Traitors, p.26
Traitors, page 26
He was outside, in the air, dancing before a crowd, not trapped in a gym, staring at a mirror. He had never felt so limber, so able to fly. As the trumpet theme flourished, so did he. With a half run and a jump, he managed a back flip, toes pointed, and landed perfectly, one foot extended behind him. He whirled like a small top, until his body became a blur even to him. The music crashed around him, and he opened into his final pose—arms extended, feet apart, head thrown back, as if he were about to welcome his lover into a hug.
Then the music stopped, and he folded in on himself, reappearing as he had started, crouched, bent, hiding. His heart pounded, and his skin was flushed. Sweat ran down his back, along his sides, and dripped from his hair onto the stage.
The applause was tentative at first, then it built around him like a wave, crushing him with its strength. He stood, arms at his sides, and bowed. Several people clapped with their hands above their heads, to show him their extreme pleasure. He nodded and waved, then froze.
Sheba stood in the back of the crowd, Carbete beside her. From this distance, they looked identical.
Beltar was directly behind them. He had moved to the front of his booth, one jeweled hand covering his mouth.
The announcer climbed beside Diate and urged him to bow again. He did, and then he escaped the stage, grabbing a towel from an attendant as he went down the stairs.
The young man stood there, feet bare too. “I’m still better than you,” he said, but his voice had more bravado than truth in it now.
Diate wiped the towel over his face. He no longer cared about the dancers. “You will be,” he said.
He grabbed his shoes and duffel, and pushed through the crowd, avoiding people’s gazes, ignoring the hands that patted his back. A detective stood in the center of the crowd, looking as shocked as Beltar. Strega. Diate turned his back on him and headed toward Sheba.
She was walking toward him. They met just at the fringe. She wore no makeup and her blouse was loose but not see-through. She stopped just outside of his reach.
“Sheba,” he said, and extended a hand. She grabbed it and pulled him into her arms. The feel of her warmth against him electrified him, and he pulled her closer, face buried in her hair. She pushed him back just enough so that she could kiss him.
She tasted of fresh water and sunshine. He drank like a man dying of thirst, his hands all over her. Hers were in his hair, holding his face to hers. She made small, pleased noises in her throat.
Finally, they separated.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.
“I didn’t think you’d be here. I thought it was a ruse.” She slipped the duffel off his shoulder and tossed it at Carbete. Then she put her arm through his. “I’m glad to see you, Emilio.”
Such understatement. He held her close, hips touching. They fit so well. “Are you free?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’ll take you back to the Pavilion. We have the day.”
The day. He didn’t want to think beyond it.
“You look better this way,” she said. “That uniform had you trussed like a prisoner, with none of your natural grace and this freedom. You’re beautiful, Emilio.”
“I’m supposed to say that to you.” He smiled.
“I don’t care what you say, as long as you’re here.”
“Mr. Diate, sir.” The Vorgellian in charge of the contest had followed him. She touched his shoulder and stood back. He turned, holding Sheba so tightly that she had to turn too. “You’re leading, sir. Don’t you want to stay, to finish this out?”
“You are dancing for us,” Carbete said. “We don’t mind receiving the prize.”
Diate studied Carbete for a minute. He couldn’t see beyond the amusement in the other man’s eyes. “If I win, Mr. Carbete will stand in for me. I have more important business.”
Sheba stifled a giggle, the sound almost too girlish and happy for the woman he had known.
Carbete frowned. “I can’t—”
“We don’t mind receiving the prize, Tonio,” Sheba said. “And you have nothing to do today either.”
“Except keep an eye on you.”
“Emilio will do that. He’s one of us, Tonio. No one from this place can dance like that.”
So she had seen the entire performance. He hadn’t been sure.
Carbete nodded, then the amusement reappeared on his face. “They were right when they spoke of your talent, Detective. You must have been brilliant in your prime.”
He bowed, just a little, and followed the Vorgellian back to the stage. Sheba laughed. “You’re brilliant now. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
“This from the woman who doubted I could still dance?”
She placed her hand on his forearm. “I’ll never doubt you again, Emilio.”
She spoke the words lightly, but they seemed to have heavier weight. Now he had two people who believed in him—believing that he would betray the other. A shiver ran down his back. He wouldn’t think about it. They had the day.
And the night.
Various people in the crowd eyed him warily as they passed. He pulled Sheba closer, as if she were his shield against the world. Maybe she was. Maybe this was as good as it would get—ever.
Another performance was happening on a stage just off to the right. A woman stood with a man, arms extended, declaiming in Utani. Translations appeared on the screens behind them. The crowd surrounding the stage was silent, spellbound.
They crossed the street, taking them away from the Festival. Sheba tugged on Diate’s arm. “Wait. I need some air.”
She was breathing heavily. He glanced at her. Even though she was slender, she was not in good physical condition. She didn’t exercise, and her skin showed the signs of too much good food. Maybe someday he could get her to dance with him.
He brushed the damp hair off his forehead. “I need to get cleaned up.”
