Queen's Gambit

Queen’s Gambit BY

Marie Treanor Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.com Published by Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.com 15508 W. Bell Rd. #101, PMB #502, Surprise, AZ 85374 U.S.A. First e-published by Triskelion Publishing First e-publishing January 2005 ISBN1-933471-14-X Copyright © Marie Treanor 2005 All rights reserved. Cover art by Triskelion Publishing PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

PROLOGUE They called her a witch, made signs against evil behind their backs whenever they saw her, went out of their way never to offend her by word or deed. Once, lonely

and isolated in this Lowland country, their fear and distrust had pained her. Had they only known it, she, a healer, had never hurt anyone in her life, had never hated anyone enough to want to. But that had all changed now. From her place at one of the lower tables in the castle’s great hall, Maire sat silent among the chattering and laughing women around her. She pushed her bread trencher away from her, the food on it barely touched, and reached for her cup. She pretended to drink from it, to stare thoughtfully into it, as if she were incomparably above the increasingly riotous behavior in the hall; but in reality, her eyes were on the table on the dais, on her husband Ruaridh, and on the Lady Christian Blythe. The frail Countess, who frequently made use of Maire’s skills, had already retired, taking many of the higher-placed women with her, but Christian, her daughter elected to stay longer, the light of her beauty and infectious laughter shining across the hall like a beacon. And she did bring brightness to the cold unease of the castle, doubly welcome in these risky times of war and invasion. Lovely enough to draw all eyes, young enough to radiate a breath-taking enjoyment of life, spoiled enough to be completely unaware of anyone else’s pain, she kept the knights around her completely enthralled. Not just the men at her father’ s table either, but those she called to laughingly across the hall, and those she beckoned to her side with quick, charming gestures. Unquestionably, Christian Blythe was lively, uninhibited, irresistible. Ruaridh, of course, was one of those she so summoned, and he stood now behind her chair, smiling down into her face while he answered some teasing remark. His devotion was there for the world to see. Ruaridh had only just arrived in the castle with instructions, Maire’s husband, who this day came from Sir William Wallace, Guardian of the Realm. Those instructions clearly annoyed the Earl, Christian’s father, but Ruaridh himself seemed oblivious to everything except the lady. Although absent from his wife’s side these many weeks, it seemed he could barely spare her two words at their reunion. Nor could Maire pretend that it would be different when the hall cleared and the household retired. She knew where her husband would sleep. As if on cue, Lady Christian rose, bidding her father and his guests good night, before accepting Ruaridh’s hand for his escort to the door. Her face was exquisite, creamy-skinned with fine, piquant features that were almost elfin. Her eyes were large and startlingly blue, laughing up at Ruaridh, and her thick, raven-black hair shone through her wispy veil. She was not tall, barely coming to Ruaridh’s shoulder, but she possessed natural grace and elegance to hide the fact. Beneath her rich gown of deep red wool, her hips swung with a kind of sensual confidence that surely others must notice was unusual in a gently-born virgin. Maire became aware that her knuckles were showing white on the cup. Were it a glass vessel she gripped, it would have shattered, as her heart had been shattered for months. It felt now as if some other organ had taken its place, some cold, angry

thing that felt no warmth or love, but only pain and fury. She could not live any longer with the unbearable turmoil of jealousy, the agonizing jabs that made her writhe and cringe inside whenever she saw them together, whenever she even thought of them together… The alternative was to walk away, simply to leave and never come back. But that was not fitting; it was not just. As she knew he would, Ruaridh made a fine show of returning to his own table from the door after the lady had retired. He sat and talked with the men there, though Maire observed that he drank no more. Most of the women were leaving now, and so Maire, not to attract notice, left too. However, she did not go far. By the stairs, which led to the Countess’s “bower”, she lurked in the shadows, and waited. And sure enough, he came, slipping through the door, and running lightly up the stone stairs, the flames of the flaring torches briefly lighting up the face that was still everything to her. The eagerness she saw there, the impatience in his step, all would once have been fresh agony; now it was fresh impetus. She could no longer even wonder how she would feel when she did it. There was no question left: she would do it. She followed slowly. After all, she knew exactly where he was going. Bypassing the Countess’s chambers, which were quiet now except for the sound of her woman ’s snoring, Maire went on along the dim passage lit only from one flange. There was no one in Lady Christian’s outer-chamber. She had sent her women well away as she always did when Ruaridh was here. Maire crossed the floor, carefully, silently. Under her feet, the rushes scarcely moved, certainly not enough to disturb the voices she could already hear in the bedchamber beyond. “...can’t you stay longer?” came Christian’s voice, low and enticing rather than grieving for his future absence. Did Ruaridh really think that was love? Christian was a wanton child, more interested in her body’s pleasures than in the risks Ruaridh was taking with her, or in the dangers he would face in the coming war. Did she even know, or care, that Wallace would lay waste this land when the English came, leaving the people with nothing to live on but hope? “I have to go, sweetheart, but we have this night...” Maire pushed open the door. It was a large chamber, with covered chests lining the walls below thick tapestries. At one side, as she had seen before, a rather fine chess-set stood on a checkered table. It was made of walrus ivory and half the pieces were painted black. Maire smiled. At first it didn’t even hurt to see them naked on the great bed – she pictured it in her mind too often. And the girl was undeniably lovely, even unclothed. In the midst of a deep kiss, she was caressing his hair and neck as she pressed her lower abdomen against his manhood. One of his hands held her by the buttock, kneading, the other cupped her breast, thumb stroking over and over at a dark, prominent nipple. The muscles of his sword-arm rippled in the lamplight as he caught her closer still, groaning as he finally broke the kiss.

The curtains were not drawn, so at the sound of the door’s movement, they both turned towards her in surprise. Now, as their mouths fell open into expressions of almost comical amazement, Maire felt the power surge in her veins. This was her moment. “Shut your mouths, children,” she said sardonically. “I can already see more than enough of you as it is. Ruaridh, stand aside. No, don’t look so protective, I’m not going to kill her! My lady, you have taken from me, so I’m afraid you have to lose a little. You both do. It’s only just.” Maire began to chant in the ancient tongue. Not the healing spells of her mother, but something learned from her more mischievous grandmother. Christian, recovering, tried to intervene, asking with only slightly guilty reasonableness for a little privacy before they talked, but Maire chanted on. The girl did not look frightened, only embarrassed in her pretty nakedness. But Ruaridh knew; Ruaridh was afraid. “Stop it, Maire!” he commanded, white-faced. “Stop it now – you can’t do this!” But she could. Intoxicated by her own power, she avoided his grasping hands without even breaking the rhythm of her words. Until, beside her, the black painted chess-pieces began to glow. CHAPTER 1 Tam was grinning as the small, dark young woman in blue jeans and long black cotton sweater walked into the hotel lounge. Her luxuriantly thick long hair tied carelessly in a simple ponytail, she wore no makeup and no jewelry. She never did. Yet she always seemed to Tam to be the most exotic thing in Loch Foy. Which was not, admittedly, saying much. Tam sprawled on the staff side of the bar, leaning across it to enjoy gossip with the two regulars perched on their high stools. Apart from them, the lounge was empty. It was only just five o’clock in the afternoon, but being mid-January in Scotland, the lounge’s big bay window showed little but the black of night. Just occasionally there was a glint of moonlight on the nearby loch and the water rippled like a picture postcard. Tam preferred to watch the girl with her graceful curves and her elfin features that always seemed to be just waiting for an excuse to smile. Impatient now for her attention, Tam called, “Hey Christi, have you heard the latest?” “Nope.” Christi swiped up a couple of empty lunchtime beer glasses from an abandoned table on her way past. “What’s happened? Did Morag come to her senses and dump you after all?” “Of course not!” Tam replied, drawing himself up in pretended affront. Then he grinned again. “No, the Englishman arrived at lunch time, chomping at the bit, and now he’s hopping mad because the Russian hasn’t even turned up!” “Oh dear.” Christi paused briefly in the act of lifting up the bar flap, and glanced

over at Tam. “That’s bad.” “Bad?” repeated one of the barfly regulars, in astonishment. “Away you go! You should have seen his face – priceless! He knew he’d been had!” Eyeing him a trifle skeptically, Christi pushed through and closed the flap, releasing the glasses into the sink below the bar. “How was he had, Jim?” “By the Russian, of course! Zuvarin makes him come all the way up here, to this isolated pluke on the face of nowhere, and then just leaves him on his own to rot, with nothing to do and no chess to play!” “I’ll play him,” Tam grinned. “I suppose the slaughter would cheer him up,” Christi observed. “But only for the minute it lasts. Where is he now?” “Garrick? In his room, being calmed down by his minder. Or his coach, or his dad, whoever. Probably all of them.” “What’s he like?” Christi asked carelessly. “Arrogant git,” said Tam promptly and Christi laughed, causing the others to smile back at once, even the middle-aged couple standing in the doorway who’d been so disappointed when they first arrived last night to discover that the hotel staff did not wear tartan. “What’s the point?” Tam responded carelessly, “We hardly ever get any tourists at Loch Foy.” “Good-looking bloke, mind,” Jim added judiciously now, having pondered the subject of the Grand Master while staring into his beer. “Not the sort of specky intellectual you’d expect.” “Quick, Christi, get your make-up on!” Tam grinned. Christi stuck out her tongue. “Why waste it on a chess player? Yes, sir?” she added, turning to the middle-aged man who came up to the bar to be served. He and his wife were residents at the hotel for the week, as were the three rather obvious chess fans who wandered awkwardly in while she poured a measure of gin. Reluctantly, Tam leaned off his elbows to serve them. It was one of the chess fans who said reverently, “There he is…” Glancing toward the door, Christi saw a muddled group of people coming in, all arguing and talking. At the centre of the group, unmistakably, was the English Grand Master himself, James Garrick, fair, handsome, frowning and imposing. A man who knew his own worth and was clearly annoyed by the bad manners of his defaulting opponent. As Christi watched, he waved one hand in a quick gesture of impatience, and swung aside towards an empty table by the window. At once, his satellites followed, apart from one short, thin man in a suit, who turned instead toward the bar. Since Christi was just free, the suit made his long order to her in the sort of bored monotone that implied he had given the same requirements many times before.

“And bring it over, will you?” he threw carelessly over his shoulder, already walking away. Christi and Tam exchanged very quick glances before she shook her head infinitesimally. They both knew ways of dealing with customer rudeness, but the boss was already in danger of losing too much money over this fiasco – they needed to salvage what they could now. With her usual cheerfulness, Christi carried the tray across the lounge. “Vodka and tonic?” she said brightly. “Here,” was the husky response from the glamorous woman beside the chess player. From her shining blond hair to her expensive little boots, boots that would come to terrible grief here at Loch Foy with one fall of snow, or even rain, she was perfectly sculpted. And beautiful. “Lager?” she said blandly, and the Grand Master raised one impatient finger. Placing the half pint glass, she could not prevent her curious gaze flickering upwards, in time to catch his double take as he looked, and looked again. The blond clicked her tongue. Not a bad start, Christi thought a trifle smugly, turning away when she had served all her drinks. Quite why she should want his attention, she was unsure. Probably habit. It just seemed too much of a coincidence that he should have come to quiet, isolated Loch Foy for a serious chess-match, at the precise time that she worked here. It felt like fate. This was not always a good thing... Besides, since Garrick was unlikely to fall in love with her in one weekend even without the beautiful blond by his side, she would really be better off avoiding him! “What’s he drinking?” she heard one of the chess fans ask another as she passed them. “Can you see?” “Looks like beer,” was the gloomy response. “That’s it then, the match is off,” said the first in despair. “He never drinks before playing. How could Zuvarin do this? Call him eccentric, or erratic, all you like, but if you ask me he’s just plain rude!” “Especially,” said the gloomy one, “when it was Zuvarin who insisted on this rather ridiculous venue. Pity though – I’d have loved to see him play...” “Do you think Garrick would give me a five minute game?” The bar was busy now, with the usual pre-dinner crowd plus all the extra business generated by the abortive chess match, fans and officials, journalists and camera men, so Christi and Tam were kept on the go without break until even the boss himself came to help. “Let’s keep them coming back.” he said with a briskness that bordered on anger. “If they have a good enough time they might stay the weekend anyway.” “The television crews won’t though,” Christi said with regret. The unexpected chess match between two of the world’s top players had been something of a lifeline

to this hotel. Though hardly the world championship, it was still a heavily sponsored event. “Has anyone ever told you,” said Tam cheerfully to his customer while he poured a measure of malt whiskey “that you’re almost the spitting image of Andrei Zuvarin the chess player?” It was instinct to look, and Christi did. She saw a big, rather lanky man in jeans and a baggy sweater with tousled jet-black hair and very dark eyes that appeared to be laughing. Christi found herself grinning too. “Yes,” he said simply, taking the glass in one long thin hand and knocking its contents back in one quick, startling gulp. When he lowered the glass, he looked impressed. “That,” he said, “is excellent. I’d like another, please. And do I pay you now, or will you add it to my bill?” But Tam was staring, his words stumbling a pace or two ahead of his mind. “You even sound Russian! Are you staying here? Oh Christ, are you?” “Nice recovery, Tam,” Christi said kindly, patting him on the back. “Pour Mr. Zuvarin his drink while I break the good news to the boss!” “The boss hears all,” rumbled Archie behind her, reaching forward over her shoulder to offer his hand to the unexpected customer who had just saved his struggling hotel for another season. “Welcome to Loch Foy, Mr. Zuvarin!” “Thank you,” said the Russian, gravely taking the proffered hand and shaking it. “Mr. – Morton?” “Aye, and very pleased to meet you!” Christi, trapped between them, had very little to do except examine the newcomer. He was not handsome like Garrick, she thought critically, but he was undeniably attractive: big boned, broad shouldered, lean, with his high Slavic cheekbones, and shadowed hollows beneath. He had a long, thin nose and full, clearly sensual lips curved now into an oddly appealing, self-deprecating smile. Beneath his thick black eyebrows, his rather hooded dark eyes were deep set, ringed by sleepless shadows and lines of laughter. And gazing steadily at her. Unexpectedly, something leapt inside her. It might have been her stomach or her heart, whatever, it left her tingling and blushing like a schoolgirl – with embarrassment at being caught staring. Her sudden awareness of his male scent – clean, fresh, slightly musky – was merely because he had leaned across the bar to shake hands with Archie coming too far in to her personal space. Clearly. Fortunately, Archie let go of the Russian’s hand and straightened up, giving her room – only that hand was still held out, this time to her. “Andrei Zuvarin,” he said amiably. She blinked. But there was nothing to do except shake his hand. It was still cold from his journey, but his grip was firm, his long fingers strong—Quickly, she let it

go again, muttering, “Christi Blythe,” She swallowed. “And this is Tam Duncan.” Only when his eyes had left hers for Tam, did she become properly aware of the rest of her surroundings. And the fact that the bar had begun to buzz. People had noticed Zuvarin’s entry at last, and the excited word was spreading. Stupidly, Christi felt a moment of panic, because this friendly, oddly intimate little interlude was about to end. Tam, apologizing for his stupidity, was lining up a fresh whiskey, which the Russian took with an amused word that made Tam laugh and relax. Then those dark eyes moved once more to her, and there it was again – all the electric excitement of a sensual caress, caused by the merest glance. This was ridiculous... His lips quirked slightly upward. Then they parted, but she never discovered what he would have said, because another voice broke in with jarring accusation. “So you made it after all?” And of course, he had to turn away from her. It could have been her suddenly active imagination, but she could have sworn she saw a glint of annoyance in the amiable eyes as they left her for the irate Englishman. “James, my friend,” said Zuvarin, smiling and offering his hand yet again. He sounded very Russian, although so far, his English was faultless. The crowds had gathered around them by now, and the journalists were licking their pencils – and their lips – in the anticipation of a scene. The newspapers had made much, in the run-up to this match, of the supposed enmity between the two Grand Masters, and of the huge gulf between their personalities and life-styles. Garrick the serious, studious and reliable without the smallest stain on his character; versus Zuvarin the eccentric, brilliant and erratic, the hedonistic playboy of the chess world – which was probably not, Christi reflected, saying much. But real or imagined, this rivalry had made chess popular in Britain, for this month at least. Christi had even seen Archie’s kids playing – or at least quarreling over the board. Garrick appeared to hesitate, whether because the wind had been taken out of his sails by the Russian’s friendliness, or because he had suddenly remembered the journalists and his own dignity. But after the tiniest pause, he took Zuvarin’s hand and shook it, very briefly. Zuvarin said amiably, “Can I buy you a drink? They have this delicious whiskey.” “No thank you,” said Garrick tightly. Involuntarily, it seemed, his eyes slid back to his half-finished lager. Following his gaze, Zuvarin grinned. “Unfit to play?” he enquired, and it wasn’t terribly clear from his tone whether he meant to be provoking or just funny. “We can postpone if you like, till early morning.” Garrick frowned. “Certainly not. Is that why you arrived so late? Hoping I would have drowned my annoyance in alcohol?”

