Part 6 (1/2)
Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!
The two thousand acres of untouched nature preserve that surround the palazzo are a rare treasure but they contain more than a few dangers. Now that it's spring, migratory black bears, Canadian wolves, and bobcats are pa.s.sing through, most of them aggressive young males looking for mates. If she'd had an encounter with any one of those-- Then there are the cliffs and steep ravines, the swiftly running rivers and streams that can topple anyone trying to ford them, the endless opportunities to trip over a gnarled root or rock and twist an ankle, becoming incapacitated-- She could so easily have been hurt or worse.
And that's before I even get to the potential threat from the greatest danger of all--humans.
Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!
A backlash against the existence of clones and replicas is growing, made all the greater by the fear that technology is challenging the essence of what it means to be human. Anger has ratcheted up among those from whom the march of progress has brought only a crus.h.i.+ng sense of no longer being either needed or relevant. Not surprisingly, some want to destroy what they regard as a threat not merely to themselves but to the very existence of humanity.
If Amelia had encountered any of them-- Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!
I close my eyes, still punching, and see her standing in the clearing, surrounded by my men. She was obviously terrified--how could she be otherwise when she had no idea who they were or what they intended? But she kept her head up and she didn't give an inch.
Again in the library, she faced me down, refusing the collar, letting me know what I can do with any idea of her being my property. I haven't seen very many displays of courage to equal that. She is brave but she is also maddeningly stubborn and defiant...not to mention beautiful, pa.s.sionate, incredibly responsive... My groin tightens. I ignore it and keep up the hard, relentless rhythm.
Don't give her any reason to run.
At least not any more reason than I've already done.
Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!
Finally, I've had enough. Stripping off the gloves, I head for the shower. The down rush of ice cold water helps. So do fresh clothes and a shave. I feel marginally more in control of myself as I return to the library intending to take refuge in work. The strands of Debussy's Reverie coming from the music room stop me.
For a moment, I'm catapulted back in time. The piece was one of Susannah's favorites. She played it often. But it isn't Susannah sitting at the polished black grand piano in the high-ceilinged music room flooded with late afternoon light.
Amelia's long, exquisite legs extend beneath the hem of the short pleated black skirt she's wearing with a softly draped ivory silk blouse. I can't help but be struck by her natural elegance. She is the personification of a particular male fantasy to which I am definitely not immune. A perfect lady in the drawing room, or in this case the music room, and a perfect--not wh.o.r.e, she's not remotely that--but a perfect s.e.xual partner behind closed doors.
Inevitably, my body hardens yet again. That's getting to be my perpetual state whenever I'm around her. Oh, h.e.l.l, why not admit it? I don't have to be anywhere near her. Just a stray thought about her is enough to get me going.
Her head is tilted to one side, the fall of her chestnut hair partially obscuring her features. But I can see that she looks pensive and somewhat sad as her fingers move over the keys. She plays beautifully, imparting genuine feeling to the dreamlike piece. I have to wonder why she isn't enjoying it more.
As though sensing my presence, she looks up. Her cheeks flush softly, affording me a small measure of satisfaction. She may reject certain aspects of our relations.h.i.+p but she isn't by any means immune to the intensity of whatever this is between us.
”Don't let me interrupt you,” I say, walking farther into the airy, high-ceilinged room. ”You play beautifully.”
She shakes her head. ”Susannah played beautifully, that's obvious. I'm just some sort of recording.”
Her bitterness is unmistakable but beneath it I sense an undercurrent of fear. For all her insistence to the contrary, she still harbors doubts about herself as an individual able to make her own choices.
I don't question my sudden need to comfort and rea.s.sure her. ”Perhaps with that piece but what about with another? Something that Susannah didn't play?”
She looks at me, her eyes filled with need so stark that it makes the underused organ in my chest constrict. ”What are you saying?” she asks.
I lean against the side of the piano and study her. The tips of my fingers hold the memory of how it felt to stroke her all over from the softness of her lips parting when I thrust my thumb into her mouth and told her to suck to the hot, enticing wetness between her legs that made me shake with the need to be inside her. I swear that I can still hear her breathy moans, feel her arch under me, smell her arousal...
f.u.c.king her senseless should have taken the edge off. Instead, all it's done is make me want her more. I grit my teeth against the sudden image of her spread out on the piano, that silky little blouse ripped open, her skirt hitched up around her waist, my c.o.c.k thrusting into her.
”You're staring,” she says.
Her blush deepens as she speaks, drawing me up short. I have to hope that she's still too innocent to have any inkling of what's going on in my head. I sure as h.e.l.l don't want her to know how susceptible I am to her. After only one night in her bed, I'm up against the stark reality that she effects me as no other woman has ever done.
The differences between her and Susannah are striking. Aside from the dissimilarities in their natures, the play of expression across her face, her body language, even the timbre of her voice make it impossible to confuse her with the woman she's supposed to be a copy of. I don't understand how that can be but neither can I deny how uniquely herself she is.
