in feathers and jewels and he a man filled with the raw need to conquer his own demons, but two people caught up in a dangerous game of intrigue and obsession. She revealed the past to him by way of the erotic tableaux she described, while the mysterious perfume emitting from the diary pages overwhelmed his senses with an intimate and intoxicating intensity.

And so he entered her world.

2

This diary belongs to: Lady Eve Marlowe

London, Mayfair

March 31, 1941

My life is in danger, but that won’t stop me. I must go to Berlin. Yes, I know it’s dangerous, considering the country is run by a monster marching against the world order and devouring innocents like a dragon spewing fire. He’s destroying everything in his path with flames of hatred and prejudice and he may destroy me, but I have no choice. If I fail at my mission I will die, as will others, but I’ve made preparations for a way out should death come too close to me. One so unbelievable I must write it down, for if I do not, no one will ever know what happened to me and the extraordinary journey I’ve taken. No one but you, dear reader.

It all began in 1939 when I refused to slip on the somber elegance of a widow’s veil, an act I undertook with the same rebelliousness that had ruled my young life. Unwilling, unvirginal and undaunted by an empty bed I was determined would soon be filled, I set out to find adventure. I was lonely, though at twenty-nine I’d traveled the world and seen its wonders as well as its weaknesses. I’d met my late husband, Lord Marlowe, who was thirty years my senior, years earlier when I was stranded in Cairo after what the London Times society page called “an unfortunate incident with renowned archaeologist Lord Wordley’s expedition into the Valley of the Kings,” insinuating I’d been on a dig with the famed explorer and his group of posh thrill-seekers. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I will leave the reality of what happened to later telling. All you need to know is I have a history with Egypt far removed from my peerage as Lady Marlowe.

I had arrived in the Near East as a girl of twenty in a time when rebellious girls dressed in red satin trunks and short tops and sat at tables in seedy cafés, sipping highballs in squatty glasses with men seated around them, their hungry mouths drawn back in drunken smiles while someone struck the same chords over and over again on an upright piano. I’m not ashamed of what I did during those wild days of my youth, but nor do I wish to recall them here. So, dear reader, whoever you are, be assured I knew what to expect when the liner stopped for stevedoring in Port Said and I disembarked from the ship. Known as a city of sin, rice and women are its main commodities. Port Said harbors a white slave trade flourishing in its hidden places, bars and houses, where young girls languish and perish under the thumbs of men.

I also discovered another secret in this city at the entrance to the Suez Canal, how a woman can forget her loneliness and indulge in the most delicious sexual adventures, so decadent I bring myself close to orgasm thinking about it, my pen shaking as I lay it down and unbutton my white silk trousers and insert my fingers inside me and stroke myself…panting, hanging in anticipation of what I know will come if I continue rubbing the hard ridge inside me, my body gyrating in time with the movements of my fingers. I open my legs wider to allow my fingers easier access…

Excuse the abrupt interruption, dear reader, but my need overcame my reason. I’ll be embarking soon on the first leg of my journey to Berlin, but first I must continue with my story and why I returned to the Near East after my husband’s death.

I’d enjoyed many pleasant interludes with Lord Marlowe in the region during our marriage: from the polo matches at the Gezira Sporting Club in Cairo, to excursions to see the Sphinx and the Great Pyramid, to traveling down the Nile to Luxor and Aswan. It was also where I could escape the suffocating air distorting the reality that dominated London’s clubs. I couldn’t survive in that atmosphere of pearls and perfect vowels, where one’s place in society was bred into the bones, though from what I’d seen in many a Mayfair drawing room, they grew brittle from a lack of blood flowing through their veins.

I packed my trunk and left London.

I was familiar with the sea route, having traversed it many times over the years with my late husband. After traveling from London by train to embark on a ship at Genoa, the luxury P&O steamer went on to Port Said and would then pass through the Suez Canal to Bombay, Hong Kong and Shanghai. What should have been a tranquil journey of reflection, I must admit, turned out to be a pattern of recurring neuroses. Chatter aboard ship became more stifling than staying in London. My independence was at stake. I had no place to hide from my fellow British passengers, many of whom knew of my recent widow status and whispered among themselves about the scandal brewing when word got back to London that I was traveling alone. And wearing white wide-leg trousers and an open white blouse with ample cleavage showing.