There was a gasp among the watchers, a flurry of excited anticipation, a hint of outrage, though whether on Garrick’s behalf or Zuvarin’s was impossible to tell. But the Russian only smiled. “No, I was enjoying the scenery,” he said with apparent satisfaction. “And our car broke down,” said another Russian-sounding voice, pushing through the crowd. This Russian, clearly related to the first, was a smaller, slightly younger, much better dressed version of Andrei Zuvarin. Rather angrier too, judging by the indignant manner with which he stared at Garrick. The Englishman turned away. “I’ll see you at the first game,” he said shortly. “The clock starts at seven.” “I remember.” Thoughtfully sipping his whiskey, Zuvarin watched the mass exodus of the English contingent from the lounge. The other Russian, who could only be his brother, Christi decided, was talking urgently in their own language, tugging the chess-player’s arm. After a moment, Zuvarin appeared to give in, beginning to walk towards the door. He did pause though, long enough to smile fleetingly to the bar-staff over his shoulder, and to promise he would return the glass when he came back down. It was already twenty minutes to seven. “Well,” said Tam in a baffled sort of voice. “If Garrick’s ‘no specky intellectual’, what would you call him?” *** The chess games – there were to be five of them over the weekend, this one tonight, two on Saturday and two on Sunday, for a grand prize to the overall winner of Ten-Thousand Pounds - were held in the billiard room, which had been cleared out for the purpose and temporarily renamed the game room. Most people, even the locals who weren’t normally chess aficionados, but who had obtained tickets for the opening game by various means respectable and otherwise, drifted in there from the lounge as it approached seven o’clock. “Quiet night after all, then,” Jim observed, laying down his half-empty pint-glass. “Aye,” said Tam, leaning his elbows on the bar again. Christi, arms full of the glasses she had just collected, began to walk across the lounge towards them, a sardonic response aimed largely at Tam already on her lips. The clock said two minutes to seven; the game was about to start… “Christi?” For some reason, she jumped at the deep but quiet voice interrupting her, only managing to save the glasses by luck. It was Andrei Zuvarin, poking his head around the door, and holding out his empty whiskey glass to her. “Sorry,” he grinned, coming right in to place it precariously inside another in the tower she was carrying. Close-to he was very tall. Worse, with the baggy sweater

draped carelessly over one shoulder, he had rolled up the sleeves of the casual white shirt beneath to reveal unexpectedly well-muscled arms, sexily coated in fine black hairs. And when she deliberately lifted her eyes up to his face instead, all she could think of was how attractively he smiled. “Bad time!” he observed apologetically He left again, striding quickly across the hall towards the billiard-room. Christi found her head turning, her eyes following his progress, admiring the easy swinging motion of his tight buttocks inside the well-worn jeans. Her breath caught. Shockingly, she could feel wetness between her legs. She walked quickly back to the bar, wondering rather ruefully about the effect the eccentric Russian seemed to be having on her. Well, it had been a long time. This village was too small for affairs of the heart – as the jealous behavior of Tam’s girlfriend towards her already showed. Well, Morag needn’t worry. She was neither Tam’s type, nor he hers. She was only resting here for a little – Loch Foy was not the place to find a man to love her. On the other hand, the idea of letting Zuvarin love her, just once, of course, with that big, lean body and those long, sensitive looking fingers, was suddenly deliciously enticing. Except she had given up that sort of thing. In truth, she was bored with sex, bored with men, bored with hurt and disappointment. Perhaps, from old habit, she could not prevent her wayward thoughts from wondering if what Zuvarin kept in his jeans matched the promise of the large trainers on his feet. But the reality was that she had sworn to herself that from now on there would only be serious lovers. Lover , singular. The joy in life, in people, that had seen her through all those difficult years, was fading at last and she could not even mourn it, for it had only done her disservice. It was how she had got into this mess in the first place. CHAPTER 2 Andrei Ilyitch Zuvarin with all his concentration on the chessboard, uncurled his fingers on the water glass and inwardly relaxed. Garrick had made his move, and Zuvarin was pretty sure he had him now. The Russian moved his knight, taking the pawn that would have troubled him later, and heard Garrick’s involuntary breath of surprise. Zuvarin knocked down the button of his clock, quickly registering that he was also ahead on time, and stood up, making for the door with polite words of excuse to move the standing watchers. A quick smile of thanks to the Chess Association official who held open the door for him, and he was free. Apart from the official who followed him, of course, to observe fair play away from the board. At the last moment, Zuvarin swerved restlessly away from the toilet door and went instead into the bar. At once his troubled heart lifted, because she was there. The frown from

concentrating intensely cleared from his brow, and he knew he was already smiling. She was behind the bar, naturally, in apparent conversation with the man on the stool who was her only customer. Neither the owner nor the barman was around now. She didn’t look up at first, so he had time to gaze, to take in the unusual beauty that had first captured his attention. She was small, petite, even, and yet somehow voluptuous at the same time. Her bone structure was small, almost frail looking, her features curiously elfin, and yet there were deep, delicious curves - curves that he could so easily throw the game just to get close to. At last, she glanced up, and seeing him, was clearly startled. She straightened abruptly, her hand flying up to her thick, black hair, touching the locks that had tumbled alluringly loose from confinement with the rest. Tantalizingly, the outline of her nipples was visible through the black cotton sweater she wore. Yet he could not tell from the veiled expressions flitting so quickly across her face, what her seemingly nervous reaction meant. Still, at least there was one— “Have you won?” she asked in surprise, coming quickly to his end of the bar. “Don’t sound so astonished,” he said ruefully. “And no, the game isn’t finished. I came for another of those excellent whiskeys.” To his surprise, she frowned. “You’ve already had two.” He blinked at her. “Are you my mother?” Blushing, she laughed, and he was captivated. It was a wonderful laugh, musical, infectious, joyous, and its effect on him was electric. Even while he tried to think of something to say to make her do it again, he was conscious of a tugging attraction that actually pulled him physically closer to her. The swift hardening in his jeans was, of course, even more physical. She was saying apologetically, “I would hate you to be at a disadvantage. Garrick has only had part of a half-pint you know.” “Ah, but I am Russian.” Her gaze was skeptical, making him smile again. “I’ll tell you what,” he offered, “give me the whiskey, and pour one for yourself. I’ll have one sip now, and save the rest to have with you after the game.” Again, she seemed to blush. He could have sworn there was a quick flash of pleasure in those bright blue eyes, before they fell away from his and she muttered quickly, “We’re not allowed to drink at work.” “Then when you’ve finished work,” he said easily, and to his relief, her smile came back, even if it appeared to be laughing at him. “You have another game tomorrow morning, you know. In fact, you have a game now! Here – drink – go!” Grinning, he obediently drank and left. His only worry now was that his head was too full of Christi’s curves to finish the job of beating Garrick.

*** Tam brought news of the victor to the bar first, although he was followed literally seconds later by the swarms of journalists, observers, officials and audience who came tumbling out of the game room as soon as he let go of the door. “Zuvarin did it!” he said triumphantly. “Why are you so pleased?” Christi demanded, though she found she was smiling. “What’s he to you?” “Nothing,” Tam grinned. “I just like him better.” “Where’s your patriotism?” Christi scolded, mentally rolling up her sleeves for the explosion of customers, which she could already hear charging across the hall. But it was hard not to be pleased. There was something immensely likeable about the Russian, and if she could just focus on that alone, then she might get through the evening without any grief, humiliation or emotional turbulence. And yet while she worked, pouring gallons of booze of all varieties, taking money, giving change, smiling, joking, she knew her heart beat too fast. There was that old, familiar tingle of anticipation that was half pleasure and half fear, in case he remembered about the drink with her... During the two hours between Zuvarin’s victory and closing time, the lounge was crowded to overflowing. For the first hour she did not see him at all – though, of course, she tried not to look. Then she caught sight of him, standing near the window with his brother and a couple of British journalists, laughing. Damn him, she thought with quite unreasonable resentment. Well, she had told him she couldn’t drink at work, so what cause had she to be disappointed that he wasn’t propping up the bar? Her inflated sense of her own importance was letting her down again. She was a barmaid in a remote Scottish hotel. Zuvarin was a highly respected Grand Master who was likely to be world champion one day. In fact, the word was, he could have been already if he was not so erratic in his habits, both on and off the chessboard— Since Archie was reluctant to call last orders while the cash was in full flow into his tills, Christi offered to do it for him. At which Archie, with a great show of kindness, told her she could go and leave Tam and himself to clear up. Not fooled for a minute as to when this clearing up would happen, Christi took him at his word and lifted the bar flap to depart. Deliberately she did not look towards where she had last seen Zuvarin. He caught her just inside the door, calling her by name again as he eased his long body through the throng. “Work over?” he asked, arriving at her side. Dumbly, she nodded. Close to him again, without the bar between them, he seemed even bigger, even more – masculine – than the last time. She knew an instant of irritating helplessness before his very nearness began to spin a dangerous web of desire.

“Congratulations,” she managed, but he did not appear to hear. Certainly, he made no response. Even more annoyingly, his eyes flitted around the room instead of concentrating on her. Piqued, she would have turned away immediately had he not suddenly started to speak again. “It’s too crowded in here. Will you take me for a walk along the water instead?” She blinked, watching his eyes come slowly back to her in the silence. “It’s cold,” she said deliberately, rather desperately proud of her own powers of refusing him. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she reached for the door. She had to stand aside to let a chess fan back in, and in that moment, Zuvarin disarmed her completely with one word. “Please?” *** It was bitterly cold, but in the bright manner of a hard frost rather than the dank, miserable cold of last week. Christi looked upwards at the clear, glittering night, acknowledging its beauty, as she always did, even when she longed for blue skies and sunshine. The moon was almost full, astonishingly bright now that the last of the clouds had moved on, reflecting silvery white ripples in the loch below. Zuvarin touched her elbow, urging her away from the front step, and obediently she moved forwards. She decided that she liked the old-fashioned way Zuvarin had held the door for her; she even liked the old leather and sheepskin coat he wore – it suited him. And she found, as they walked down towards the loch, that she liked walking beside him in the dark in this oddly companionable silence, watching their steaming breath mingle in the cold air - and not just because of the delicious sparks that shot through her whole body whenever they accidentally touched… “It’s a beautiful place,” Zuvarin observed at last, gazing out across the still water to the black outline of the snow-capped hills on its other side. “In summer, it must be spectacular.” “I don’t know,” Christi admitted, folding her arms across her thick outer sweater for extra warmth. “I’ve never been here in summer.” He glanced down at her. “I thought you lived here.” Christi shrugged. “Just passing through! I came last autumn. I’ll probably go in the spring.” “Go where?” “I don’t know yet.” “You have a free spirit,” he smiled, causing her to look quickly away. “I wish that were true. What made you chose this place for your return-match with Garrick?” “Ah.” He began to walk on again, Christi with him. “Lots of reasons. I like your Highlands; I like peace. And I liked the good old days when I could play chess in

pubs and cafes. And another reason which I might tell you later.” “Very mysterious.” “Not really; I drove up here last year after the first match with Garrick, and I was intrigued. So I chose to come back.” “Shouldn’t you be playing in Russia this time?” “But I am no longer intrigued by Russia.” She shook her head at him, smiling, and watched his own returning smile die slowly on his lips. “You intrigue me.” There were a lot of smart answers to remarks like those. Over the long years she had used most of them to good effect, to lighten a mood, to defend her honor, or to further entice… Yet when he said it, she could think of no reply. Eventually, when the silence screamed too loud, she muttered, “I can’t think why,” and speeded up her pace. His stride lengthened accordingly. He said, “I wonder what you are doing here, so bright and beautiful in this sleepy place where nothing ever happens. I thought it must have been your home.” “You think I would fit in better among the bright lights and shallow socialites of a big city?” she mocked. She couldn’t think why she was so angry. Zuvarin looked surprised. “No, I thought you would have a more – challenging – job!” Unexpectedly she laughed; it wasn’t entirely steady. “Believe me, working in that bar on a Saturday night is challenging enough for anybody.” “But what else do you do? What else have you done? I want to know your life story!” Again the laughter bubbled up, with a dangerous hint of hysteria. “You don’t have the time! And neither do I – I have to go in now.” She span around as she spoke, suddenly desperate to avoid this unwanted temptation. She meant to hurry back to the hotel, with or without him, but again he took her by surprise, catching her arm and swinging her round to him. Her foot caught on the frost-hardened grass, and his grip changed to steady her body, so that she stood in his arms, close enough to feel his body’s heat surging through the cold. And her own answered so vividly that she felt deliciously weak. His head bent down toward her, his lips whispered against her ear, “Why are you are running away? You are not – frightened of me?” But she was. She was terribly frightened of him, though it was not a fear she was about to explain to him… “Of course not,” she managed, while with eyes closed, she tried to deal with the devastating effects of his breath, his lips, at her ear. Beneath all her warm clothing,

her nipples felt hard as little pebbles. The spreading heat in her stomach, between her legs, made it ridiculously difficult not to press herself into him, to control the spurt of triumph as she became aware of his own arousal just touching her body. His arms felt so strong, warm, and exciting that she could not prevent her smile into his leather coat. Feeling it, he moved, setting one cold, gentle finger under her chin to lift her face up to his. It was inevitable now. There was no point in trying to fight it. In fact, she welcomed it with fierce joy, her lips already parting for the first taste of his mouth. It came gradually, as if he was afraid to spoil the moment or, perhaps, giving her time to avoid it if she wished, though she was physically incapable of that... Reaching up, she accepted his mouth, liking the feel of his warm, dry lips, his gentle, sensitive exploration of hers. One of her hands had pushed its way up, without her knowing, and now she touched his cold, rough cheek, a blind, instinctive caress. At that, she felt his lips stretch into a smile; his mouth began to move more urgently, widening, deepening the kiss until she gasped, allowing, returning, the wild caressing of his tongue. His hands slid down her hips, holding her against his rock hard crotch, which began to move on her so very slightly, slowly, subtly, in lazy simulation of sex, the gentle, gyrating rhythm driving her swiftly towards insanity. It had been a long, long time – oh God had she ever wanted a man so much as this one? Finally, he broke the amazing kiss, one hand leaving her hips to feel for her breast. She took it there for him, thrusting it under her sweater, under both sweaters, holding it to her while she reached again for his mouth, moaning into it at the touch of his stroking, caressing fingers on her skin, his palm on her tight, wanton nipple. “Oh Christ, I want you,” he ground out, little more than a whisper against her lips. “And I—” Then, quite abruptly, the moment froze, cold realization flooded in. “Oh God!” Gasping, she tore her mouth free, suddenly struggling in his arms. “Stop! Let go, I have to—Please—Please, I’m sorry!” His arms had loosened immediately, and yet it was with something like a sob that she wrenched herself out of them and ran blindly back toward the hotel. The big, baronial building, with all its turrets and Victorian follies, was mostly black against the star lit sky so that the brightness of the lounge window shone out like a beacon. Archie’s party was still going. Christi tried to focus on that, to be pleased for Archie’s takings. She wondered if she should go back and help after all, stop herself thinking, feeling... Abruptly, she became aware of footsteps behind her, hurrying. Presumably Zuvarin – or… Already panting with the exertion of her run, she found her breath quickening further as she noticed two men on either side of the hotel steps. She could not recognize them in the dark, their burly shapes were unfamiliar and, even in Lock Foy - hardly a crime-capital of the world - suddenly ominous. Instinct slowed her feet. After all, she had nothing to fear from Zuvarin except her own traitorous body – or was it Zuvarin?

