"The question is," Peter said, "will you help me to get my hands on a decent computer?"
The sister tugged her uniform straight and then nodded. "They've got a computer on the ward, in the clerk's office. Do you think that would be all right?"
"I have to see it."
Sister Ruskin glanced at her watch. "When the staff go for their break I could come and get you in the wheel chair." She looked anxiously over her shoulder towards the door. "I really ought to go now."
Peter smiled. "Of course… what's you name?"
"Angela."
"An angel? I've found an angel? How very appropriate. One thing before you go; lift up you uniform. I want to see what's hidden down there."
Angela blushed furiously, but then she slowly lifted her skirt. Her thighs were thick and meaty, strong and pale, whilst between them was an expanse of coarse white cotton hiding away her sex. Her belly and hips were full and rounded.
Peter tilted his head on one side as if with disapproval. "Such a shame to keep something so beautiful hidden away. Take those off!"
Angela stiffened as if she was about to protest and then after a few seconds hesitation rolled the plain cotton briefs down over her wide hips. Her sex was surrounded by a stunning corona of red blonde hair. Peter smiled and lifted the fingers that had so briefly explored her secret paces to his lips; they smelt musky, like the warm animal scent of the stable.
Angela's colour deepened as she watched him slip his fingers into his mouth. "Stay like that," he said. "I want to be able to touch you whenever I want."
Angela bit her lip, eyes alight with unspeakable desire. She bent hastily to pick up her panties and stuff them into her pocket before hurrying back into the corridor. Peter smiled and lay back amongst the pillows; this was an ally he certainly couldn't have anticipated. Once he was certain she had gone he turned his attention to the hold-all on the bed and unzipped it carefully. The interior smelt of rank dampness – the sea.
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.
"My pleasure, Your Royal Highness."
Their exchange of pleasantries concluded, Johnson left the Prince and went back out onto the terrace, where the sirocco wind rippled through the trees around the palace. Eyes on the desert beyond the whitewashed walls, his mind returned again and again to the fascinating wild creature who was now his.
The following day he had Leonora and his four most trusted security men flown out. He had the tattooed girl shipped to England in a crate aboard his private jet and delivered to Deuvar by his most experienced handlers, with no water, light or food on the journey.
By the time she arrived she was exhausted and, despite continued resistance, obviously terrified. Dark circles stained the skin beneath her wild-cat eyes.
Even then Johnson didn't relent. He and Leonora understood only too well what was needed. The strange wild tattooed girl was hung, spread eagled, in one of the cells. Leonora ensured she was kept in almost total darkness and beaten every day with a thin whip that lifted raw weals across her muscular shoulders.
She saw no-one except for her masked tormentor, who never spoke, and Johnson, who came in to feed her where she hung. If she fought or resisted he left her hungry. Later he took delicacies, feeding herby hand, talking to her in low but commanding tones – the voice of her master.
After a fortnight the unnerving glint in the wild girl's eyes began to fade and the sleek gloss of her golden skin faded to an unhealthy grey. It was only then that he sensed they were close to breaking her.
Like a cat, she tried to rub herself against him when he visited, seeking some crumbs of comfort from his touch. Another week and she let him touch her, exploring her exotic curves and folds with knowing fingers. The beatings continued every day. She stank. Unwashed, her hair clung to her face in filthy ribbons, but Johnson continued his regime of pleasure and pain, rewarding her compliance and obedience with gentle caresses, treats handed out by his own fingers.
When she was wild or disobedient she was whipped by her masked tormentor. Reward and punishment – a heady and effective method of bringing even the wildest of beasts to heel.
When he finally cut her down – a month after she had arrived at Deuvar – she clung to him like a child, sobbing frantically, rubbing her filthy body against his.
He oversaw her washing, inspecting every inviting orifice of her strange tattooed body – and then he took her to his rooms. He lay back on his bed, naked, and let her show her gratitude. She mewled like a kitten and crawled over to the bed, her body eager to worship him.
He remembered it still, her tentative movements, her fear at displeasing him in case her punishments began again. And when – exhausted and raw from pleasuring him – she had curled at his feet like a beaten dog, he had never forgotten the expression on her face.
He knew then, as she had looked up at him with those strange eyes, that he hadn't broken her, just bent her instinct to survive into a shape that would serve him almost as well. Even now he sometimes watched her, aware that just below the surface the wild beast still lingered, no more that a heart beat away.
Every day he took a whip to her oiled intimidating body, a salient reminder of what would befall her if she ever disobeyed him.
She never smiled, instead her gingery brown eyes watched the world coldly; she had the eyes of a predator. He beckoned her closer. She dropped to her knees and crawled across the floor towards him. Even with those bewitching feral eyes downcast her posture did not quite disguise her arrogance. At his feet she bent lower still, resting her forehead on the floor near his feet.
Her scarred oiled flesh glowed in the lamp light. He took a thin switch from his desk and flexed it thoughtfully. He let his imagination roam free; there was nothing he could not do to this girl, nothing he had discovered yet…
The phone rang, breaking his concentration. It was his private line so he must answer it. Angrily he plucked the receiver from the stand.
"Yes?" he snapped.
"St. Leonard's hospital here. May I speak to Mr Johnson?"