Determined not to let her see how bewildered she makes me feel, I shrug. ”It's hard not to stare. You're very lovely. But to answer your question, Susannah only played cla.s.sical music. Why don't you try something different? Jazz or blues or the fusion of techno and neo-cla.s.sical that's popular these days? Choose a piece and make it your own.”
I can that see the idea appeals to her. She's suddenly brighter, even hopeful and that in turn pleases me. I show her the link on a nearby table.
During my years in the Special Forces, I had a miniaturized version implanted in the mastoid bone directly behind my right ear, always ready to spool operational data, report my life signs, and so on. When I came out, so did it. Having that thing in my head was just too intrusive. Plus there was always the risk of being hacked.
The civilian fad for such implants took a big hit following the ma.s.s suicides of 2031 triggered by a virus transmitted in a routine software update. Lawsuits from that incident are still wending their way through the courts.
Neither one of us is surprised to discover that Amelia already knows how to use this particular piece of technology, the most ubiquitous in our civilization. Within minutes, she's called up a wide range of sheet music from a variety of genres.
”You can print out whatever you want,” I remind her. ”But you'll probably find it more convenient to just project it.”
She nods but I can tell that her attention is already elsewhere. I've lost out to Dizzy Gillespie, George Gershwin, Paul McCartney, Balo Kensa and the like but I don't mind. Her smile is recompense enough--for the moment.
Leaving her to it, I return to the library where, a short time later, I hear the opening notes of a jazz syncopation. I can't help but grin. The piece is utterly unlike anything that Susannah ever played. Clearly, technical ability was part of Amelia's imprinting but the sensibilities she brings to the music are entirely her own. Something more to ponder.
By evening, she's tried out numerous genres but seems to have settled on 20th century jazz. I interrupt long enough to suggest that she join me for dinner but when she declines I don't press it. Hours later, when I stretch out on the couch in the library, she's still in the music room, lost in what she's discovering about herself.
I don't expect to sleep. Just knowing that she's nearby is enough to give me a perpetual hard-on. I could do something about that but the idea of interrupting her doesn't seem right and jerking off has zero appeal. Despite my uncomfortable state, I drift off listening to the melodic twists of another jazz piece.
I wake in a cold sweat. It's late, the music has stopped, the only light comes from a small shaded lamp near the couch. But I can still see Amelia, broken and anguished, staring at me with pain-filled eyes.
The nightmare is so vivid that for a horrible moment I'm afraid it's real. It doesn't fade until I rise, forcing myself to breathe deeply, and throw open the doors leading out to the gallery. Fresh, cool air helps to clear my head but makes my thoughts all the darker.
The images in my mind won't let go. If I had tried to force the collar on her, she would have fought me with all her strength. I want to believe that faced with such resistance, I would have relented before she could have come to any harm. But I don't have the same trust in myself that I had a day ago. As much as I loathe admitting it, the control that I've fought half my life to achieve has been shaken simply by her existence.
Deep inside, the thought stirs that the right thing to do for both our sakes would be to make other arrangements for her. But the instant that crosses my mind a rush of fierce possessiveness burns it away. However all this happened, she is mine and she is d.a.m.n well going to stay that way. I'll just have to make sure that I keep her safe, including from the darker aspects of my own nature.
I go back to work. It's been my salvation since I was old enough to figure out what I'm good at. In the hours that follow, I consider a range of projects that will further strengthen my company's position in a world where no amount of technological progress seems able to stop the endless struggles for power and resources.
Fortunately, that seemingly unchangeable fact of human nature creates opportunities for those ruthless enough to seize them. I may even manage to do some good along the way.
I lose track of the pa.s.sing hours and scarcely notice when morning comes. I'm on a video call with Shanghai when Hodgkin appears.
He stands at the door of the library and says, ”I thought you should know, sir. Miss Amelia is awake but she declined breakfast. I believe she has gone to the studio.”
The studio, not the music room? I take that to mean she is continuing her efforts to discover what Susannah gave to her. But she isn't eating. That won't do.
”Thank you, Hodgkin. I'll check on her.”
”Very good, sir.”
I delay a few minutes because I don't want to admit to myself how urgently I need to see her. But the sun has barely edged over the red-tiled roofs of the palazzo when I cross the garden to the wing where the studio is located.
The room was designed to resemble the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, a long rectangular s.p.a.ce with a high, frescoed ceiling, polished parquet floors and a mirrored wall looking out over the gardens. As I near it, I hear the soft thud of feet.
Amelia is dancing. She's wearing a pale pink leotard and white tights that together hug almost every delectable inch of her. Her hair is wound into a bun pinned at the back of her long, slender neck. Every movement she makes is graceful, ethereal, perfect. She looks intent and--I am infinitely glad to note--not in the least sad.