The footsteps behind had slowed too. Muggings did not happen in Loch Foy. They weren’t viable when everyone knew everyone else, and their parents and grandparents too for the most part. She had never even considered her personal safety before in this place. But now, when the hotel was full of strangers, was it really so unlikely? The men at the steps were moving towards her now. One threw a cigarette-end on the ground as he walked. Definitely, they were strangers, and their every deliberate movement was somehow aggressive, threatening. Nerves shrieking now, as the footsteps kept following behind, Christi kept determinedly walking, balling her hands into fists to be as prepared as possible. Later, she was sure she would laugh at her over-reaction… The men came to a halt right in front of her, blocking her path. Heart thundering, she muttered, “Excuse me,” and tried to swerve round them, to confuse them by her suddenness. Only then, from behind, a hand closed over her shoulder. Instinct moved her elbow back to jab, only the hand had already slipped down to hold it still, even as she realized, stupidly, that the eyes of her two forward assailants were not looking at her, but at whoever stood behind. “Dobri vyechir, Zuvarin,” one of them said, with obviously sarcastic bonhomie. Good evening, Zuvarin. Somewhere over the years she had picked up enough Russian to know that. And Zuvarin, still holding her elbow came to stand beside her. “It was,” he said deliberately in English. “Good night.” And with ungentle determination, his arm now protectively about her shoulder, he pushed between the two and walked her up the steps. “What’s going on?” she hissed demandingly. “Who are these idiots?” “Unpleasant men, but they won’t hurt you.” Her eyes widening, she stared up at him as he held open the door for her to pass through. “And you?” she demanded incredulously. His smile was lop-sided, but reassuringly genuine. “Not while I’m winning. Christi...” His hand had fallen away from her shoulder, though only to slide down her arm and clasp her fingers. That delicious look of desire was back in his eyes again, catching at her breath. “Zuvarin?” a voice said behind them, and Christi saw the two “unpleasant” ones. Her eyes flew back to Zuvarin in time to glimpse a whole range of frustrations and annoyances cross his face before he turned angrily towards them. Christi, her body on fire with the vivid memory of his touch, looked from one to the other several times, feeling trapped, hunted by her own emotions. They wouldn’t hurt him while he was winning. He was winning.

Christi fled, infuriatingly conscious even while she ran, of pique because he did not call her back. *** Christi lay on the narrow bed in her little attic room at the top of the hotel, her eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. For two hours she had lain there, a book opened and neglected on her pillow, while she had listened to the jolly, gradually fading hum from the bar, followed by the noisy retreat of the guests to their own rooms, and Tam and Archie to their own abodes. She could neither read nor sleep. Her mind full of curiosity about Zuvarin’s problem with those goons whom she took be Russian Mafiosi. He hadn’t seemed the kind to involve himself with organized crime, but then she hardly knew him at all. According to the recent newspapers, he liked to live it up, and that must take money. She had no idea what sort of money he made playing chess, but it was hardly likely to equate with, say, the outrageously high pay of a British footballer... So what were they doing with him? Extorting his winnings, supplying him with drugs? Was he trying to extricate himself from them or just keep outsiders unaware of his connection with them? Certainly, he had not appeared to be afraid of them, though he had been protective of her... That was the memory she kept returning to. Because it was the one she liked best, she ruefully acknowledged, and because it always led back to the brief but passionate interlude by the loch. And remembering that made her too hot and restless with need... The trouble was, she had always loved sex. It was part of who she was. And this thing with Zuvarin, whatever it was, seemed to promise something very special in that direction. Yet common sense told her that this was hardly the beginnings of a life-long love. You did not fall in love with someone on the strength of a two-minute snatched conversation in a bar followed by a ten-minute walk by a loch, however romantic that loch might appear in the darkness. Zuvarin was far from home, and alone. What better way to assuage his loneliness than by a night of passion with the local barmaid? Especially if he sensed some sort of mystery about her... A slightly hysterical laugh turned into a sob, until she smothered it, turning her burning face into the pillows. Zuvarin was dangerous, because of the way he made her feel. And if she allowed herself to be involved this weekend, he would leave her miserable and alone with her rejection; and she did not want to, she refused to, deal with all of that yet again. Crazy Russians were not the stuff that love is made of. She could never help liking eccentrics; and in addition to that, she was irresistibly drawn to Zuvarin’s smile, his friendliness, the open equality with which he spoke to everybody, the joy in life, which she sensed and understood only too well, and for which he was already famous.

If she could have all that in friendship, without the traitorous response of her body, then fair enough. But whatever fate had brought the chess player within her sphere, she knew he did not love her. And the day after tomorrow, he would be gone. Sighing ruefully, Christi let her gaze drift across the little room to the rickety table by the old fireplace. Up in her little attic room, there was no need to close the curtains, the moonlight shone into it as brightly as an electric lamp, illuminating the old chess pieces on the table like a museum exhibit. The set was a valuable antique and went everywhere with her. Not surprisingly, since they were over seven-hundred years-old, the pieces were worn with age. Yet they were still easily recognizable, from the crowned kings to the knights on their horses. Only the rooks were different from a modern set, being tall warrior guards with drawn swords rather than towers; and the pawns were standing stones, like tombstones. All were without chips or cracks. All the pieces were still present. Apart from the black queen, of course. Think of that, Christian Blythe, think of all the times you were wrong, hurting and hurtful, think of the disappointment and the anguish, not of him. Not of him with his quick, easy smile and his long, sensitive hands, and his lips that kiss with fire... Oh God, oh God... Her fingers slipped down between her legs, feeling the wetness, the agonizing desire. Well, since the big Russian could not assuage her need, perhaps she could assuage her own. God knew it would not take long in this state! Suddenly her eyes were wet too. “I don’t need this…” she whispered, and then, more strongly, “I don’t need this!” Furiously, she withdrew her hand, throwing off the covers, and leaped out of bed. She would not give into this weakness, she would not be ruled by a man, however indirectly, or by her feelings for one, ever again. Not until she discovered the one. If she ever did… In the mean time, she’d get through the night by sheer hard work. Archie and Tam were bound to have left the bar in a dreadful state, so she could spend an hour or two cleaning it up for tomorrow. If that didn’t cool her ardor, nothing would! CHAPTER 3 An hour later, wearing only an inappropriate red sun dress to cover her modesty in the face of any unlikely encounters with customers or staff, she had cleared and washed all the glasses, cleaned the bar and the tables thoroughly. Fortunately, Archie had left the top windows open, so it didn’t smell too stale. Christi herself had lost track of time in her whirlwind clean-up, and she had left her watch in her room. It was to gauge the hour that she first went to the bay window, pulling back the heavy curtain; but having done that, the view caught her all over again, and she found herself sitting on the window-seat and watching the moon’s reflection in the loch under the looming black hills.

Four whole hours until dawn, she judged, maybe a little more. At least two before the hotel staff started to work on the cooking and cleaning... Someone was up already. Someone was striding across the grass from the direction of the loch, heading for the path to the front door. Briefly her eyes closed. There was some sort of fate at work here. But no, just because Zuvarin was out walking, did not mean that he had to find her here. Her eyes opened, her hand already reaching up to pull the curtain closed again. Yet her fingers only gripped the fabric without moving it, for he had stopped, one foot on the first step, looking directly toward her window. Of course, he would have seen the chink of light. She doubted he could make out her own figure, and even if he could, why should he bother with her? Had she not left him alone to face his Mafiosi? Had she not previously run away from his embrace as if he were repellent to her? Yes, she had, so it was not surprising that after a moment, he simply carried on up the steps into the hotel. Slowly, Christi drew the curtain back into place, briefly resting her hand on her fist for strength. Repellent, dear God! Right now there was nothing she wanted more than that man inside her, his big, naked body covering her while her fingers roamed all over it, feeling the play of muscles in his back and hips as he pushed into her over and over... Then his—oh God, she really needed to get control of these fantasies…! The gentle tap on the door actually took her by surprise. Her head jerked up, her eyes stared stupidly at the door until it came again. Then, because she could do nothing else, she rose and walked across the room to unlock the door. Her heart was already hammering in her breast, and yet when she saw him standing there in his baggy sweater, holding his coat over one shoulder, his lips curving into a spontaneous smile, she thought she would explode. Her fingers, still gripping the door handle, were trembling. “I thought it was you,” he said. “Can I come in?” “No!” That was what she should have said. Instead, her shaking hand drew the door wider, closed and relocked it again when he had slipped past her. Already, unbearably, he was touching her, standing close behind her, both his hands lightly holding her by the shoulders as he said softly, “You are even more beautiful in this dress, beautiful and free…” Her breath caught. That word again... “I am not free,” she said unsteadily, and had the satisfaction of hearing his breath drawn in sharply. As if she could not help it, her head fell back, resting on his chest. Her eyes closed. “You are married? My God, I never even thought to ask—” “We know nothing of each other, nothing.”

“I know you,” he insisted, his fingers tightening, gently kneading her shoulders. “I know I want you. I know you want me…” “I don’t!” she gasped as those fingers moved down, dragging her whole body against him so that she could feel his hard erection nudging her back. Then both his hands moved on until they covered her breasts, holding, caressing, his thumbs rhythmically stroking her tight nipples. She knew he was smiling into her hair as he nuzzled her nape. “No?” he teased, his fingers spreading across her breasts to outline her nipples through the fabric. Then one hand moved lower, fingers splayed, palm gently pushing as it slid down her abdomen, making her gasp and gasp again before it reached between her legs with probing fingers. She moaned with sheer pleasure. His lips kissed her neck strongly, his tongue, his teeth sending shivers of ecstasy down her spine. It was his right hand that would not be ignored. Moving down her leg, it had caught at the fabric of her dress, drawing it upwards with gentle, teasing caresses until his fingers could reach the hot wetness between her thighs. Now it was he who gasped, and for some reason his reaction gave her the confidence to laugh, a shaky, breathless sound, as she opened her eyes and twisted her head to see into his face. “Shocked?” And Zuvarin, his breath short and quick, gave one of his swift smiles. “Shocked? Because you don’t wear knickers to clean the bar? Oh no.” His fingers began to move, butterfly-light, slow, explorative, working towards her clitoris with delicious languor. “Rather – delighted!” Christi’s head pressed back into his shoulder. She no longer cared that her eyes, must be giving away his devastating effect upon her – her whole body betrayed her already. She just wanted to see his heated face clouded with desire for her, and she did. She saw more too, for his eyes, surely were as vulnerable as hers, revealing not only his own wants, but also his need to please her. She could not hide, the intensity of pleasure his fingers induced as they stroked all around the desperately wet petals of her pussy and finally, gently, pressed on her swollen, pulsating clitoris. Moaning aloud, she reached blindly up with her mouth, finding his and kissing him wildly with all her passion and gratitude for the orgasm that was already rising with earth shattering depth. When his hand left her pussy, she cried out into his mouth in distress. He turned her in his arms so that he could deepen the kiss, his hands held her hips so that his could grind into them. It was delicious, exciting, maddening, but it was not nearly enough. “Now,” she whispered urgently, her hands on his jeans, trembling as they stroked the big, hard pouch at the front and fumbled with his zip. “Now, Andrei...” Vaguely, she was conscious of his gasps, joyful at his reaction. And then, as her hand finally closed triumphantly around his big, thick, rock-hard cock, he groaned, sweeping her up in his arms and off her feet, carrying her swiftly across the room as if she weighed no more than a baby. Her mouth claimed his again; she rejoiced in the feel of his hands holding her bare buttocks.

He set her on the bar, her legs dangling down the front while he stood between them his crotch pressing into hers while he kissed her with huge, demanding kisses that drove her wild. Arms around his neck, she wriggled, trying to slither forward to enable his entry. “Now, Andrei,” she gasped again, but inexplicably he held her back. His fingers had found the zip of her dress and let it fall around her shoulders, revealing most of her breasts beneath for him to kiss and caress, his tongue flicking fire across her nipples. Christi thought she would die if he did not do it to her, if he did not fuck her now, at once. She grasped his hair to make him look at her so that she could tell him so, but he eluded her, kneeling on the floor below her to kiss her legs from ankle up. “Andrei!” she got out, half-weeping with frustration as well as self-laughter. “I’m dying!” But he made no response, for his lips were now on the inside of her thigh, just at the top and moving towards the heated wetness of her crotch so that at last she began to suspect what he would do. “Oh,” she gasped out with wonder. “Oh!” For his lips had found her lower ones in a kiss of the most tender torture she had ever encountered. Blindly, as his tongue teased and aroused and caressed, she reached for his head, stroking, clinging to his hair as the orgasm began to mount and roll. Christi could not prevent her cries, never wanting it to stop. If she had ever known climax of this intensity she had long forgotten it, and all she could do now, while his hands held her hips was writhe and gyrate to its rhythm, completely helpless in its shattering pleasure. And when, finally, it began to roll back, she thought she would not be able to move for several hours. Her eyes opened languidly to find him standing again between her legs, smiling with wicked triumph because he had brought her to such a state. But that smile, and the glimpse of that big, angry cock between his legs had its own effect on her. Suddenly, not only could she move more than her eyes, her completely sated body began to tingle once more. She could feel her ravished pussy remoistening, egging her on. Laughing low in her throat, she moved. “Wait,” he whispered hoarsely, “I have condoms.” But refusing this time to be held back, she continued to push herself off the bar, holding her weight by her arms around his neck and watching his smiling, breathless anticipation as she slowly, deliberately lowered herself on to his throbbing cock, gasping at the hard thickness reaching into her. His groan was long and hoarse, firing her desire even more. “There,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around him, hugging him tighter with the strong muscles of her pussy, moving slowly, sensuously up and down and glorying in every new sensation sparking through her. “Do you like that?” “Like it?” His hands were holding her buttocks now, pushing her back onto the

bar. She had thought to tease him as he had earlier teased her, but now he would not, or could not wait. Driving himself as far into her as it was possible to go, making her gasp and gasp again, he ground into her, seizing her mouth in such a thorough kiss that his passion almost frightened her. Then he began to move, thrusting into her with strong, deep, strokes, each bringing its own rising pleasure until she could feel his own following it. His ragged breathing began to rasp. One more push and she climaxed again, beginning the long wild roll while he thrust again and again until they fell back together across the bar, heedlessly knocking empty bottles and an ashtray to the ground as he cried out his own huge, unstoppable pleasure with hers. His seed shot into her in stream after stream of hot sensation, impossibly heightening and prolonging her orgasm. Even the smallest movement, every throb of his cock scattered sensations of ecstasy through her whole body until very, very gradually, his pleasure began to subside. Christi held on to him with her internal muscles, caressing to give him the very last ounce of joy she could. God knew he deserved it! She didn’t know how long it was before Zuvarin eased his weight off her, supporting himself on his elbows to look down into her face. He smiled, breathlessly, one hand dropping down to touch her hair, her cheek. “Can we do this again quite soon?” he asked hopefully, and helplessly, she began to laugh. She had just given into temptation again, taken a man who did not love her because she wanted him. Christi surely had her reward in the incredible joy he had given her, in the deep satisfaction of her body – the downside of the payoff would come when he left... But in the mean-time, he was with her, sliding off the bar and helping her up, refastening his jeans with a grin and a comical gesture of machismo. Giggling, she tried to pull her dress back up from her ankles, but since he tried to help and got distracted by her breasts, then by kissing her lips, it took a little longer than it should. Languidly cleaning up their own carnage, Christi had time to be aware that surprisingly enough, their jokes were not those of two embarrassed strangers who had just been carried away by naughty passion, but those of two people who actually liked each other... An odd sort of tightness began to spread across her chest, until she thrust it aside and instead looked critically around the bar. “No one will ever know,” she observed, and found him watching her. His lips twitched slightly. He said, “I will.” And for some reason, she wanted to cry. Crying at jokes was a sure sign of tiredness, so she said briskly, “Come on, let’s get out of here before Effie arrives with her Hoover.” Obediently, he picked up his coat and they left the bar, Christi locking it behind them again.

