Inside, carefully wrapped in a double layer of polythene, was the thing that had almost cost him his life. It was a simple metal box with adapter leads carefully wound around it like the umbilical cord of a new-born child. In the bag, untouched by the sea water, was the thing for which he was certain Johnson and his partner Max Fielding would be prepared to die or kill for: Magenta.
Carefully he unpeeled the water proof wrapping – it certainly looked undamaged but he couldn't be sure until he had access to a computer. Magenta was a computer hard disk, a huge archive of information that held within it the destiny of nations and powerful men. He sighed and lay back exhausted amongst the pillows, finger tips resting on his prize. Magenta was the twentieth century's answer to the Holy Grail and he still possessed it.
In cell 27 in Deuvar, Emily's unseen visitor had left. She could still taste the salty offering of his seed in her mouth. Against all the odds she knew she was falling asleep, exhaustion and hunger driving her into unconsciousness. She rolled onto her side, careful to avoid the loops of chain that joined her most sensitive and vulnerable places.
Between her legs she could still feel the dull satisfying glow of her orgasm. Her unseen lover had guided her to the edge of oblivion as she had drawn him deeper and deeper into her compliant mouth. At the very second when she believed she would die under his knowing caresses she had heard him gasp. His movements had become more ragged and instinctive and, as her own pleasure had drowned out all fear, he had flooded her mouth with thick salty semen. He had slumped over her, teasing one raw pierced nipple into his mouth, gently sucking on the cold silver ring.
She had almost wept as she heard him leaving; she wanted to feel his lips and fingers on her again. Her quim ached to be filled. She shivered at the memory and tried to relax.
The last thing she imagined before sleep claimed her was Peter's face. Her grief at losing him was mingled with a measure of pure rage and a bitter sense of frustration.
In her luxurious office suite in another wing of Deuvar, Leonora Ti Chung poured Max Fielding a scotch, and a mineral water for herself. "Emily has generated a lot of interest already," she said, handing her employer his drink.
Max nodded. "Anyone I know?"
"Vernier the Frenchman, Mustapha the Arab, Colbart -" She lifted her glass as if to encompass the whole mansion. "Let's face it, Max, how often do we get our hands on a white virgin?"
Max sipped his drink. "So do you think Emily Lawrence will give you any problems?"
Leonora laughed dryly. "No. All she needs is a little basic training to make sure she does as she's told. It shouldn't take too much."
Max smiled to himself. After all, hadn't he seen Emily's movements and the pierced delights of her ripe fragrant sex first hand? "And, of course, the right buyer," he added to disguise his expression.
Leonora nodded and then picked up a sheet of paper from her desk. "I would have agreed with you, but apparently your friend Johnson has other ideas." She handed Max the typed fax. "As you can see, Mr Johnson only wants the auction to include the actual deflowering. He doesn't want her owned by one man. My instructions are that she is to be made available to anyone who wants her."
Max pulled a face. "But she would be perfect as a slave for one of our regulars."
"It appears that Johnson has other ideas. He wants her to be well used."
Max snorted. "What he wants is to get his hands on Peter Howard and he thinks this is the way to do it."
Leonora drained her glass in one mouthful. "And revenge for stealing Magenta?"
Max nodded and offered his own glass for a refill. "Some revenge, to beat a live woman for revenge on a dead man!"
In his London town house, Johnson laid the phone back in its cradle. Emily had arrived safe and sound and his instructions had been carried out to the letter.
On the computer screen on his desk was the message that his treacherous accountant had sent into the world-wide computer net for Peter Howard. Peter was once Banyon's best friend, but now Banyon had played right into his hands. Johnson had wondered how to ensure that Peter Howard knew that Emily was at Deuvar. This way Howard would get the information from a source that he trusted implicitly.
Johnson was convinced Peter Howard was still alive. It was too damned convenient that he had died and Magenta had been lost with him. Too neat, too easy to be true.
The door to his office opened slowly to reveal his own personal body slave, so painfully trained to his particular tastes.
The girl was tall; supposedly a warrior princess, who had been given to him as a gift during a business deal with an Arab prince. Johnson had no way to check her pedigree, but her natural bearing and stance certainly suggested that she had once been of some great importance.
Her lithe muscular body bore the magical marks of ritual scarification, patterning her exquisite golden skin into complex silver and blue whorls and glyphs. The intricate designs led the connoisseur's eye back and forth across the oiled movements of the sleek muscles. Her breasts were small high peaks with large exotic nipples – and her sex…
He smiled, a cruel smile.
Her sex was like a wild animal, heavily covered in a rough musky pelt that extended up from the usual V shape in a narrow line up to her navel and beyond, finally fading in the hollow beneath her breast bone. She looked barely tame, dangerous – like a leopard who wore a leash only because she respected and feared the master who controlled her. Possessing her was pure illusion.
He had seen her first at the Prince's summer palace. She had been tied into an astonishing erotic arc, thumbs clamped to her toes; a fighting snarling she-cat that obviously terrified the two men appointed as her keepers.
Her muscular body had glistened with sweat as she fought against her bonds, breasts jutting forward, nipples bullet hard, a low threatening growl trickling from between her bared teeth. Seeing her writhing and fighting against her restraints had brought a flush of heat to his face.
She presented the ultimate challenge – a truly untamed woman.
He stared at her sweating tattooed body as she struggled desperately to free herself.
The Prince lifted a hand towards her. "This creature, rather like our Arab horses, is truly the province of an expert, Mr Johnson. I will not be offended if you decline my gift. I know your tastes. My harem is full of women who would satisfy your every whim."
Johnson smiled thinly, eyes never leaving the contours of the dark girl's straining body.
"Rest assured, Prince Assim, she will meet my needs perfectly. I am deeply flattered by your generosity."
The Prince smiled and gave a little bow. "Would you like my men to secure her so that you can try her?" He nodded towards the uniformed guards who stood either side of the girl. Johnson saw fear in their faces.
Across the room the girl let out a banshee scream of pure loathing, rattling the chains that secured the clamps to her toes and thumbs to the floor. She struggled to turn, turning her head as best she could to try and see who was speaking.
Johnson shook his head. "I would prefer to have her home first." He stared at the guards. "It is not my habit to take my pleasure in front of servants."
The Prince laughed. "Here we hardly notice them, my dear Mr Johnson. They know better than to be indiscreet. Perhaps after dinner I can interest you in sharing a rather attractive European girl who recently joined my stable." He paused, eyes alight with mischief. "The man who supplied her says she moves exquisitely under the lash."
Johnson smiled. He had brought the girl over himself as a little oil to grease the wheels of commerce.