“There’s a wonderful place in the Pavilion,” she said. Her voice was throaty. He wondered what kind of place she meant, and thought he knew.
They joined hands and walked through the winding streets. People passed them, on the way to the Festival. No one was going in their direction.
Diate barely noticed them. His detective’s eye took in their relative poverty, the lack of joy with which they moved. He had never realized how the Festival was entertainment for people who had little joy in their lives. He had always seen it as extra work, maintaining diplomatic relations with the other cultures. He had never looked at it as a participant before.
They turned onto Embassy Row, and passed the buildings for many of the other cultures already attending the Festival. The Erani building, with its open roof and opaque windows, looked deserted. The Jovasian embassy was as dark and shrouded as the Erani was open. Six hired guards stood around the building, holding pikes. At twilight, the door would open, and a single light would illuminate the yard. The Jovasians would become a presence at the Festival only then.
The Pavilion looked as empty as it had the day before. Sheba keyed her code into the lock and watched the gate open. She was bouncing on her toes, as if the excitement of the moment had taken hold of her. She took his hand, and dragged him toward the door.
Diate stared at the building. It wasn’t really Kingdom, even though it had tapestries and stained glass. It still had wood sides and the stiff look of a Golgan building. Perhaps that was what buildings would look like when Golgan and Kingdom met.
A single guard came out, saw Sheba, and held the door open. She smiled at him, then took Diate inside.
The great hall looked empty and unused. Their footsteps echoed in the silence. She led him to a back room and down a staircase as narrow as the one they had trod the night of the party.
A damp smell permeated the lower level. Diate hadn’t noticed it the night before. The air had a chill that felt good against his overheated skin.
Sheba led him past the listening rooms, where they had talked that first night, and through a long, intricately painted corridor. The air grew warmer and more humid as they progressed, until they turned a corner and the hallway opened up into an ornate marble room.
The floor, ceiling, and walls were made of white marble tile. Two wide steps led up to a platform. A huge rectangular tub, also made of white tile, sat at the top of the platform. Steam rose from the water’s surface. Plants not native to Golga sat on the corners of the tub. Thick, multicolored towels hung from racks. Long, rose bath mats covered the platform floor. A flush heated Diate’s cheeks. He remembered places like this from his youth. He had first seen a couple making love in a room much like this one. But he had never seen a public bath so empty.
Sheba turned and grabbed both of his hands. “Everyone’s at the Festival. No one will bother us.”
He gazed at the hot water, realizing for the first time how much his body ached. It would feel good to sink into that heat, to let it caress his flesh. “I’m covered with paint.”
“We have a Vorgellian filtration system. The water recycles and always stays clean.” She leaned into him and kissed him, sticking her hands in the back of his pants and pulling him close. “Let me wash you off.”
She slipped one hand around and untied his drawstring. The pants fell to his knees. Then she tugged off his shirt. He let his duffel and shoes clatter to the floor.
Her hands were all over him, touching, teasing. He took off her blouse and helped her out of her leggings. She pulled off her shoes and tossed them near his as he stepped out of his pants.
Her flesh was soft and warm against his. He buried his face in her hair, letting her scent fill him. She dragged him toward the tub, and they climbed in, still touching.
The water was hotter than he had expected, and scented with an odd, almost bitter chemical. She grabbed a washcloth and some soap from a side bin and lathered his face. Then she dipped the cloth in the water and brought it up, careful to scrub off the paint. The cloth came away blue, yellow and green.
“The tear doesn’t come off,” she said.
He took the cloth from her and scrubbed. No matter how much pressure he applied, the red dye did not spread to the cloth. “It’s old. Something must have happened in the storage.”
She smiled. “I like it. You don’t look like that detective any more.”
She ran the cloth along his back, hand sliding across his skin, down the front. He pulled her onto his lap, and they kissed, slowly, leisurely, the water making their bodies slick. He slipped inside her and she moaned, tilting her head back. He kissed her throat as she gripped him with her legs, and then they moved together. The rhythm grew faster and faster until he could wait no longer. He shuddered to a climax, and at his first cry, Sheba joined him, her body tightening in orgasm.
The water was suddenly too hot. Diate climbed out, careful to remain inside her. She put her head on his shoulder. “I missed you,” she said.
The tile felt cool against his buttocks. He stretched out his legs. The aches had left his body and he felt better than he had in months. Sheba curled against him, goose bumps rising on her bare skin.
“You’re cold,” he said.
She shook her head. “Just right.”
He stroked her hair, holding her. Her grip remained tight on him. The lack of sleep was catching up to him. He swayed, a little.
“You all right?”
“Tired,” he said.
He felt her smile against his chest. “Wonder why.”
She let him go and got up. The separation yanked at him, made him feel suddenly empty. He wanted to get her and bring her back, so that they could remain joined like that, forever.
She took a towel off the rack and dried the water on his back and chest. He lifted a leg and she dried that too, spending too much time on his genitals. Her touch made him hard again, but she shook her head.
“Never expected the stamina, did you?” he asked.
She smiled. “Fake stamina. We’ll get to the best part and you’ll fall asleep.”