Zuvarin said, “I would really like some coffee.” “You have some in your room, don’t you?” “I would like,” he corrected, “to have coffee with you.” There was that tightness again. It seemed to constrict her breathing. She swallowed. “You have another game in the morning.” “A quick coffee. I don’t want to leave you yet.” He was disarming. If he treated all his one-night stands like this, they must be queuing up for return matches. Since Zuvarin said his brother was in the adjoining room to his, they went up to the top of the house and up the narrow little staff only staircase until they came to her landing with the three doors – one to the spare room that wasn’t used, one to her room and one to the tiny kitchen. Still feeling companionable, Christi set about making coffee, while he sat astride the rickety kitchen chair and watched her. “Mafia,” she said abruptly, turning quickly to face him as she remembered. He blinked. “Mafia?” “Those two heavies outside the hotel earlier. Are they gangsters in your country?” “In anybody’s country,” Zuvarin admitted ruefully. “But what are they to you?” Zuvarin hesitated, then: “I owe them money.” Slowly, Christi turned back to the coffee, reaching across to the tiny fridge for her carton of milk. She said neutrally, “Can I ask what for?” “Not drugs if that’s what you’re thinking.” “Would you blame me?” she asked ruefully. “No.” A faint smile tugged his lips. “But at least you don’t want it to be true. I owe them for gambling. In casinos.” For some reason that did surprise her. Thoughtfully, she stirred a drop of milk into her own coffee, raising her eyebrows interrogatively to the Russian. He shook his head and she brought both cups to the table, where she hesitated. “It’s slightly more comfortable in my room,” she said apologetically, “but I have to tell you that I’m going to throw you out in half and hour.” Zuvarin stood up, his eyes crinkling with laughter rather than offence. “When I said soon,” he observed, “I didn’t mean this soon.” She found herself smiling back. “So this is where you live,” he said, walking past her as she silently held open the door. It felt strange, watching him take in her private space, a space she had never brought anybody to before. She found herself, anxiously, seeing it through his eyes the tiny room with its slightly shabby walls and its sparse furnishings. But he only cast a quick look about him at the narrow, made bed, with its dull quilt brightened by

the rather pretty orange cushion she had bought in the village craft shop before Christmas. His gaze took in the desk on the left, with its scattering of cheap pens, notepad and newspaper; the books lined up on the floor as if it were a long, one-shelf bookcase. After that, his eyes were caught by the chess set and he moved inevitably towards it. Wow,” he said in surprise, picking up the white knight. “What beautiful pieces! Where in the world did you get them?” She shrugged, laying the coffee down on the desk. “They were in my family for a long time,” she said vaguely “They look incredibly old! And so well preserved – what happened to the black queen?” Her heart thumping, she knew an insane urge to blurt it all out to him. Instead, she said only, “I don’t remember ever seeing the black queen.” “Shame.” He laid the knight back down and regarded her over his shoulder. “I didn’t know you played chess. Are you good?” “No. I didn’t know you gambled.” “I don’t,” he said ruefully, picking up the black coffee and sitting easily down on the side of the bed. When his eyes lifted to hers again, they were serious. “To be honest, they are not my debts, they are my brother’s. But since he has no means of acquiring such a sum quickly, I must win it, or they’ll kill him.” Christi’s eyes widened with shock. “Kill him?” Stunned by the brutal phrase so matter-of-factly spoken, she moved across to the bed and sat, twisting round to face him. “But that’s stupid! How can he pay if he’s dead?” “He can’t,” Zuvarin said dryly, “but I can. And not so stupid – you’d be surprised how few bad-debts crop up after a couple of welchers turn up dead. Believe me, I had a hard job convincing them to let Nikolai live while I win the money.” “And that is why they are here?” Christi demanded indignantly. “Ready to grab the money from you?” “Well, to make sure I win it. I don’t have much of a reputation for – stability. They’re probably afraid I’ll walk away in the middle of the tournament.” “And would you?” she couldn’t help asking. His smile was twisted. “I never have yet. Although I have thrown away winning positions by becoming distracted.” “But this time you can’t afford to! How could your brother put you in this situation?” “He didn’t mean to,” Zuvarin said reasonably. “Believe it or not, he’s the

responsible one of us. I was the one always getting into trouble, and truthfully he has helped me out often enough. I have many faults, many vices – Nikolai only has the one.” Again his lips twisted. “Unfortunately roulette is a big one.” Christi had to bite her tongue. She knew in theory how it happened, the nightmare spiraling of debt that the gambler is convinced will be solved by just one stroke of luck, which of course, never comes. It was the sort of foolishness she had no patience with. Zuvarin was a lot more understanding... “And do you think you can win?” “What do you think?” “I think you should have a back-up plan,” Christi said frankly. “Is running like hell a plan?” he asked sardonically, but Christi ignored him. “I also think you are the better player when you concentrate. You beat him the last time, and you can beat him again with one hand tied behind your back.” His eyes softened at once, and his arm came round her shoulders in a quick hug. “I love you, you know,” he said, dropping a kiss on her head. Christy’s heart gave a bump. Carefully, she kept her face hidden in his rough sweater, to hide the sudden heat in her own. I love you. The words, lightly spoken surely meant nothing – and yet... Yet this strange tightness across her chest was becoming too familiar. This feeling for Zuvarin – and not just the sex thing, although that was incredible – had arrived like a thunderbolt and was galloping out of control within hours! There had never been anyone like him! Her breath caught with the sudden knowledge as she smiled into his sweater, inhaling the warm, male smell of him, mixed with the faintest scent of the wild sex they had had in the bar. Was he then the one? The one who must lose for love of her? Even as the possibility began to form excitingly in her mind, she knew it was doomed. Andrei Zuvarin was the one who could not afford to lose. But if he chose to lose, for love of her, what a sacrifice that would be! Once perhaps, she would have let him do it. Today, tonight, with this warm tenderness wrapping itself around her heart, it was simply unthinkable to allow him the suffering of such loss and guilt. No, it was better, far better, that he keep some sweetness in his memory of her. Later, if he came back one day, perhaps... “You’re very silent,” he observed, his hand drawing back the thick curtain of her hair so that he could see her face. Hastily, she dashed her hand across her eyes, praying he would not notice. “I was thinking it’s almost time for you to go,” she said brightly, pulling back from him. She wanted to avoid his too penetrating gaze, but there seemed to be

nowhere else to look. The warmth had gone from his voice as he said neutrally, “Do you regret what we did?” Christi blinked. “Regret it?” she said stupefied, until she realized how it must look to him: the tears she had tried to hide, her thoughtless words urging him to go. With complete spontaneity, she threw her arms around his neck. “How could I regret that, you idiot? I regret so many things in my long life but—” “Long life?” he interrupted, enfolding her in a bear hug. “If you are more than twenty, I’ll throw tomorrow’s game!” “Don’t say that,” she said with quick superstition. “I am considerably more than twenty – appearances can be deceptive, Andrei?” She drew back again, enough to look into his eyes. “Yes?” “One day – oh not this weekend, but one day – if we ever meet again – I would— I would like to tell you the story of my life.” “Tell me now,” he invited, reaching over her shoulder for his abandoned coffee mug. “I – I can’t. It’s too late. And you will never beat Garrick if you don’t get some sleep.” “I hope Nikolai’s not downstairs having kittens,” Zuvarin said ruefully. Real life was intruding on him too. It was time to end the night. It really was time, she noticed anxiously when she glanced up at the window. The sky had taken on that slightly paler black of pre-dawn. Swiftly, she grabbed her cup and gulped down the last of the coffee. A passionate embrace at the door, a long, delicious kiss that neither of them found easy to end, and then he just smiled and let her go. She watched him leaping down the stairs in two strides, his coat flying off his shoulders like Batman’s cape. At the foot of the stairs, he paused and looked back at her. “Christi? Do you want to play chess tomorrow night?” There were many answers she could have given – modest, funny, a straight refusal, but she could not think properly. Her whole being was such a complete jumble of emotions that all she knew consciously was a desire to weep. Instead, she said helplessly, “Sure,” watching him smile before he opened the door and went out into the main hotel. Christi could hear the hum of the vacuum cleaner. She really had left this too long. Hastily now, she closed her bedroom door and went into the little bathroom to brush her teeth. She badly needed to shower, but there was no time, so she simply stepped out of the thin red dress, leaving it on the floor and went and lay down on the bed. The world grew black; the familiar, dizzying sensation of spinning filled her head with the same fear that never faded with the years; unbearable pressure pinned her

body to the bed, unable to move or fight, holding her down until the whirling pit rose up and up and swallowed her. CHAPTER 4 It was lunchtime in the hotel lounge. Andrei Zuvarin, apparently undaunted by his defeat in the morning’s game, sat on the barstool next to Jim. He had come in to ask about lunch, and since it was quiet in these first few minutes, stopped for a chat with Tam, although his eyes wandered continually and his movements were restless “So is Christi not here today?” he asked at last. “She doesn’t start till five,” Tam answered, looking at him a little more carefully. “Then what does she do with herself all day?” Zuvarin wondered. Tam blinked. “Oh. I don’t know. I think she studies. She’ll probably go to university or something next year – too bright to stay here all her days. Why?” Tam’s look said he already had a very good idea why and wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. Zuvarin only shrugged. His eyes were on the barman’s hands, which were innocent of rings. But then so were Christi’s. It was one of the many things that had got lost in last night’s unexpected explosion of passion, and in the light of day, Zuvarin felt an anxiety close to desperation to sort them out. Abruptly, he slid his hip off the stool, lifting his hand in quick farewell to Tam who had already gone off to serve another customer. But as he swung round he came face to face with Nikolai, nervously flanked by the two heavies of last night. “Not such a good game, Zuvarin,” the smaller of the two sneered. “Garrick played well,” Zuvarin allowed, “but yes, I was crap.” “Not enough sleep last night, Zuvarin,” the man mocked, and looking into his eyes Zuvarin felt a cold certainty that he knew where and how he had spent most of last night. And who with. Surely they would not drag Christi into this? Did they imagine that killing Nikolai was not a big enough threat for him? Could they possibly have guessed that she was any more to him than a one-night stand? Come to that, did he really know it himself? She was just so different from anyone else he had ever met, so young and vivacious, yet with all the poise of a mature woman. A girl who grabbed at life with both eager hands, whose laughter was so joyful it could make you smile back from two rooms away. And yet whose dark blue eyes betrayed the most profound sadness even he, a Russian from a land notorious for its tortured souls, had ever seen. Beautiful, wise eyes... Not before time, he became aware that Nikolai was gazing at him quite wildly, and that the heavies had said something else he had missed through thinking of her. No wonder he had lost that damned game. Suddenly angry because they were spoiling the sweetness of his thoughts, of his escape from the sordid reality his life seemed to have become, he reached out and took Nikolai by the shoulder, turning him smartly round and forcing his way between the gangsters. “You flap about like a pair of old grandmothers,” he said contemptuously.

“Relax, you’ll get your paltry money tomorrow.” Pushing past them he got himself and his brother out of there. “How dare they approach us in public, in daylight?” Nikolai was fuming. “All it takes is one of the Russian journalists to see, to overhear, and the rumors will fly about your involvement.” “I have no involvement,” Andrei Zuvarin said flatly. Then, seeing the guilty look in his brother’s face, he relaxed, slapping him lightly on the back and letting his hand fall back to his side as they walked out of the bar into the foyer. “Calm down, Nikolai! There were no Russians anywhere near. They just like to rattle us. They hope I’ll lose and they’ll get to kill you after all. Secretly, I’m just building up their hopes so it hurts more when I beat the pants of Garrick tomorrow and they can’t touch you. I’ve been learning a series of rude hand gestures we can use.” “How can you laugh about this? Seriously, Andrei, you look a mess! And I could have played better than you did this morning!” “Well,” Andrei observed tiredly, “if you’d all get off my back, perhaps I could think about chess rather than the bags under my eyes or gangster scum from Moscow. Relax, Nikolai, I’ll get the money. I do not intend to lose the match. Or you.” His stride lengthened quickly, inviting no company. Leaving Nikolai standing unhappily in the foyer, the older brother ran up the staircase, taking the stairs three at a time with his great long legs. He did not stop at his own floor, but went on up to the third, where he walked quickly to the end of the corridor with the door marked, “Staff Only”. Opening it – it hadn’t been locked last night either - he went on up the narrow attic stairs and through the landing door that led to Christi’s room. She wasn’t in the little kitchen, and her bedroom door was closed. Andrei knocked. His heart was beating like a schoolboy’s on a first date. He wondered if she would be angry or pleased to see him - would her eyes light up with the intensity of last night? Would she blush with the memory of what they had done, and what he was so keen on repeating, or simply with pleasure at his presence…? There was no sound from behind the door. “Christi?” he called hoping, futilely that his voice would make a difference to the silent response. His hand closed restlessly over the doorknob, while he decided whether or not to leave a note. Distractedly, his hand moved, turning the knob, and to his surprise, the catch released and the door swung open. “Christi?” he said again, poking his head into the room. It was empty. Though he had known it would be, his disappointment was out of all proportion. She was just a girl, no doubt as lonely as he, who had joined him for a brief interlude of unexpectedly astounding sex. She had already made it plain she was not free to give more, and it wasn’t as if he knew her well enough to particularly want her to. It was just—

And he had no time for this self-searching. He was losing his priorities. After all, he was not a teenager, and for the first time in his life he could not even behave like one; he was a grown man with his brother’s life to save. And a chess game to win in – an hour. Chess. With that thought, his eyes fell on Christi’s antique chess set. She had promised to play him tonight... It would be hard with one of the pieces missing, but they could use a bottle top or something more appropriate to a Queen’s station— Abruptly, he frowned. Then, slowly, he walked across to the chess table, stepping over the red puddle on the floor, the dress she had worn last night, and gazed down at the black queen. No bottle tops then. I don’t remember ever seeing the black queen. Gently he lifted up the “missing” piece. Like all of them, she was beautifully carved and weighted, the features of her face strong and exquisite. In fact, they bore more than a passing resemblance to Christi’s own. Andrei smiled at the thought. He was in danger of becoming obsessed. Caressing the queen’s face with one sensitive finger, he laid her back down, and quickly left the room. *** Christi was showered and dressed for work by four-fifteen p.m, standing unhappily in front of her wardrobe mirror. It wasn’t that she didn’t look good. She did, and in an appropriately casual way. It was not always easy for her to buy clothes, and since coming to Loch Foy she hadn’t been particularly interested in doing so, but the soft, longer-length grey skirt from several years ago, still swung pleasantly about her hips. With it she had chosen to wear the sensuous red cashmere sweater she had treated herself to in the local woolen mill at Christmas. It was simple and elegant, the slash neckline showing off the delicate lines of her throat and clavicles. The warm color flattered her creamy complexion, and set off the jet-black hair that she had just arranged “up” with careful negligence, a few strands straying enticingly forward across her face. On her feet she wore plain black boots, smart enough for work, sensible enough to wear anywhere in Loch Foy, whatever the weather. They were the product of one adventurous afternoon in the nearest town that had made her late for work last November— No, she knew she looked good. What bothered her was why she wanted to. Her heart was singing because Andrei had come to see her; however hard she tried, she could not make herself angry at this invasion of her privacy – after all, she was the one who had been so flustered she had forgotten to lock the door... The result was, she had woken up in his grasp with his face swimming before her, looking un-naturally large to her altered perception. Of course she hadn’t been able to feel then, as she could now, but she was sure she had sensed some tenderness in his touch, in his expression... She could not even worry over what she would say to him about the “missing” black queen. She had been right, she knew she had been right, that he was special, and that she was already more to him than the easy one-night stand… He was the