From behind my round dark glasses, I watched the gentlemen eyeing my pointy breasts and the ladies watching them. I shaded my eyes from their stares, but I had nothing to hide. White denoted purity of heart and I had every right to wear it. During my years of marriage to Lord Marlowe, I’d remained chaste, taking no other man to my bed; but now I was alone, and companionship was not something I merely desired. I needed a man and I needed him badly.

I disembarked the ship at Port Said to idle away time shopping for tropical skirts, pants, cameras, inexpensive jewels and French perfumes. Lucky for me, the shops remained open all night to cater to travelers until the ship departed in the early-morning hours. It wasn’t long before boredom, the heat and the flies, as well as the dirty looks from my fellow passengers, drove me to explore the port city on my own.

I doubted these ladies with their noses stuck up my business would dare follow me into a seedy-looking bar that reeked of male sweat and alcohol and with cigarette smoke so thick it drifted like a seventh veil over the crowd. I sat down at a small table and ordered Egyptian beer, what Lord Marlowe called onion beer because of its strong taste.

Raising my glass, I was congratulating myself on losing the gossipy women, when a slightly built Egyptian wearing a red fez with a long black tassel half covering his face shuffled over to me and bowed, then asked to tell my fortune. I shooed him away, knowing full well this wallah would gladly dish out what British locals called pukka gen— advice to the lovelorn—to any lone female willing to listen.

But he wouldn’t give up, insisting he had a special rate for a pretty lady with hair the color of the moon. I put down my beer and smiled at him. With a line like that, how could I refuse?

I invited him to sit down, and before the air could settle underneath his sagging body, he removed the lid of a biscuit tin from inside his shabby jacket and poured fine sand into it, then shook it until the surface was even. Then, taking my hand, he instructed me to trace lines in the sand with my fingers. I did as he asked, its soft touch making my fingertips tingle with what I knew was curiosity, not magic. When I finished raking my fingers through the white specks, he gazed at the squiggles I’d made, thinking. Then he began to speak. Slowly, as if he was reciting a well-rehearsed prayer.

“Your heart is lonely since the death of your husband.” He sighed, for effect, I’m sure. “And you crave a man’s touch to soothe your pain.”

How did he know I was a widow? Did he see the hunger in my eyes for a man’s sweat to mix with mine, his hard muscles pressing against my willing flesh as he rubbed his chest against my bare breasts?

He looked at me, but I cast my eyes downward. Not giving up, he continued, “I see you are as fragile as a flower in the desert, reaching up to the sun for nourishment, but dying without the sweetness of the rain to quench your thirst.”

No doubt this fortune would fit several lonely women travelers in this port city and I told him so. He shook his head, insisting there was more. He grabbed my hand again and raked my fingers through the sand. I saw him shaking, his lower lip twitching. My hand shook as well and I swear the sand sparked against my fingertips.

“You will meet a man within a fortnight,” he insisted, “and his fire will peel the skin from your bones, making you lose all control—”

I pulled my hand away. “Sounds unpleasant.” I tried to keep my voice steady, not let him see how his prediction affected me, nurtured the elusive dream I craved, but even as I said the words, my lower belly ached and my clit throbbed from want of a man I didn’t know.

The fortune-teller continued, “With him you will find immortality.”

I pondered this, though not for long. Immortality? What nonsense. What Near Eastern alchemy he was peddling I could only guess. I doubted I could find a man to fulfill the incompleteness haunting me since my husband’s death and assuage my hunger for the pleasures long denied to me. Still—

“Where will I meet this man?” I had to ask, wanting to believe I could escape my loneliness through this predestined encounter. I held my hands together in my lap to stop them from shaking. If I found such a man in Port Said and found sexual pleasure with him, that would mean I’d crossed the line into another world. I couldn’t go back. I sensed I was at a dangerous impasse by snubbing the staid world of British royals, forcing me to face what I thought I’d left behind: my taste for the sweetest of tortures. I’ll not regale you, dear reader, with details. They will come later.

“You will take him from the arms of another woman,” the man said.

I threw my hands up into the air. “I don’t believe your silly fortune-telling.”

“Believe. It will happen.” He jumped up and put out his hand. “Five piastres.” One shilling.