“No faith,” he said.
“Practical,” she countered.
He took the towel and dried her, then stood beside her. Together they walked to a mat. Sheba pulled three more towels off the rack, using two as pillows and putting the third over them like a blanket. Then she laid him down and settled beside him. He put his arm around her, determined to stay awake, to enjoy the moment, but sleep kept bubbling over him. Just a nap, he promised himself, and that was the last thing he remembered for a long time.
Chapter Eighteen
He arched, already near orgasm. The woman on top of him smelled like Sheba. He slid a hand along her back, feeling the ridges of her vertebrae. She moaned in pleasure, and he came fully awake, realizing that this was not a dream.
He held her hips in place and plunged inside her, his body tingling. Each nerve ending was alive. He trembled, holding back, wanting to please her more. Her face, neck and upper chest were flushed, her eyes too bright, her tawny hair mussed and cascading about her shoulders.
She had never looked so beautiful.
Her hand gripped his shoulder, fingernails breaking the skin. Her excitement helped his build, and he pulled her closer. She called out his name, her voice echoing off the marble walls.
As he had dreamed. Better than he had dreamed.
He lost himself inside her, lost track of where he ended and she began. An orgasm ripped through her, surprising in its intensity. She called out again, head thrown back. He caught her and held her in place as he rolled them over, placing his arms beside her as he rubbed against her. In. Out. The tingles turning into small heat explosions along his skin. Another orgasm tightened her, her mouth trembling with the intensity.
“Emilio—” she breathed, and the softness, the gentleness, shattered his control. This orgasm shook him to his core, and immobilized him almost completely.
He collapsed on top of her, but couldn’t move. “Sorry,” he said.
Her hand was in his hair, stroking him, cradling him, holding him in place. “Feels good,” she said.
“How long—?”
She smiled. “I like you when you’re dreaming.”
He rolled beside her. The towel was bunched at their feet. There was no way to tell time in the room, no way to tell how long he had been asleep.
Not that it mattered.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
“I can fix that.” But she didn’t move, her body curled and warm against his. She sighed, a soft little sound of contentment.
He felt content, too. The restless energy that had always haunted him was gone. He found that he didn’t miss it.
She rolled up, hair brushing his shoulder. She crossed the room and pressed a small button in the wall. A voice, small and tinny, responded. “Can you bring something down for us to eat?” she asked.
The voice said something else Diate didn’t catch.
Sheba laughed. “I don’t care. Something good. And wine.”
She let the button go, and faced him. Her body was perfect, long supple legs, rounded hips, small waist, and breasts that fit in the palms of his hands. The odd lighting added to his sense of disorientation. Earlier he hadn’t cared where it came from. Now he searched for it, finally seeing glowing globes half-hidden under scooped marble holders. Most of the light was shielded, but what remained reflected off the water.
He stood, a little dizzy. He staggered and caught himself on a towel rack. “Guess I need food more than I thought.”
She put her arms around him and eased him back on the mat. “You slept like the dead.”
He leaned against her. His body ached in places where he hadn’t thought he had muscles. He stretched, wishing the pleasant feeling he had had a few moments ago would return.
The door opened, and a man he had never seen before came in carrying a tray. Diate reached for a towel, but Sheba put her hand over his. The man set the tray on one of the marble steps, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Diate’s heart pounded and a flush ran through him.
Sheba smiled. “If we don’t acknowledge our nudity, neither will he.”
She slipped out of his grasp and got up, grabbing the tray and bringing it over. Her body had a grace that he loved. He wondered how many other people had seen it. Had shared it. He took a deep breath. Jealousy caught him in the ribs. And he wouldn’t have thought of it at all except for her casual attitude a moment earlier.
He bit back the questions. He had no right to ask. He doubted her experience was as limited as his. She came from a place where morals were looser, where people lived as they wanted to. A place he had never entirely felt at home.
She set the tray on the edge of the mat. Some meats, cheeses, and fruits were arranged in small half circles on the platter. Bread covered with butter sat on a side plate. Two goblets of wine stood beside the bread plate.
Diate took a piece of bread, pleased to feel its warmth against his fingers. He ate quickly, his body grateful for the nourishment. Sheba picked at the meat, layering it on a slice of bread, and placing a piece of cheese on top. She ate slowly, alternating bites with sips of wine.
“I wish it could always be like this,” she said.
Diate stroked her hair. He did too. Quiet, peaceful, with simple things and each other for amusement. He made himself a small sandwich and ate that, too, taking only a sip of the wine. It was unspiced and almost bitter, certainly not anything Beltar would touch.
Beltar. His mind settled on his friend’s face for a moment, then he forced it away. He wanted this time with Sheba to last. He wanted nothing to interfere with it.
He put the wine glass down, and took Sheba’s out of her hand. Then he drew her into his arms again, uncertain whether he wanted to make love or just hold her. She sighed and curled against him.
They sat there for a moment, then he leaned forward and kissed her hair.
A sharp, burning pain shot through his left arm. Diate gasped and pulled back.