one. Fate had brought him to her after all this time. And yet she could not take advantage. He had to win this match to save his brother. Then he would leave. In her heart she knew that one weekend was not enough to hold anyone. It was not enough to bind him, to make him come back. It was only enough to churn her up worse than ever. She could love him more than life; it had already begun. But men did not love like that. She knew that for her own good, she should draw back from him this weekend. Keep the memory, keep the friendship, which would only fade from his mind with the weeks while other more important things filled his life. A life she would never share. That was, surely, the unkindest curse of all. It had not even been meant. It was just fate punishing her, she supposed, unhappily. But hell, was it not worth it to have known last night? Quickly, Christi turned away from the mirror, reaching for her warm waterproof jacket and left the room. She intended to work off the interminably circling thoughts in a brisk walk before going in to the bar. In the foyer, a sign outside the games room told her that Zuvarin had lost his game this morning. There was guilt, and a secret, shameful pleasure, in the thought that she could have been the cause of that— “Afternoon, Christi!” Archie said cheerfully, bustling past towards the kitchen. “Off out?” “Just a walk. I’ll be back in half an hour. How’re they doing?” “Garrick won this morning, if you haven’t heard. Apparently he’s ahead this afternoon too, but the Russian’s giving him more of a game this time. He could still win.” Smiling ruefully to herself as she walked on, Christi suspected that none of them were immune to Zuvarin’s charm. Archie and Tam at least were rooting for him against the British player. And it wasn’t just the old Scots “support anyone against the English” habit. It was raining outside, cold rain that was close to sleet. It was almost completely dark. Christi paused on the steps to pull up her hood, and caught sight of those Russian gangsters in the car park. They seemed to have just got out of an insignificant Fiat, from which two other people were also spilling. They looked as if they couldn’t all have got in there together. Christi carried on down the steps, keeping her gaze warily upon them. They were hurrying towards the hotel now, so their paths were bound to cross. Deliberately, Christi refused to get out of their way. It had been a long time since she had felt such hatred for anybody, and it didn’t help that she knew the feeling was more inspired by her own emotions concerning Andrei, than by a moral sense of right and wrong. They had split back into two couples by the time they passed her. First came the Russians, big, arrogant bullies, who smirked at her knowingly. Christi stared at them blankly until they passed. Then came the other two, talking in low-voiced but

unmistakable accents of Glasgow. Smaller, thinner, their faces were pinched and under-nourished, their movements jerky. The one on the left, with what looked like a knife-scar across his cheek glared at her aggressively just for being there, daring her ever to recall his face. The other, still talking, slid his gaze away. In many ways, Christi had led an isolated life. At nighttime, doing the sorts of job she had been obliged to, she had learned a lot. She could spot drug addicts quite easily, and the shifty one certainly came into that category. But it was what she overheard him saying that made her so thoughtful. *** She came back to the hotel shortly before five o’clock, entering the foyer in time to see the two Grand Masters spilling out of the games room, two paces ahead of their respective entourages, and barely three, it seemed, behind the hoards of audience and journalists who had been watching the game. She hadn’t meant him to see her like this, damp and breathless in her old rain jacket, with her hair all blown from careful to genuine disarray. But she forgot that at first sight of him, his eyes crinkling up with laughter as he said something to Garrick. Her heart turned over with a thump. Then he saw her, and without pause swerved away from Garrick and came straight toward her, unheeding of his brother’s call behind him. Her heart hammering like some foolish teenager’s, she went to meet him as sedately as she could. At first it seemed he would take her in his arms, but he only took her left hand in his right. He swayed slightly towards her, as if he was going to kiss her, and her breath caught in anticipation. Was it really as good, as electric as she was remembering it? She could have sworn he was as eager to find out as she, yet in the end he paused, and only smiled at her. It was a slightly rueful smile, but still, behind it, was something that sent the blood racing through her body. And still neither of them had spoken. It was Nikolai Zuvarin who broke the silence, arriving between them, urgently saying his brother’s name. Andrei’s breath seemed to catch, with what emotion Christi could not tell. His eyes veiled now; some persona had dropped over him like a comfortable coat he was still too warm actually to be bothered with. “Nikolai,” he said amiably. “Have you met my friend Christi from the hotel? She introduced me to that astounding whiskey.” “Actually that was Tam,” Christi said apologetically, holding out her hand to the younger Russian. Nikolai looked at first surprised, then hostile. For a moment she thought he would actually ignore her, and in fact, it was only when Andrei urgently kicked his foot that he grudgingly shook her hand and dropped it with ungracious speed. “Delighted to meet you too,” Christi said dryly, stepping deliberately back from

them. “Excuse me, I have to get to work…” Two paces away, she remembered, and turned back. “Andrei?” Nikolai already had his brother’s arm and was talking quietly and urgently into his ear. But at Christi’s word, he glanced up at once, brushing the younger man off like an irritating fly. Christi said, “Did you win?” His eyes flickered. She had brought reality back. Andrei said, “No. I lost. Twice.” Just for a moment, the urge to comfort him, to go to him and put her arms around him was fierce. She had even begun the movement before the journalists were there between them, blotting out both his anxiety and Nikolai’s hostile desperation. Fifteen minutes later, she found herself serving drinks to the Glasgow drug addict. He had a tendency to grunt but he wasn’t actually rude to her. Beside her, Tam watched him take the two pints across the lounge to where his friend waited at the table nearest the door. “Now what do you suppose these two are doing up here?” Tam wondered. “Don ’t look like ramblers to me. Or chess freaks.” “I’d say not,” Christi agreed. “Time to lock the doors,” he breathed in her ear. Christi glanced up at him mockingly. “What, because the Glaswegians are in town? What size of prejudice is that? Those two chess-nuts and several of the journalists are from Glasgow too, you know.” All the same she knew what he meant. There was something inherently disreputable about those two, even without their association with the Russian gangsters. So, keeping this at the forefront of her mind, she told Andrei about them when he finally came to the bar for his whiskey, and another for his brother. “These two by the door,” she breathed, pouring the amber malt into a glass. “I saw them this afternoon with your two – friends.” “Yes?” Andrei spared them a quick glance, although, flatteringly, his attention was taken up with her face. “I think,” she said determinedly, still keeping her voice low, “that they are here to buy heroine from your gangsters.” Andrei shrugged. “I’m sorry. But if it wasn’t from my gangsters it would be from somebody else…” “You’re missing the point,” Christi said impatiently. “They are about to commit a crime. All of them. If we get the police up here, you can get rid of your two without paying them a penny!” To her annoyance, he only smiled at her as if she was being sweet but naive. “We would still have to pay their organization. And one doesn’t – er – grass? – on these

types with impunity.” Piqued, Christi shrugged, pushing the glasses towards him. “Please yourself. It’s your funeral. Or at least Nikolai’s. Three pounds seventy please.” There was a pause. Then, “Add it to my bill,” Andrei said neutrally. “I’ll be able to pay that too.” Picking up the glasses he sauntered over to Nikolai who stood by the window watching. Deliberately, Christi turned to the next customer. But behind her smile she was suddenly miserable, because she had hurt him by the implication that he would lose and so fail his brother, because he had walked away like that without the faintest smile or the remotest sign of affection. He had not even remarked on her appearance when she had taken such stupid care... Well, did she not want a cooling off, a drawing back? Wouldn’t this make it easier when he left? After all, this time tomorrow, he would be gone. Please God, don’t let me cry at work. Only a little later, things got worse. Nikolai Zuvarin brought their empty glasses back to the bar, leaving his brother sitting down at a table, good-naturedly playing chess with one of his fans while the young man’s friends looked on with awe. As it happened, both Tam and Christi had just finished dealing with their customers, and both turned to Nikolai at the same time, but it was at Christi he addressed his request in careful English. “One more of these please.” “Just the one?” she asked, determinedly cheerful. “Just the one,” he repeated. She reached for a clean glass with one hand, and for the bottle of Andrei’s favorite malt with the other. Nikolai said abruptly. “My brother likes you.” Christi’s heart thumped once before she forced the reality back again. “Your brother likes everyone,” she said lightly. “Everyone does not distract him and make him lose.” Stunned, her eyes flew to his. Oddly, she saw little animosity there; mainly it was fear. Her sense of unfairness at his accusation began to melt away; the sharp retort already rising to her lips was never made. Before she had even laid down the bottle, Nikolai had taken the whiskey and gone. In fact, his accusation was not so wide of the mark. To have such an effect on somebody was surely flattering. Although he had been at least as much to blame as her last night, he had still been too tired this morning to play his best. Nikolai was right. Besides, it was all very well being noble, not giving him the opportunity to sacrifice his brother for her. It was another thing entirely to be the cause of his losing his brother anyway. The endless evening went on like a nightmare from which she could not wake up. As she worked and served, Christi could not help being aware of Andrei, beating

each of his three fans in turn, amiably buying them drinks and apparently having a good time under Nikolai’s glowering eye. Gradually the ache of loss mingled with the ache of her need, so that by the time he left for the dining room she had a miserable taste of what the rest of her life was going to be like. Unhappy ever after... CHAPTER 5 Archie’s attempt to persuade her to work late was only half-hearted. He was well aware he had her to thank for tidying the bar early that morning, and he was happy enough to split the over-time the same way again. So at eleven o’clock, Christi left the lounge and wearily climbed up the stairs. Already she had acknowledged that her misery was helping no one; by the time she reached the third-floor door marked “Staff Only” she knew what she would do. She would phone the police herself, describe the two Scots characters and the conversation she had overheard. With luck, she thought grimly, pushing open the door, the police would take care of the Russians too, and since it was she who had done the “grassing”, the Zuvarin brothers would be off the hook whether Andrei won tomorrow or not. And he had to win both games now to tie up the match… On the fourth step up to her attic, Christi came to a halt, blinking at the unprecedented sight of a pair of large black boots planted squarely on the step at eye level. Slowly she lifted her gaze, following the long legged jeans up to a pair of bent knees, wide apart, with two large, familiar hands dangling between. She didn’t need to move on, over the lean, muscled thighs and a different, still baggy sweater to learn the face of the man sitting on the stairs watching her, his expression unreadable. She swallowed. “What are you doing here?” she asked lightly, although her heart was beating and beating and beating. He looked surprised. “I came to play chess.” Her breath caught on unexpected laughter. “Do you never tire of that game?” “No.” His smile was answering her. It was only then, when his face relaxed, that she realized how tense he had been. By no means had he been sure of his welcome. And even that tiny hint of vulnerability was enough to melt her. Deliberately, she moved on up the stairs, and he rose quickly to let her pass. It brought them too close together, and just for an instant she paused to glance fleetingly up into his face. He looked so tired, so determined to hide whatever pain or anxiety he felt, that she acted quite involuntarily, resting her forehead on the rough wool of his chest in an instinctive gesture of comfort. Yet as soon as she felt his arms move to enclose her, she drew nervously back, hurrying past him to the top of the stairs. He was behind her on the landing, watching steadily as she hesitated outside her bedroom door before glancing back at him over her shoulder.

“Coffee?” she offered. It felt as if she was offering her life... “I’ll make it,” he said unexpectedly. “You’ve been working all evening.” Blinking through her astonishment, she watched him brush past her into the kitchen and reach for the kettle. Why, she wondered, only half-amused, had she never met him before? In the bedroom, she picked a towel and a discarded pair of jeans off the floor, and quickly put them away. Then she drew the little chess table into the middle of the room, and brought two cushions from the rickety chair, placing them carefully on either side of the table. There wasn’t much she could do about the stark lighting of the place – except get out some candles, but that seemed somehow too deliberately seductive. Seducing him was the last thing she wanted now. Wasn’t it? As if on cue, he walked into the room. Even in the mundane, domestic situation of carrying two mugs into a shabby bed-sit, he managed to look sexy. The easy roll of his hips set all her memories on edge; a sudden release of moisture dampened the thin cotton of her knickers. She knew she would have to fight for her sanity if he stayed very long... He grinned at sight of the chessboard laid out, coming quickly over to put down the cups and sit cross-legged at the black side. His eye caught on the empty square, and held. Something churned uncomfortably inside her – she had forgotten about the wretched queen. “It’s gone again,” he observed neutrally. “Yes,” Christi agreed. She didn’t know what else to say. His lips twitched slightly. “I saw it this afternoon when I came to look for you.” His eyes met hers, inviting her to share the joke. “I even thought it looked like you.” She said steadily, “Someone else said the same thing once.” “So where is it now?” he asked, looking around him. “It’s – gone,” she said feebly. “It tends to – come and go.” He looked quizzical. “How?” She smiled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Standing up, she went to the little chest-of-drawers, and brought back a small perfume bottle that Archie and his wife had given her for Christmas, placing it on the black queen’s square. “Try me,” Andrei said. Christi shook her head. “Maybe later.” Much later. Or never. Reaching out, she moved her queen’s pawn two squares forward. After a pause, when he didn’t play, she glanced up at him interrogatively. She knew enough about chess to be aware that the opening moves were played almost automatically by experienced players, and with a speed that was baffling to beginners. Yet Andrei made no response to her first move.

In fact, he was not even watching the board. His gaze was on her face, making her heart melt and spread its heat lower and lower. He only stirred when she lifted her eyebrows at him. “Christi, are you married?” he asked. She blinked. “No. Are you?” “Not any more. I was married at twenty, amicably divorced at twenty-four. It’s been bothering me since last night: you said you were not free.” Her breath caught. “I’m not. But it has nothing to do with marriage.” “There is someone else in your life?” Again, his eyes were veiled. But knowing him now, she realized he was preparing himself against hurt. And in spite of everything, there was joy in that for her, because it showed he was already beginning to care for her. He was the one; he could have been... To protect them both, she should have said “Yes, there is someone else.” It gave her the excuse to draw back, to push him away. But even as her mouth opened to say it, his big, dark eyes seemed to swallow her, and she found she could not lie to him. “No. There is no one else. Not now.” Dragging her eyes free, she gazed pointedly at the board. Still, he did not play. In the room below, someone slammed a door, and two people laughed with the boisterousness of drunks. He said, “I would fight for you, you know. Any way I could.” Her eyes flew back to his. He was smiling slightly, yet his eyes and his voice were serious. Longing rose up like a tide, forcing her to close her eyes against it. Men had said such things before, even the first time, and yet from him it was new and it was wonderful and it was totally impossible. “I thought,” she said shakily, opening her eyes again, “that you wanted to play chess?” His breath came out in a silent laugh that was only part amusement. “All right. But we can talk as we play.” “You talk then. I have to concentrate.” “I was thinking,” he said, “about your advice this evening. If the police came here for your Scots thugs, then the Russians would be inhibited from acting against us until I could get Nikolai away. If I don’t win.” While he spoke, he made two moves, without even looking at the board so far as Christi could see, and she had made the one in between. Now, bringing out her knight, she said carefully, “You are assuming you will not win. I didn’t mean that, you know.” “I know. And I will beat Garrick tomorrow. Twice.” “Of course you will,” she said, smiling at him with genuine pride. He could not

have known that her heart was breaking, because after those games he would be gone. “When—when will you leave? That was sneaky!” she exclaimed, interrupting her own tentative question as he took the knight, leaving her unable to retaliate without the loss of her queen. “It’s my middle-name. I can stay on a little. If you like.” And that warmed her, even though it was a game, like the one on the board, to distract them from the unpleasant and painful realities of tomorrow. He beat her of course, and it didn’t take long. The time was more memorable to Christi for the strange new pleasure she found in sitting close to him without touching, in just seeing him every time she looked up. Each fresh sight of him made her heart jolt; every time he moved, stretching his arms across the board anywhere near her, her body silently shrieked out its awareness, its restlessly growing need until her knickers were so damp that she was afraid he might somehow see or smell it. And if it was slightly frustrating that he barely took the trouble to glance at her moves, at least he did her the courtesy of not pretending. “Another!” Christi demanded, determinedly setting the pieces back up. She was a glutton for punishment, but truly this was the sweetest torture she could ever remember. Andrei shook his head, smiling. “Why not?” she challenged. “I suppose it’s boring for you to play someone like me.” “Not at all,” he said politely. “You play very well for an amateur.” Pulling the cushion from underneath her, she threw it at him. He caught it deftly in one hand, grinning. Then, with the smile still dying in his eyes, he said, “Actually, there’s another game I’d like to play with you now.” Hot blood rose up into her face immediately. Moisture seeped down her thighs. This was her chance to dismiss him, or at least to keep the level playful rather than passionate. But the timbre of his voice had set fire to the smoldering embers of her tortured body, and all at once common sense seemed beyond her. “Andrei, stop it,” she whispered. “Why?” Suddenly, he leaned over the table and kissed her lips, a quick kiss, with more promise than passion, and yet her mouth showed a distressing inclination to cling longer than his. “Why do you hold back?” he said, shifting his long legs so that he could pull his body round to hers, touching her shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. “Because this is all too fast? You think I am,” he paused, struggling for the right word, “—using you?” Blindly, she shook her head. “It’s I who am using you.”

