Page 48 of Passion's Wicked Torment

That did it. They became rough. The hands on her breasts did not caress fondly, they squeezed. Her derriere was not stroked. It was pinched. Brady was the first one to cover her body with his own. He was poised above her. His face was angry. “So this how you want it, darling? Never let it be said that H. Craig Brady failed to give a lady exactly what she wanted.”

Her body was ready for him, but still she was not prepared for the way with which he violated her, continuing on for what seemed an endless eternity. André, who was kneeling beside them, was roughly pawing Kristin’s body.

It was what she secretly wanted. She wanted them to hate her, though she knew that was not possible. But their forcefulness came close to sating her need, and she lay there as the two men abused her, used her to satisfy their animal needs. Pleasure and excitement raced through her, mingling with her self-hatred. André spoke a moment later while thrusting into her. “I never thought of you this way, chérie,” he said sadly.

“That’s because you’re stupid, Frenchman.”

He pushed hard into her, hurting as well as pleasuring her.

“Stupid,” she said again, inviting the pain once more. He did not respond similarly this time though. He realized he was dealing with a girl who had emotional problems and was not accountable for her actions. The wind whistled around her, the night sky and the steel girders surrounded her. The assault on her body went on and on....

CHAPTER 27

The days blended into each other an endless procession of parties and romantic interludes with the famous and powerful and rich. Kristin resided at the Ritz Hotel when she was not staying at some playboy prince’s chateau, or business tycoon’s country estate.

She wanted for nothing, particularly not money. When Sean had finally agreed to leave her, he had returned to the Kristy in New York. He had consented to buy out Kristin’s half interest. He had repainted the ship’s exterior and redecorated the interior to change it so there would be no constant reminders of Kristin’s presence to haunt and torture him. Kristin’s share of the ship’s cumulative net profits came to an amazing sum: over $200,000. She was a wealthy, beautiful young American in Paris now, and the world was at her beckon.

And she hated every minute of it.

She rose in the afternoon and had her breakfast brought in to her on a sterling silver tray, with flowers in a vase. She spent some afternoons on the Riviera, or sailing with one of her several eager escorts. Evenings would be spent at the opera or the theater or a gala ball. Sometimes she patronized small cafes on the Left Bank, where she was a welcome friend to the group of international writers, artists and musicians who met there.

She drank frequently, and even when she was not drunk, she acted as if she were: fast paced, laughing at everything, taking nothing seriously. She had a reputation as a sharp-tongued, witty, decadent woman who was burning her candle at both ends. The fast living idle rich of Europe loved being around her. She was the darling of the Continent. Others who were more perceptive about human nature kept their distance. They seemed to expect Kristin to blow up like a bomb, without warning, at any given second.

She was in her huge bed now, her head and back propped up by giant pillows against the headboard. She sipped her espresso, which was laced with cognac, and gazed out the very large windows, which had been opened by the maid. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and it was too bright out. She hated the sunshine. She preferred overcast, gloomy days. They suited her mood better. Fortunately, it was not as bright as it had been earlier. That was why she had deliberately slept so late. Her habit was to party until dawn, then go to bed around six o’clock, when the rest of the world was awakening. That allowed her to sleep through the hottest part of the day.

She put her espresso down and picked up the mail that had come to her at the hotel. Most of it was pleas from various acquaintances, begging her to favor them with an engagement for one evening or another. She tossed them aside. She never answered letters of this sort. Everything she did was done on the spur of the moment. Let these eager suitors propose a rendezvous to her at a party or on the street, in person, and then she would consider it.

The last letter she picked up was from Sean McShane. Kristin wanted to crumple up the letter and toss it aside. Sean was from her past life. She didn’t want to think of him now or have anything to do with him. She harbored such mixed feelings about him! On the one hand, she felt that he had let her down in the one area where she needed him most. He had not been man enough to give her what she needed or to even realize what she needed. On the other hand, she hated herself for having hurt him so badly.

And he had been hurt badly. He had watched her wild behavior for as long as he could bear it, trying to reason with her, even trying to plead with her toward the end. He had tried to bring her back to her senses, but he had not been able to penetrate her thick shell of self-loathing. Finally, deeply saddened and frustrated, he realized that he would not be able to make her change. Whatever it was she needed now, Sean knew, he was not the one who could provide it. He had left Europe and returned to take over the running of the Kristy, which they had left in the hands of Captain Logan.

Kristin had told him not to come to Paris with her! She’d warned him. She knew this would happen. Well, the only good that came of it was that he had at last accepted the truth: A life between them, at this point, was not destined to be.

She tore open the letter now and read it, reaffirming that he really did finally see the light.

Kristy, lass,

I may not be able to have you the way I want you.But know this: Whenever you need me, I’ll be there. I’ll always be there when you need me.

Love, Sean

She put the letter aside. The white-and-gold telephone at her bedside rang. She reached over and picked the handset up off the hook. It was one of the newer models, with the speaking and receiving ends both on the same instrument. “Allo?” she said in French.

“Hello, luv,” said Brady’s cheery voice. He and André had recovered from their shock at her that night at the Eiffel Tower and had since become even more devoted to her . . . hoping, she knew, for an opportunity at an encore.

“Hello, Craig. Where are you?”

“Where am I? Why, in the lobby, of course! You’ve got a date to go motoring with André and me. We’re going to picnic in the countryside and then, if we feel like it, press on to Belgium to visit Leo in his castle. Don’t tel! me you forgot?”

“I forgot.”

Brady snorted into the phone with a wounded laugh. “A lot that says about how much you care for me now, doesn’t it?” If he was expecting her to apologize, he was disappointed.

“Yes, doesn’t it,” she said absently, pouring more cognac into her espresso. “Well, come on up if you want, both of you. I don’t mind going motoring. I’ve nothing else to do. At least nothing I can remember.” She frowned. “What was it you gave me to drink last night, anyway? Everything from midnight on is a total blank.”

He laughed merrily. “Well, I’ll have to remember to give it to you again then, won’t I? Be up in a flash, darling. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. Someone’s been inquiring about you. Quite a respectable personality, if I do say so myself.”

“Really? Who?” Brady was such a prominent personality himself, and he mingled with so many others of the highest social class, that for him to remark favorably upon a man’s status was very impressive. Kristin’s curiosity was piqued.

“One of the great heroes of the war. Man named Hunter. Ex-major in the American Flying Corps.” He paused. There was absolute silence on Kristin’s end of the line. “André and I are on our way,” he said.

“No, wait!” she said, but it was too late. Brady had hung up.

Five minutes later, when they arrived, they were surprised to see Kristin almost fully dressed. She was bustling around, putting the finishing touches to her makeup. Every other time they had come up to her room in the early afternoon, they had found her still in her nightgown and in bed.

Except for one time, after a particularly boisterous night, when they had found her still dressed in the clothing she had worn back to the hotel the night before: the full-dress uniform of the German baron she had been with.

“Hurry, we have to go,” she said, stuffing a few articles into an overnight bag.

André said in good-natured surprise, “Chérie, we have the whole day and night ahead of us. And week and month and year, for that matter! What is the rush?”

“I want to get out of here. I don’t know what you two told Dallas Hunter, but—”

“We told him nothing!” protested André. “Neither of us has even seen the man.”

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