I paid him, though my face dripped sweat and my lips trembled as the smoky air seemed to close in around me and hold me in its grip. I couldn’t deny the physical reaction I had to his words. Whatever excuse I wanted to use, lonely, frustrated for lack of a sexual partner, I was ready to embrace whatever erotic impulses I discovered in this city of sin, ready to surrender to emotional chaos to feed my hunger without guilt.

I turned around to order another beer and when I turned back, the man was gone.

My hand was still shaking.

The fortune-teller’s words freed my spirit. I was like a bird released from its cage, not knowing I was the bait for bigger prey. I rebelled, ravaged my past and let go of my fears. Looking. Searching. Imagining. My need for sensuality clashed with my need to be rational, and won the fight.

I elected to remain in Port Said.

I returned to the ship and made arrangements for my luggage to be transferred to a hotel. Then I sent a cable to my secretary and oft-traveling companion, Mrs. Wills, in London, telling her I was staying in Port Said. A woman whose starched back never bends, her prompt response was one of concern as well as curiosity as to why the change in my plans. Bookish with gray strands weaving through her dark hair like a melody of lost notes, she cuts a slender figure in her proper dark suits and blucher-style brown oxfords. She’s an asexual creature who neither understands nor approves of my erotic adventures, but I value her friendship and advice. She rarely if ever ventures forth with a personal opinion, believing it isn’t her place to do so, but I would have never found my way in British society as Lady Marlowe without her.

I refused to admit I was profusely affected by what the fortune-teller had told me, his prediction disturbing me in an obscure, mysterious way. Over the next two days, I went out of my way to avoid men, peering over my sunglasses in a dismissive manner whenever a gentleman spoke to me, as if I was testing the fates and their uncanny way of making things happen when we fight against it. But my resistance was as fragile as a dream and just as fleeting when I saw the man I came to know as Ramzi.

It wouldn’t have happened, I’ve since convinced myself, if I hadn’t encountered Lady Palmer fretting about the hotel lobby, looking for her daughter. The young woman had disappeared after leaving an afternoon thé dansant, a tiresome trend consisting of dancing and sipping warm weak tea that has spread around the world from Bombay to Manila to Hong Kong by way of the contingent of the smart set. Lady Palmer was a longtime family friend of Lord Marlowe’s and fancied herself his social chaperone after his first wife died. She befriended me, I believe, more out of duty than true friendship. I found her pleasant and unassuming, though her daughter, Flavia, possessed the frivolous manners of her society stepsisters hungry for wicked games, but only if played according to their rules. No wonder Lady Palmer came to my husband numerous times to ask for his assistance in getting her daughter out of trouble without creating a scandal. He always obliged her with the understated elegance I loved about him. I felt that same obligation to help her when she sought me out in Port Said and told me her daughter was missing.

Earlier she had made plans to take the girl on a picturesque tour of the city, she told me, extolling the values of “going native” in a cart drawn by two mules, riding up and down the tree-lined streets past the lighthouse, then the Victorian buildings with purple-red bougainvillea overflowing on the terraces. Flavia refused to go. She assured her mother she’d have a better time at the afternoon tea dance, insisting she’d befriended some British girls she met on the beach visiting from St. Claire’s English School. That was the last time she saw her daughter. When Lady Palmer returned from her city excursion, Flavia’s new friends informed her the girl had left the hotel.

With a man. A tall Egyptian with a charming French accent, they said. Sweeping her away into his arms as if his galabiya, indigo blue robe, was a magic carpet flying around him, the orange-hued imma on his head contrasting with his black hair, the tightly wrapped turban giving him a courtly demeanor. Bidding the British schoolgirls adieu with a grandiose gesture of his bare brown muscular arm, his large ruby ring set in pearls dazzling them, the girls sighed, speculating he must be very rich and very important.

They said his name was Ramzi.

When I asked my British circle of friends about this Ramzi, no one knew much about him, though I watched more than one spectator-pumped miss sigh with a near-rapturous want, as if she’d gladly drop her knickers for a quick poke. I knew I must find him. Was he the souteneur the fortune-teller warned me about, the man who held the key to unlocking the great waves of pleasure I so desperately sought? I shuddered, though in a pleasant manner. I intended to see for myself.