His eyes crinkled with laughter. “Believe me, I’m willing! Christi, if you don’t want to talk about scary things like ‘The Future’, then we’ll leave it for a while. I’m in no hurry. Let’s just enjoy the present, have some fun – and God, I have never in my life known such fun as I have had with you—” Nothing else mattered. She didn’t even let him finish his sentence before she reached up to his lips, mouth open and inviting as it claimed his. And so it began again - the scorching kiss that opened the door to everything else. His arms were around her, inside the elegant cashmere sweater, stroking the naked flesh of her back while the fingers of one hand unerringly found and caressed her left breast. Gasping, she dragged at his sweater, climbing astride him so that she could feel his thrusting hardness. Between them they had his sweater and shirt off and he lay back on the floor, his breathing wildly erratic. She stroked his naked shoulders and chest, her trembling fingers twining in the scattering of course black hair she found there. Quickly, she bent, snaking her tongue across his skin to his navel, probing. As he gasped, she let her tongue trail sensuously down the fine, sexy line of hair till it was stopped by his jeans. Then, lifting her head, she worked at his buttons until they parted around his huge bulge. Smiling, she lowered her head again, her tongue picking up exactly where it had left off, traveling down across his flat belly. Every tiny sound of his arousal, every caught breath, every low growl and groan was music in her ears. For a time, he let her tease and push caressingly at his briefs, cupping the rock-hard column of his covered cock so that she could bite gently at it with her teeth, all the while, so very gradually, releasing it from its bondage till at last it sprang up swollen and angry and very, very ready. Only when she finally held it in her hands, stroking the length of its engorged blue veins, did he move his hips involuntarily and gasping, bite rather desperately at his lower lip. Slowly, watching him now, Christi bent her head, just touching, teasing him, with her lips, before taking him deliberately, strongly into her mouth. Andrei whispered something in Russian, his eyes closed as his hands reached for her head, twisting gently into her hair. His ragged breathing was the only sound she could hear. Then he groaned, long and deep and suddenly leapt for her, dragging her up to him, seamlessly pulling her top over her arms and head, his pushing fingers taking the opportunity to feel sensuously at her breasts on the way past. Abruptly, he rolled her over so that she was beneath him, his mouth ravaging her lips, her throat, her breasts, his tongue lingering, flickering wildly across her straining nipples. Somehow, they were totally naked and his fingers had once again found her dripping wet pussy, caressing among her sensitive petals so slowly, so butterfly light that she could only moan with the languorous, unbearable pleasure, her hands clutching and stroking his broad shoulders, rejoicing in the thick muscle of his arms and back. His finger had found her entrance now, teasing around it so that she pushed her hips towards him, pleading. Laughing softly, he obliged, sliding one finger into her slick, tight opening while his thumb found and flickered across her clitoris. Christi

moaned aloud, thrusting herself further onto his finger, writhing in pleasure. He withdrew it, gently spreading her own moisture all around the folds and valleys of her pussy before pushing slowly back into her again, this time with two fingers. His mouth closed on hers, muffling the sounds of her delight, and all through the kiss, his fingers worked their magic, inside and out, coaxing her to surely impossible heights of desire. Uncaring of everything except her body’s need and pleasure, she moaned into his mouth, gyrating and pushing against him. Finally, he broke the kiss for lack of breath, and just for a moment he was quite still, his fingers inside her, his eyes locked to hers, and then, achingly slowly, still intently watching every expression of her face, he slid his fingers out and entered her with his cock. Her ecstatic moan was low and long. But despite the weakness, she found she could squeeze him till his voice answered hers and he began to move deliciously within her. Although they were so different in size, their bodies were somehow perfectly matched, perfectly attuned to the rhythm of each other’s desires and passions, following each other through the stages of pleasure like some complicated dance. Gradually, he began to maneuver his legs around hers, lifting her, turning her without leaving her body, experimenting with the intoxicating differences in intensity. At last he knelt behind her, holding her close against his sweat-matted chest with both hands covering her breasts while she pressed back into him. Her arms stretched up behind her to his neck, her eyes closed as she gave herself up to the astounding pleasure his cock was giving her as it slid caressingly up and down the pulsating tunnel of her pussy. Tiny, animal-like sounds she had never heard before came from her lips, till she reached round and fastened them to his. The pleasure grew now with unstoppable pace, as his thrusts quickened in response to her silent asking. Still kneeling with him, the pounding against her buttocks excited her beyond everything. With arms, lips, and pussy, she clung to him, uninhibitedly moaning out her desperate, wondrous anticipation as she forced him beyond the limits of his control. As the first delicious waves of her orgasm began, one of his hands slid down over her flat stomach and held her between her thighs. His palm circled, one finger caressing her clitoris so that the pleasures melded and exploded into one blinding, unstoppable tide. The waves crashed over and through her, on and on, so that nothing else in the world had ever mattered beside this incredible, terrible joy. Somewhere in the middle of it, she heard his own wild breathing change into the deep, growling sounds of his own climax as his seed erupted into her. He shouted so loudly she was sure they must hear him all over the hotel. Yet she didn’t care: his uninhibited ecstasy was entrancing to her, adding unimaginably to a pleasure that was already greater than any she could remember. At last, still joined, they lay down, curled together like spoons, recovering breath and wits. Moisture, hers as well as his, trickled down her thigh as his sated penis

began to contract. It was Andrei who moved first, slipping out of her and tenderly kissing her hair. Then, squeezing his arms around her, he whispered, “Do you know, you are the most exciting woman I have ever met?” She smiled, lazily, smugly, like a contented cat. “Well,” she said, “chess players don’t get out much.” She turned in his embrace so that she could wind her arms around his neck, and at once, he gathered her up and rose to his feet, carrying her like a baby. “Where are we going?” she asked, still lazily amused. “To bed, to do it all again. Your floor is not comfortable, you know, and this is not a warm country in January.” “Nor any other month,” she agreed as he deposited her on the bed. Wriggling happily under the covers, she made space for him to slide in beside her. *** For a moment, she looked so beautiful lying there, smiling, shining-eyed with her raven hair spilling across the pillow that Andrei just gazed at her. “Why me?” He was in the habit of saying what was in his head, but as soon as those words were out he regretted them, uncharacteristically afraid of her response. To cover it, he quickly climbed into the narrow bed beside her. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “But it is you. It is.” Her head turned away from him as she spoke, but it was too late. Through the upsurge of gladness at her unexpected words, he had seen the wetness in her eyes, and at once, he wrapped his arms around her, his fingers guiltily brushing the tears from her cheeks. “Darling! I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he whispered helplessly. “Please—” But she was smiling. “I’m not crying,” she said. “This is me happy.” Her delicate fingers touched his face caressingly. Her dark blue eyes were soft and tender as he had never seen them, melting his heart with hope. However, he knew now not to push her. Instead, he struggled somewhat belatedly for responsibility. “You are amazing,” he said, returning her kiss, and giving her one of her own. “But you take risks—” “What risks?” she asked idly, apparently fascinated by the play of muscles in his shoulder and arm. He said seriously, “We have had unprotected sex. Twice.” She only smiled. “I can’t have children.” It was said matter-of-factly, as if to reassure him, as if it was something she had had centuries to come to terms with. Slightly puzzled, he pursued it more sternly. “There are other risks.”

Her eyes lifted at last to his. “I know,” she said. “But I trust you.” His breath caught, making his grip on her tighten involuntarily until she squeaked. “Christi! As it happens, you can trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you. And despite what your newspapers write, I am not really a promiscuous man – except compared to Garrick,” he added fairly. “Yes? But who’s that beautiful girl who’s always with him?” Andrei grimaced. “Eleanor? His fiancée apparently – though I’ve never even seen him speak to her. But seriously, Christi, you can’t trust strangers.” “You don’t need to lecture me,” she said comfortably. “Believe me, I don’t normally take chances, and I know men better than you think.” Jealousy rose quickly in him then, for although it had always been clear to him that behind her oddly innocent, uninhibited passion, was a wealth of sexual experience, still he could not bear to think of her with other men. Somewhere, he felt stunned by the realization. When had that happened to him? He was the most easy-going of men, and here she had turned him into a green-eyed monster in twenty-four hours! He could have ignored her comment; he wanted to very badly, but suddenly now, he had to know. So, lashing himself, he said neutrally, “Someone like you must have had many lovers.” “Why does that not sound like a compliment?” she mused. Though she didn’t move out of his arms, he suddenly felt the distance between them like an arctic sea. “As it happens, there is no one else like me. And yes, I have known many lovers – is that so terrible a crime?” “Is it a crime to be jealous?” he countered ruefully, already accepting that because of his foolishness he would have to win her all over again. But a quick frown appeared on her brow at his words; the expressions flitted so fast across her face that he could not follow them, and then abruptly, she was clinging close into him. “Don’t be jealous, please don’t be,” she was whispering incoherently. “There is no need. There is no one like you, there never has been, I know it.” Straining to hear her, to understand, to think beyond the intoxicating feel of her naked, straining body in his arms, his heart began to beat like a drum. Desperate not to say the wrong thing now, he still could not keep this to himself. He lifted his hand to her hair, gently turning her face out of his neck so that he could see her. It was like looking at himself reflected in her wet eyes, both desperate, afraid and filled with longing. His breath caught, because suddenly he was sure, he knew that she felt it too. “Christi, do you – love me?” Her hand came up to touch his cheek, his lips. Softly, she said, “If it is possible to love someone in a day, then I love you. I have no other word for what I feel.” Unable to wait for more, he silenced her with his mouth, kissing her as though his life

depended on it, savoring the sweet taste of her lips, the instant response of her darting tongue against his. There was only one thing to do now, make love to her slowly and tenderly, as if she were something so delicate and precious that she might break at any moment. So he did. CHAPTER 6 Andrei woke with the naked girl in his arms kissing him. Which was a wonderful way to begin the day. “Andrei,” she whispered. “Andrei, you have to go now.” Suddenly his eyes snapped open. “The game!” he exclaimed in Russian, but she appeared to understand, instantly soothing him. “No no, you have plenty of time for that. It’s only six o’clock. But you should go...” He smiled up at her, memories not even half-forgotten flooding back. “No I shouldn’t. I should be here with you. I won’t mind if you make love to me.” “Andrei, I don’t have the time. I want you to go.” Suddenly her voice was cold, her words unbending. Slowly, his joy began to crumble around him. He sat up and looked at her. They had fallen asleep with the light still on, and in its harsh electric glow, her face looked white and strained. Her full, passionate mouth was firmly set, brooking no argument. If it had only been that, he would have forced himself to go, somehow. But whatever her face or her words said, her eyes could not lie to him any more. They held a desperation that was close to fear, a sadness, a sorrow so deep that it shocked him. Instinctively, his hand reached for her, but she drew back at once, stiff as a rod. His breath caught, his hand fell. “All right,” he agreed quietly. “I’ll go. But you have to tell me why. For last night, and what we said then, you owe me that.” Her eyes closed, though her body still refused to bend. He saw her throat move as she swallowed compulsively. “Andrei, if you love me at all, go now. We can talk later.” “No, we talk now. I can go later.” Something caught in her throat. It might, incredibly, have been laughter. “Oh damn you, if you don’t go now, there will be no later! You have a chess game – two chess games! To win! Go, rest.” “But this isn’t about my games,” he interrupted shrewdly. “Is it?” Her quick glance acknowledged it. She drew in a deep breath. “Partly. Listen, there is no time to tell you everything now. It’s the life story thing – you remember I said I would tell you one day? Well, I will, but now is not the time. You have to go. We forgot to phone the police last night, so you’ll have to do it this morning – it’s your insurance. When you’ve done it, you can concentrate on your chess.

Afterwards, come and see me.” He shook his head stubbornly. “No. I’m not leaving you like this. Something’s frightening you.” “Your being here is frightening me!” she cried, and that silenced him, because against all reason he sensed there was truth there. “I think,” he said slowly, “that you will have to tell me that life-story now. An edited version will do, so long as I understand. How long do I have?” For a moment she seemed floored by his sudden acceptance of her time limit. Then, glancing up at the little window, she said, “Maybe an hour. Probably not so much.” “Then tell.” She looked down helplessly at her hands for so long that he reached out and covered them with his. This time, she did not draw back. In fact, he saw a smile flicker across her strained face. Her beauty caught at his breath all over again. She said, “I am not what you think me. I am not young, or free, or without care. I ’m not even a very nice person. I was born selfish and pleasure seeking, and in my own defense, I can only say that I was not brought up to consider others. “My name is Christian Blythe. Lady Christian, if you like titles. My father was the Earl of Harriden, and I was brought up in his castle in the Lothians at a time of war.” Andrei stirred in silent protest, and at last her eyes lifted to his. The desperation had not gone, but instead of sorrow, he saw a new, fierce mockery. “You asked,” she pointed out. “I told you last night you wouldn’t believe it. But I’ll tell you my fairy tale anyway. First though, promise me one thing?” “Of course,” Andrei said, with such promptness that the smile flickered once more and was gone. “Promise me you will play to win today. Save Nikolai.” A quick frown of puzzlement drew down his brow. “Of course.” At last, her body seemed to relax. Her fingers even turned in his and gripped, although her voice kept its light, almost sarcastic tone as she began her tale. “In that case, I’ll miss out my childhood and go straight to the point. I had better tell you that the year was 1298, I was seventeen years old and unmarried only because my father kept using my betrothal as a bargaining chip when he changed sides. As he frequently did. You see, if you don’t know your Scottish history – and indeed, why should you? – this was the middle of the Scottish Wars of Independence, when Scotland sought to keep out King Edward of England, when William Wallace was still the leader of Scots resistance, and great nobles like my father played at patriotism with one eye on their lands and wealth in England. Whenever we were defeated, my father would grovel to Edward, re-swear his allegiance, and carry on much as before until he felt it was safe to rebel again. They all did that. Except men like Wallace, who were the true heroes, because Edward

could – and did – punish them with unspeakable harshness... “My first love was one of Wallace’s soldiers. He followed him from pure belief in his cause, although in the north-west, not so very far from here, he held a small amount of land of my mother – who was also a Highlander by birth. That was how he came to be with us so often, to carry messages between Wallace and my father.” She paused, as if getting the story straight in her head. And Andrei, unclear where this was leading, and unsure if he was meant to regard the story as nonsense or as some kind of metaphor, prompted lightly: “Did you want to marry this man?” “Ruaridh? Oh yes, but it was impossible. He was beneath my rank, and in any case he was already married. But I was young, I thought I was in love, and that he would love me for ever beyond everything and everyone else. Including his wife, whom I didn’t really consider at all. Which was not only cruel and immoral. It was a mistake. Anyway, we were together when we could be. He would sneak secretly into my chamber so that we could make love.” Something in his expression must have caught her here, for she laughed unkindly. “To get to the point, his wife followed him one night, and caught us in flagrante. She was a witch. Did I say she was a witch? If I thought about her at all in those days, I imagined this meant she was old and ugly and ate spiders to cure warts. She wasn’t and she didn’t. In fact, she was a healer who often helped my mother. But she did curse me. She stole my soul and cast it into...” Her hands gripped his while he stared at her, knowing what she would say now, and quite desperate for some reason not to hear it. “—into the black queen of the chess set that stood in my room. She said I would return to the queen every dawn, and to myself every dusk, for eternity. She even said a rhyme, but since she was a terrible poet, I’ve forgotten most of it. Anyway, that is what happened to me, every dawn and every dusk, for seven hundred years.” Her voice was deliberately melodramatic now. “I moved around the country sometimes, in the dark, usually in winter when the nights are long, never staying too long in one place, just finding a comfortable place to exist, somewhere to work so that I could eat and drink and pay for lodgings, and live my secret life. Each dawn, I died, although it was a curious half-death. Unable to speak or to move, I could still see through the queen’s eyes, still hear with her ears and think with my own mind. I could even sense things like movement and weight. I can’t pretend it was easy, especially in the past - you meet some awful people after dark. But with centuries at your disposal you learn eventually to deal with violence and abuse, and to protect yourself from betrayal and hurt.” Abruptly, in face of his sudden frown, her expression changed from exaggerated suffering to wicked mischief. “On the other hand, the last thirty or so years have been great fun for me, sexual freedom and female liberation! I could behave as I liked, go where I liked, though still I can never move far at a time. “Over the years I have made it as far south as London, and as far north as John o ’Groats. I have lived in Edinburgh, and in Glasgow and Inverness, and just about

