"Julya,” he whispered her name fiercely into her ear. “You are a dream … tell me how can you be real?” He continued in Dasklovian. “For if you are real, then I-"
Grigori felt the slashing pain across his ass. He rolled off Julya, instinctively raising his arms to protect not himself but her. “Master,” he exclaimed, seeing the angry eyed White Lion looming above them. “Have we displeased you?"
The Director scowled. Pointing to the woman with him, one of his assistants, he indicated that Grigori was to leave and follow her.
"I ask forgiveness,” Grigori knelt to kiss the whip. “Or else punishment … but let it fall only on me, not on Julya."
He gathered the woman into his arms, holding her close. Shaking his head negatively, he tried to indicate that she was not at fault, innocent in all ways. The Director said something to Julya in English, who astounded him again by saying in Dasklovian, “us, inside … eat."
Had she actually absorbed this much from their erotically inspired lessons? Amazing. He nodded indicating he understood. The Maestro wanted them to come inside and share a meal.
Laughing, even more eagerly than before, he rose to his feet and scooped her into his arms. “We will follow you, Master,” he said proudly, not caring who comprehended. “I and my brilliant, beautiful angel both."
Chapter Three
Julie was given a red cocktail dress to wear. It was cut in all the right places, low at the bosom and high on her thighs. She filled it out well, being blessed with the kind of body that could make almost anything look good off the rack. What wasn't off any rack was the ruby necklace, which she was pretty sure was a one of a kind original. The earrings, too. What a thrill for her. Giovanni Ambrosiano had been married to or dated the biggest stars over the years; there was no telling who might have worn these pieces before.
Frederica assured her that she looked lovely in them, though, honestly, Julie felt her face was not dazzling enough for such jewelry, and certainly not her hair, which tended toward the dishwater end of the blonde spectrum. She opted to wear it up, in an effort to look a bit more sophisticated. The shoes had very high heels, with wispy straps. No stockings were provided. They did, however, give her underwear. Silk, also red, feather light. She had felt wicked as sin pulling the material up over her freshly bathed body. She could still feel Grigori's hands on her body-the way he grabbed at her like her, the way he teased her so lightly, with a single finger here and there like he worshipped her, and everything in between.
Vrastoya and then some.
Talk about a crash course in Dasklovian. She'd surprised herself at how much she could grasp and reproduce his language. The thing was, she was so thirsty to know him, to be a part of his world. It was as if her spirit and her imagination were lusting for him as much as her body. No man had ever done such things to her. And all without a word of English. No, “ooh, baby, baby, give it to me,” to support his efforts, just the honest work of his mouth and lips and cock.
It was like a dream to have a man with such a wonderfully macho body who was also sensitive and aware of a woman's needs. Perhaps it was the culture he came from, so much older and more tragic than her own. In her experience, men with muscles were vain, self absorbed and expected women to treat them as gifts to the universe. But Grigori, even without knowing her, her language or her culture, had managed to break through, into the open spaces of her heart. He'd sparked her imagination, touched upon her desires. He was the true hero come to life, that man of timeless honor and strength who would fight for his woman and die for her.
Or was he just a natural actor, playing the part of the gladiator/slave/hero? Complicated stuff. And then there was the surrender business. The way he made her wet by smacking her behind and saying no. That was supposed to be a fantasy, never to see the light of day.
She should have expected this turmoil, though. This was what Ambrosiano did. He did not film scripts, he filmed life-as it could be, or as it was really was, perhaps, at levels no one saw. To work on a project of his was an ordeal. How many top actors, particularly American ones, had simply walked off his sets in tears? How many others had been driven off in fury?
Her own agent had told her she was taking a hell of a gamble. Ambrosiano had had his disasters. Who could forget Brasilia Prime, his Amazonian flop, in which his lead actress and ex-wife had abandoned him midway through? He'd abandoned most of his equipment, taken three cameramen and spent the next six months in the deep jungles, filming what turned out to be little more than a documentary about Amazon beetles and growth rate of his own beard.
Still there were films like Buona Notte Vita, Good Night Life, in which the very same Lucia Sorentano stole the hearts of millions as a brave countess trying to survive the German occupation of Rome during the Second World War.
"You look beautiful,” Frederica assured Julie as she continued to fret in front of the gilded full-length mirror in her bedroom.
Julie was tempted to say something less than charitable about how there ought to be a law against pretty, shapely twenty one year olds humoring over the hill thirty four year olds. “What I feel is foolish,” she said instead. “Ambrosiano will want conversation and I know nothing of any real substance. I'll end up fulfilling all the stereotypes. The ignorant American, the dumb blonde movie star. And I'm not really even all that big of a deal in Hollywood. Why he even picked me is a total mystery."
"It is because you remind him of her."
"I beg your pardon?"
Frederica smiled indulgently, looking a lot older than twenty-one. What was it with these Europeans, anyway. Maybe it was their exotic accents snowing Julie so much.
"You are like his Lucia. Inside, where it counts,” she touched her heart.
This was not a point to be argued with, anymore than it was to be understood. “So you are sure it will be just the three of us?” She changed the subject. “For dinner, I mean?"
She nodded. “You and Grigori and Giovanni."
"Giovanni. You call him by his first name,” she observed.
Frederica smiled her complex smile. “I am not a rival to you, Julie. He has already had me. Our relationship has run its course and now I merely serve him as an employee."
She turned redder than her dress. “I certainly didn't mean to suggest I had any prurient interests in the man."
"Every woman wants to fuck Giovanni,” she said. “It is nothing to be embarrassed for. I would give him my own body gladly every day for the rest of his life and count myself the richer for it."
"But, he's so … old."
The woman laughed lightly. “So is the wine you will drink tonight, but I don't think you will complain of its age."
Julie lowered her eyes. “Forgive me. I was being rude. He is your friend."
"You have not offended me,” she replied. “On the contrary, I have been with Ambrosiano long enough to fear ignorance and all her offspring more than the truth."
"I hope I will learn something from him, too,” said Julie sincerely.
"Wanting it is the first step to wisdom,” Frederica assured her. “Shall we go downstairs?"
Julie pasted a smile, meant to seem brave. Inside, however, she was feeling increasingly uncertain. She was about to put herself in a room with the charismatically handsome, mercurial director and the gorgeous, muscular Grigori-who had more sensitivity in his little finger than all the support-group-attending-yogurt-eating mama's boys in LA. Was she ready? Sure, why not? It had been a pretty dull and uneventful day so far.