everywhere in between, several times, always looking.” “Looking for what?” he asked, still frowning, for without reason he was suddenly filled with pity for her, as if her silly story were true. “For The One,” she said sardonically. Her lips tugged upwards into a smile as she looked up into his eyes. Hers were glinting with mockery. “For you. Don’t you know that your true love is always the one to break the spell?” A huge constriction was squeezing his heart. He wanted to weep for her; he wanted to crush her forever in his arms, because she was his, frail and damaged as he had never expected and so bravely hiding it in her self-mocking story, which surely revealed some genuine, terrible abuse. He said steadily, “And how do I do that? How do I break the spell?” She gave a short laugh. “Well, we’re back to the bad poetry. I once spent some of my daytime translating it into English and making it rhyme – and thus discovered I was as rotten at poetry as she was. It went something like, By true love you must be won, Yet the winning your love must shun, In one vital game or in none. Shocking, isn’t it? Actually it was even more shocking in the original Gaelic, which was ancient even then.” “What does it mean?” he asked, completely baffled. “Well, I can only guess because of course I was there when she said it, and because sometimes she looked at me, sometimes at Ruaridh, and sometimes at the chess set. But I think she meant that in some game of chess between my true love and another, my love must win the black queen, and yet still lose the game – deliberately perhaps. And that you only get to try once.” She shrugged, and gave another brittle laugh. “Just win tomorrow for Nikolai.” “And you,” he said lightly, playing her game because he didn’t know what else to do or say. “What will happen to you if I don’t win the black queen and lose the game?” “Nothing,” she said steadily. “I will remain the same. Exactly the same.” “And if I do win the queen and lose to Garrick?” “Then I would be free of the curse,” she said dramatically, throwing back her head and raising one arm to her forehead as if to protect herself from the dazzling light. Andrei’s eyes, smiling faintly at her antics, tried not to follow the quilt slipping down past her breasts. “—and able to see a sunrise again.” Another quick, breathless laugh. “But you promised me not to lose to Garrick.” She broke off. “Enough. Story time is over. Now you go.” “No.” Slowly, he reached for her, dragging her tenderly into his arms. “Now I don’t go. Now I stay with you through the dawn and we have breakfast together. You’re trying to make me think that you’re entertaining me with a fairy-tale, to make me angry and leave. But at heart, I think you believe at least some of this nonsense, and—”

“Andrei, please go now, please,” she said agitatedly. “I haven’t got long, I can’t bear—” “Hush,” he said, and silenced her the only way he could, comforting her the only way he knew, with instinctive lips and hands and body. And though she wept with distress, tears coursing down her cheeks, and streaming off her hair into his mouth and face and arms, still she clung to him, as if her body could do no less, as if despite everything she had said, she needed him. As he made love to her with a tenderness he had never known before, thrusting in and out of her with an ever-growing intensity of pleasure, glorying in her kisses and the eager caresses of her hands and body, he knew it would be all right. In fact, her loving was even more passionate than before, as if she could drown the pain of her past in her body’s present joy. Christi whispered agitatedly against the skin of his shoulder, “Here it comes, here it comes, oh Andrei, it’s coming…” He thought she meant her orgasm, and so he smiled into her tightly closed eyes and thrust faster for his own release. The orgasm, huge as it always was with her, was this time so blinding that it actually blotted out her beauty until she became no more than a long, shining streak of vapor. His body in spasm felt so light that he could not even feel hers. Somewhere he missed her cry of joy, and hated himself for misjudging the pleasure he was now incapable of stopping. When his vision cleared, his arms were empty and he realized that he was alone in the bed. And in the middle of the floor, the chess set stood complete, the black queen on her own black square. CHAPTER 7 Christi woke with a bump, the sort that comes immediately after a falling dream and makes you jump and cry out in bed. Only she couldn’t move, and she couldn’t cry out, because she wasn’t in bed; she was in darkness, and something was on top of her. She couldn’t feel it, it was so light, but she knew it was there, blocking her vision. Then it moved. Something swung her through the air into the light; and a face she knew well was gazing at her. At last her befuddled wits began to understand what was going on. It was still daytime. Someone had moved the chess pieces – swept them into a box perhaps? Then Andrei had lifted her out again, to look at her. The sight of his strong, lean-boned face brought back the ache her sleep had banished. Of course, he had seen it happen. He knew everything now. As once before, his long, sensitive finger softly brushed her cheek. He spoke to her, but in Russian, and she had no idea what it was. It didn’t matter, his voice was tender, his big, dark eyes gentle. Then he laid her back down, on her side, this time

at the top of the pile, and it was in a box, the familiar box she carried the pieces in whenever she moved. The lid slid over, blanketing her in darkness once more. So where was he taking the set? Would he take her to Russia with him? She thought she would burst with the strength of her trapped emotions then. Because without a doubt she would forego all chance of freedom without him, for just a few more nights of his love. And not just because of the sex. Last night had been astounding, from the first kiss right up to that third and final climax: she had kept on coming during her spinning journey back into the black queen and even after being trapped there, dazed, the final sensations of pleasure heightened most weirdly by her complete inability to move. Yes, that had all been spectacular, but greedily now, it was all of Andrei she wanted. She wanted to hold hands in the sunshine, go out to restaurants with him, wake up with him in the mornings. Hell, she even wanted the boring bits of him, if there were any... Helplessly, she felt the bumping and jolting, which he could not avoid with all the care in the world. She thought he must be going downstairs. A lot of stairs. Then she heard voices, British voices and Russian, Andrei’s in among them. Then there was more movement and, she could have sworn, a less careful pair of hands carrying the box. A few moments later, she heard the noise of the wooden lid sliding back, and light flooded in. It was another hand that lifted her out, another face rammed up close to hers. Garrick’s. “Beautiful pieces,” the Englishman said grudgingly. “Walrus ivory, perhaps, like the Lewis set… How old is it?” Andrei’s deep, beloved tones answered neutrally, “About seven hundred, I believe. Perhaps more.” “Is it Russian?” “No, I don’t think so. It’s been in Scotland for many years, but I don’t know where it was made. I can find out later, if you like – as I said, I borrowed it from a friend. It would be a shame not to use it though, don’t you think? When it is so – special?” Unceremoniously, Christi was dropped back into the box. It hurt. Garrick said impatiently, “I have no objection if the officials don’t. The pieces are clear enough to play with.” Then his voice changed, lowering to add, “Think it’ll bring you more luck, Zuvarin?” “I hope so. Two-one is not an unassailable lead, you know.” By this time, Christi had finally understood what was going on. Andrei was persuading them to use her chess pieces for the last two games. He was trying to save her after all. Her. Not Nikolai.

It must have been guilt. Because he hadn’t believed her ridiculous story last night. And now, now he would never forgive himself if he lost Nikolai to the punishment of those callous brutes. Any emotional pain or distress always felt worse while she was in this form, because she could not move or speak to relieve it. The next two hours were helpless agony to her, while the officials doubtfully approved the use of the pieces, and then set them up. Finally, the game began. The two Grand Masters played at a table in the middle of the room. Beside each man was a small table with a glass and a jug of water. The audience sat on chairs set out on all four sides around them. The front row on the right was occupied by officials from the Scottish Chess Association. There were TV cameras and lights overhead, looking down at the central table. All this she picked up before the game itself began. Both players were greeted with enthusiastic applause when they arrived to take their places. And in terror, she saw that it was Andrei who sat down opposite her on the far side. He was playing white. This was his chance to win her, to capture her from Garrick. And never, never after all the years of searching, of false hopes and eternal disappointments, had she thought to be so miserable at the prospect of her true love fighting, and sacrificing for her freedom. Surely, surely, he would not risk his own brother? It wasn’t always easy to follow the moves. It depended where she was on the board, and what angle Garrick put her down at. But since there was nothing she could do to alter the outcome of the game in any case, she spent most of her time watching Andrei instead, the deep lines of exhaustion and anxiety around his eyes, the frown of concentration between his black brows. The world was shut out. She knew that even if she were to stand before him now, as a woman, he would not see her. This was serious chess-mode, and the sheer intensity of his attention was awesome. She saw Nikolai Zuvarin sometimes, restless, understandably worried on the front row of the left-hand side. And behind him, no doubt deliberately, sat the two Russian gangsters. She could also see the various chess fans who had come into the bar, and recognized some of the journalists, some yawning, some taking excited notes. Way over at the window, she saw the two Glasgow drug dealers. Even the nervy one seemed stiller today, which was as well since they’d have been thrown out in any other condition. But Christi couldn’t help wondering what they were doing here. Surely they would have gone by now if the Russians had done the deal. Perhaps the Russians were still vetting the Scots hoodlums, wary of being set-up... Suddenly her attention was dragged back to the board as Andrei’s hand reached out, lifted her up and put a bishop in her place. With a practiced flick with the heel of his hand, he knocked down the clock button He had won her. Please God, please God, don’t let him lose - I swear I will never be bad again,

if only Andrei can win... For a time she was held in his hand, as if carelessly, while he watched Garrick’s move. Christi could feel his thumb gently stroking her head. She wondered if she would do the same for him, risk her family… But her family had been dead nearly seven hundred years. She couldn’t even remember what they had looked like. Even her gentle, unhappy mother was a grey blur; her father, a large, roaring one. And Ruaridh, who had begun it all, just another faceless memory. Oddly it was Maire she could remember most from those days, her mother’s healer whom she had barely noticed until the woman cursed her so spectacularly. It was a long time since Ruaridh had seemed so real. But Andrei was, and he must not risk his brother, his caring soul, for her cursed one… The audience began to erupt into cheers. Christi thought she would die. She would rather die than see him lose now. Andrei’s grip on her slackened. She was set down with the other taken pieces and finally she could see the board before her. Garrick’s king lay on its side. The Englishman had acknowledged defeat. The relief was even more intense than the anxiety. It would have been easy to lose consciousness, but she forced herself to stay awake, to take it in. Andrei Zuvarin had won, and was back on course. They had now won two games each, and the last game would be the decider... Andrei and Garrick were shaking hands across the table, then Andrei stood and bowed his acknowledgment to the crowd. It was while he was doing so, that Christi heard Garrick say, “Good God, what are the police doing here?” His words were calming; her plan was coming together, and the worst danger was over. Andrei would play black in the final game, so he could not win her... Now both Grand Masters were being called to the other side of the room to give their thoughts to interviewers. The watching crowd began to move, standing, milling towards the door, most of them peering over each other’s heads to see what was going on in front of the cameras. Christi could see some of that. As luck would have it, she could also see right across to the seats by the window, and because her line of vision was so low, she quite clearly observed one dirty trainer, casually kicking something under the closed curtain. The hidden object looked to be about the size of a large book; and the trainer was on the foot of the scarred drug-dealer from Glasgow. She barely had time to register the significance of this, for already he and his mate were pushing through towards the door with everyone else. *** Christi was used to passing her daylight hours in silence, in sleep and in thought. Over the years she had learned to deal with the annihilating boredom, so that now she almost needed the solitude. That January Sunday, she seemed doomed not to get any. It would have made no difference if they had cleared the room – her mind would still have been agonizing over whether the police had arrested the drug-dealers, if there had been drugs on them, and if they would be so obliging as to

grass-up the Russian gangsters… As it was, the room partially emptied, leaving only the Grand Masters, a film crew and a well-known BBC interviewer who was, apparently, conducting quick five-minute chats with each player. From her place on the table, now back on her own square, she could not see Andrei. She had to imagine him sprawled at his ease in the black armchair she had noticed earlier, perhaps with one long leg crossed over the knee of the other. The interviewer began with a smile in her voice. “Well, congratulations, Andrei, on a fine victory this morning.” “Thank you.” “You looked a different player today – did you feel different?” “More – focused,” Andrei said guardedly. “There is a rumor that you were ill yesterday – is that true?” “No,” said Andrei honestly. “Garrick just played better than me. Admittedly I was sh—rotten, but he seized every advantage.” “You have won a lot of friends since coming to Scotland – how do you feel about that?” “Very pleased, of course. I have found everyone so friendly and easy-going—” “Is that why you insisted on Scotland as the venue for your return-match with Garrick?” There was a slight pause, then: “To be honest, I did not want a return match with Garrick. Not so soon. I felt that since I had beaten him in London, we had no more to say to each other, chess-wise, for a few years at least. Besides it was hardly impossible that we would meet again at the next world championship. I don’t care for big tournaments.” He was grinning now, she could feel it as well as hear it in his voice as he added with disarming honesty, “I insisted on this hotel in Loch Foy partly because I thought Garrick would refuse to play here.” The interviewer laughed. “And the rest of your reason?” “Well, that is harder. After London last autumn, I drove up here to get away from everything, and I fell in love with your Highlands. In particular, I fell in love with this village. I drove along the road past the loch one evening, and I saw people in the bar across the hall there having a good time. Something about it reminded me of my youth, when I used to play with friends in pubs and cafes – a pleasure that has got lost a long time ago in formal tournaments and security. If it wasn’t that I had a plane to catch, I would have come in then and tried to persuade someone to play with me. Instead I drove on, and came upon the most beautiful girl walking along the road towards the hotel.” If Christi’s heart had only been beating, she felt it would have stopped. “So I was covered both ways,” Andrei said deprecatingly. “If Garrick refused, I

had lost nothing. If he accepted, I could come here and play near a pub in a village where I might meet this beautiful girl.” “And did you?” asked the interviewer archly. “Oh yes,” said Andrei softly, with no idea of the pain he was inflicting, because she could not weep. “So you have found romance in Scotland too?” “None of your business,” Andrei grinned. “Isn’t it Garrick’s turn now?” “Very well, I won’t press you! Before you go, though, tell us about these wonderful chess pieces you were playing with this morning.” Christi didn’t hear the end of the interview. Nor did she catch much of Garrick’s after the Russian’s he sounded dull anyway. But this new revelation of Andrei’s, that she had been instrumental in bringing him here, from a glimpse he had had of her several months ago, was bringing home to her afresh the tragedy of their situation. Without doubt, he was the one who could have saved her: he didn’t care what she had been, he loved her for herself, now. While the selflessness of her own love for him, which she had always recognized as different from what she had felt for Ruaridh or any later lovers, surely that made him her true love once and for all. To make it worse, she thought she knew now how to pay off Nikolai’s debts, and yet she could not tell him. In any case, it was too late. In the next and final game, Andrei would play black, so he could not win the black queen. In any case, the stupid rhyme said he only got one chance. But if he hadn’t been trying to break the spell in the previous game, would that count? Did that mean that he could come back another time, and lose to Tam or somebody? Vaguely, she was sure it only worked in a game that actually mattered – “in one vital game or in none” so that her true love was making some sort of sacrifice for her... Nikolai, Andrei’s brother, was one sacrifice that neither of them were willing, or even able, to make. Yet Andrei had insisted on playing with her pieces. She couldn’t understand why he had done that. It seemed a long time after the interviews before the room began to fill up again. Christi had finally reached that dozing stage that was almost sleep, when she was brought out of it by the conversation of the two men checking the chess pieces and setting the clocks. “So what were the police doing here?” one said idly “Don’t know. They spoke to two of the audience – lads up from Glasgow apparently – searched them even, but I don’t think they’ve arrested anyone.” “Are the two lads still here?” “Naw – think they shot the crow.” “What?”

“Ran away,” translated the first patiently. “Either that or the police told them to scarper. Have you got clean glasses there?” Christi felt a glimmer of excitement. It wasn’t certain, but she thought there might just be a back-up for the Zuvarins now, if Andrei lost this game... But Andrei, clearly, had no intention of losing. As if his confidence had soared after his masterly performance this morning, he played his early moves with speed and boldness. More than once, his fingers held and caressed her while he pondered before playing her. She only wished she had flesh to feel... Apparently she was central to his strategy this time, for he played her often, finally using her to take the pawn that protected Garrick’s king in its castled position. Nobody said “check”; there was no need for it to be pointed out to players of their caliber. For a split-second, Garrick hesitated. All he really needed to do was move his king into the corner out of the queen’s reach and he was safe. Perhaps he was affronted by the Russian’s cheek; perhaps he was finally fed up at being called “plodding” in comparison to Zuvarin’s “brilliance”. Whatever the reason, he suddenly pushed his rook forward and took the black queen. As he lifted her, she caught sight of Andrei’s guarded face and was sure somehow that this too was part of the Russian’s plan. He had sacrificed his queen, but only for all the more brilliant a victory. Her heart soared with pride in him. In the audience Nikolai, who had begun the afternoon looking rather more cheerful, had begun to get that scared expression again. Behind him his gangster guard were glacial. Christi was worriedly absorbing these things, peering at the closed curtains for signs of impending dusk, when suddenly Garrick grasped her again and she was back on the board. Andrei had won her back, queened his waiting pawn, by simply marching it forward one square to the end of the board. Andrei had won her. That was when she began to suspect that he had not given up after all, that this was his one try, a gambit she had stupidly never even thought of. That he was, after all, risking the sacrifice of his brother for her. He had left it until the final game, so that the gangsters had less warning, less time to act. He had told her in that interview why, because for him, she was The One. Though she was sure he had a fast getaway planned for himself and Nikolai, she was terribly afraid that that was not enough. People like those thugs didn’t give up. Their reign of terror depended on that, as even Andrei had admitted. Nikolai would inevitably die in fear and pain; and his brother would live with the grief, the loss and the guilt. And Christi could bear none of it. The hurt of trapped emotions was becoming insufferable again. She found the words crying and echoing silently around her formless mind. Win, you fool, just please, please win!

But suddenly he wasn’t winning. If she couldn’t work it out for herself, she could hear it in Garrick’s breathing. He knew he had the victory. Reaching forward to Zuvarin’s side of the board, he grasped the white rook that stood on the next diagonal square to the black king, and drew it back one square, revealing what everyone apart from himself and Andrei had missed. The black king now stood defenseless, in check from Garrick’s queen. And there was nowhere for the king to go. Every possible square was covered by either the white queen or the white rook. No one, least of all Garrick, could see what Andrei had really done: calculatingly left that trap for himself and then fallen obligingly into it after forcing Garrick to make the right moves, to take the black queen and enable Andrei to win her back. The Englishman was actually trying not to smirk as Andrei laid his king down on its side and reached across the table to shake hands. It was all over. Stunned, devastated by this sudden turnaround, Christi could only think stupidly, “No, no, no, no!” When the weird rising feeling began, it took her by surprise. So lost in the game and Andrei’s suffering had she become, that she had not even noticed. While the crowd stood to applaud and cheer, congratulating and commiserating, the magical wind swept through her body, breathing life and flesh and feeling into her. She knew a moment of fear, wondering where in this very public place she would be thrown, and tried to prepare herself to move very, very fast. She was lucky in that everyone’s attention was on the Grand Masters, who were both standing to acknowledge the applause. Christi was flung downwards between the back of Andrei’s feet and the table leg. Hastily, she rolled right under the table, wondering if she would really care if gasps of shock and astonishment followed her and led to her discovery, butt-naked below the furniture. CHAPTER 8 Helplessly, silently, she began to laugh, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Until, quite suddenly, she realized that it was not necessarily over yet for Nikolai. The back-up plan might just be possible... Forcing herself to sobriety, she positioned herself more steadily, avoiding Andrei’ s feet, and reached out with one bare arm to the back of the chair where his old, baggy sweater was lying like a favored shaggy dog. She tugged. Unfortunately, it was hooked around the corner of the chair-back and it would not come loose. She tugged again, it moved slightly. Running her fingers as far up the garment as she could reach without actually coming out from under the table, she could see several of the audience, clapping, talking, arguing – and in particular she saw one, the larger of the Russian gangsters, and he was looking straight into her eyes with shock. He must have seen, she thought blankly. He must have seen her body thrown to the floor, as if from nowhere. Or perhaps he even saw where she had come from? Just for a moment, she felt as stunned as the Russian looked. There was something

significant about his discovery, and what it meant for all of them, but she had no time to think of that now. One more tug, and the sweater came free. Christi wriggled into it under the table, and then crawled free, making sure it covered her hips before she blatantly stood up and marched towards the curtained window. Fortunately, the sweater was so big, even on Andrei that it came well down past her knees without being stretched. So as long as no one gave her too close a look, she might not appear too ridiculous. One quick glance over her shoulder revealed Andrei with Nikolai now at his side. The older brother had his arm around the younger. So long as they stayed here in the crowd, they were safe. Maybe the police were still here? If they had not taken off after the Glaswegians. No one paid her much attention as she pushed through to the window, inexorably making her way to the place where the scarred one had been sitting, and then swiftly slipped behind the curtain. To her relief, what the drug-dealers had hidden was still there on the floor – a bulky plastic bag. Now, at worst, they had evidence to get the police back here. At best, they had a way out of trouble. Almost afraid to look, Christi bent and lifted the bag. It was heavy. And inside were piles of currency. Used notes – ten pounds and twenties. Crouching down with hands that trembled, Christi began to count it. As she went on, the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. No wonder the Russians had been taking no chances! And no wonder the Glasgow boys been afraid to face the police with it— When she emerged from her curtain, the bag carefully wrapped and tucked under her arm, the room was quieter. Andrei and Nikolai still stood close together, and the elder Russian was clearly at his most entertaining, drawing a rather bigger crowd than stood around Garrick the victor. Of course, the gangsters had not gone. They still sat in their original seats, large and aggressively present. Christi could see Nikolai glancing continually at them, though Andrei seemed to be totally ignoring them. Yet the larger of the two, the one who had seen her under the table, looked uneasy himself. His eyes moved restlessly around the room, and when they landed on her, making her way towards him, they widened with something very close to panic. Christi felt a surge of power, and gloried in it. Her triumph was a sort of vengeance for all the helpless people, good and bad, whom this thug had clearly terrorized with impunity for years. She went right up to them and said coolly: “A word, gentlemen.” And she even managed to make the title sarcastic. “With you, little girl?” the slightly smaller man said softly, disdainfully. “Do you come to plead for your lover’s life?” “To save yours, if you’re interested,” she said contemptuously, and walked swiftly away. It was a risky strategy, and her heart was suddenly hammering in case they did not

follow. But they did. By the time she was squeezing her way through the door, there was one of them on either side of her. Across the blessedly cool foyer, Tam was just unlocking the lounge, providing an unexpectedly welcome venue. A glance at the hall clock told her it was only four-forty pm, so even Jim would not appear for ten minutes or so. “Tam!” she called quickly, and the barman turned, grinning at the sound of her voice. However, when he actually saw her, bare legged and bare footed between the two Russian heavies, he blinked, and did a double take. “Christi? Are you all right?” “Yes, of course. Can we just hide in the bar for a few minutes? It won’t take long.” “What won’t? Getting dressed?” “Don’t be a prude, Tam,” Christi said calmly. “It’s my new look – what do you think?” “I think if you don’t get arrested, half our punters will,” Tam said frankly. She laughed, passing through the door and going to a table on the far side of the room, well out of sight for anyone passing the door in the foyer. There, she gestured for the Russians to sit and advised Tam to tidy up in the back first. Then, as he reluctantly retreated, she said, “How much does Nikolai Zuvarin owe? In pounds.” “Ten thousand,” said the smaller one blandly. He smiled. “Rounded up.” “In effect, what Andrei Zuvarin has just lost,” said the other, finding his voice at last, though it sounded slightly hoarse. Christi shrugged. “He could afford to. He already had the money.” She pushed the plastic bag across the table to them. Neither touched it, though both pairs of eyes flew watchfully around the lounge. “What is this?” “Nikolai’s debt. Plus a little extra to keep you off his back.” Christi stood up, openly laughing now at their baffled expressions. Then, abruptly, her smile vanished, and her eyes stared contemptuously at each of them in turn. “I am not what I seem, gentlemen,” she said sternly. “You!” her glance lashed the larger man, “know that. I can do things, see things, that you can’t even imagine, and I give you this one warning only. If you or your employers ever go near Nikolai Zuvarin or his brother again, you will all be very, very sorry. Now you leave this country, and don’t come back.” And with that, she turned on her bare feet and prepared to stalk out of the bar. Unfortunately Tam, no doubt befuddled by the sight of Christi’s legs, had forgotten to lock the lounge door after them. And before Christi could take a step away from the completely gob-smacked gangsters, a boisterous group of people

erupted into the room, all laughing and talking at once. At the front were the Zuvarin brothers. For a moment, perhaps four or five heartbeats, it was if a small tableau had been frozen. Around it, people moved, talked, and carried on with their lives. Within its frame, nobody moved. Andrei and Nikolai were both staring at Christi; across the space between them, she stared back. While behind her, the two gangsters just sat and watched her, apparently incapable of further movement. Then Tam emerged from the back, saying cheerfully, “Bad luck, Andrei – but it was a close game! Two whiskeys?” Andrei’s lips parted, then closed again. His eyes were still riveted to Christi’s. At last he held up three fingers. “Three,” he said. “Three whiskeys, please.” And then he was walking, covering the floor between them and Nikolai was bolting at his heels. But it was Nikolai who spoke first, hissing through his teeth at Christi. “What are you doing with them? They’ve paid you to work for them!” Christi stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then, almost before the unjust words began to make sense, Andrei had pushed his brother behind him. “We have a deal,” he said clearly. Not to Christi, but to the men now standing behind her. And just for a second, with sudden understanding, the blood began to rush through her head so fast it made her ears sing. “Have you come to plead for your lover’s life?” The gangster hadn’t mentioned Nikolai. Just Andrei. So that was how Andrei had squared his conscience. He had saved her by losing the game, and saved Nikolai by sacrificing his own life in his brother’s place. And Nikolai still couldn’t see it. It was a fight to squash down the sudden terror for Andrei, before she remembered that they didn’t need to be afraid any more. The gangsters were paid, and one of them at least was frightened enough of her to obey her instructions. The gangsters were moving forward now, carefully giving Christi a wide berth. As if by magic, the bag of money had disappeared from the table, and the smaller of the two thugs was now untidily lumpy about the jacket. “What deal?” he said. “Your debt is paid. Dos vidanya, Zuvarin.” The larger one said something else, urgently to Andrei in his own language as they walked past and pushed through the crowd to the door. Andrei’s lip curled. Christi could have sworn there was grim amusement there, but still he did not speak. “They are leaving?” Nikolai said, turning to stare at their broad, disappearing backs. “Andrei, why are they leaving?” By way of an answer, Andrei slowly turned his gaze back on Christi. His breathing was uneven; his eyes were veiled, trying to hide his own fear.

“Christi?” he whispered. “What have you done?” Her smile was more than a little tremulous, for she wasn’t quite sure what he suspected her of, whether she should be angry at his distrust, or grateful for his fear for her, and he was giving her no help. He made no effort to touch her, no gesture of tenderness. She said candidly, “I gave them the Glasgow drug-dealers’ money. They left it behind when they saw the police. I saw them hide it. There was more than ten-thousand pounds.” “Christi!” yelled Tam from behind the bar, which was clearly under siege from the erstwhile chess audience. “Any chance of some help here? For God’s sake, get some proper clothes on and give me a hand!” Which had the effect of rousing not only the group around Christi, but everybody in the lounge, who all turned to gawp at her. “Leave the lassie alone!” shouted one of the locals. “She’s fine as she is!” Which caused a good deal of ribald laughter. In the middle of it, Christi dragged her eyes free and simply walked across the room with a quite unconscious if incomparable grace, and pushed open the door. Everyone moved aside for her. No one touched her. Once in the foyer, Christi fled upstairs as fast as she could run. Suddenly, everything was too much for her. Worst of all was Andrei’s coldness, his sheer distance from her, as if she had done something he could not approve of, or even forgive; and in her emotional turmoil that seemed so unfair that she wanted to weep. In fact, she was already weeping as she leapt up the stairs, oblivious of anyone coming down, or anyone following her up. So when Andrei caught her on the second floor landing, she was taken completely by surprise. One firm hand spun her by the shoulder into his arms, crushing her to his chest so that she gasped and gasped, the tears rolling into her mouth until he covered it with his, murmuring against her lips incoherent endearments and words in Russian she had no hope of understanding. “Well!” said an outraged voice from the next flight of stairs. “For goodness sake! Couldn’t they do that somewhere else? I didn’t think this was that sort of hotel!” “It isn’t,” said Andrei, lifting his head, long enough to answer. He even grinned up at the shocked observers. “Forgive our bad behavior!” Still bemused, Christi was pulled on up the stairs by the hand, past the staring middle-aged couple. As they reached the half-landing, she heard the woman say, “George, is she wearing anything under that - that - garment?” “I wouldn’t like to say, dear,” the man answered pacifically. “Are you?” Andrei whispered in her ear. “Of course not. And if you hadn’t left your sweater where I could reach it, I’d be stark naked!”

Their laughter, from released tension as much as unexpected joy, was slightly hysterical, and lasted all the way up to Christi’s room. There, Andrei leaned against the closed door, the smile fading on his lips and in his eyes as Christi laid her head on his chest and put her arms around his waist. His voice muffled in her hair, he said, “So, we are even?” “In what way?” He said clearly, “I saved you. You saved me.” She smiled into his sweater. “I have come to believe in equality.” “And luck.” For an instant, his arms tightened, then, “Have I, Christi?” Her head lifted so that she could see into his face. “Have you what?” “Saved you? Is this – spell - finally broken?” A shiver ran up her spine. She swallowed. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t feel anydifferent. I feel as I always do at night – except for having you. But you filled the conditions of the rhyme. I suppose I’ll find out. At dawn.” His hand stroked her hair. “We’ll find out,” he corrected softly, “at dawn.” *** The hotel was bustling already. Some residents were making ready to leave, others enjoying their breakfast in bed or in the dining room. The postman had already driven past the loch twice. It was a cold, brisk morning, frost coating the trees and stiffening the grass. Andrei and Christi still sat close together at the loch side, half-hidden from the road above by the rising bank. Her head was on his shoulder, his arm around her as they silently watched and waited for the infinitesimal lightening of the sky, and the slow rise of the sun behind the hills. They had been there most of the night, endlessly talking. Once, early on, he had realized that her face was wet and, gently wiping her silent tears with the heel of his big hand, he had said, “What is it? Don’t be afraid – whatever happens, we’ll always have the nights.” “I know that,” she whispered, “even though you risked your life to give me the days!” “Then what?” “Maire. Maire who did this to me. All these years I have first hated her, and then graciously forgiven her without ever understanding.” “Understanding what?” “That she loved Ruaridh, as I love you now. In these moments when I thought they would kill you, I felt the loss as if it was already real and I knew, I knew what she had gone through in losing him to me! Without a thought for her, I took him, and she suffered this for so long.And I think,” She looked up at him, almost fearful. “I think maybe that Ruaridh wasn’t actually worthy of her.” “Hush,” Andrei said, holding her closer. “It doesn’t matter now.” *** Later, they had discussed practicalities, of how far it was possible to travel, how he could take her to Russia, how she could obtain a proper identity and passport. Then they had talked of everything, and nothing until they were so cold they could barely move.

In front of them stood the chess set with which Andrei had deliberately lost his game to Garrick. The black queen’s square was still empty. In the car park, a door slammed, an alarm was choked off before it got properly started. Somebody called from the hotel doorway. Andrei and Christi were silent at last, eyes fixed now on the ivory chess pieces. A faint, icy breeze rustled the grass; a speck of pink light rose between the hills and brightened, shining directly, blindingly on to the chessboard. When Christi blinked her vision back to normal, the sky was turning into beautiful shades of orange and blue and pink; and for the first time in seven hundred years, she could see the black queen, exquisite, solid and blessedly lifeless on her own square. For a moment she could only stare at it. “Andrei,” she whispered. “Look.” Her fingers gripped his arm convulsively, shaking it in her excitement to draw his attention to the miracle before them. “Look!” Impatiently now, she twisted her head to see if he had noticed, if he had grasped the enormity of what had just happened, and her mouth suddenly encountered his. It felt shockingly warm on her cold lips, spreading its heat instantaneously through her whole body. At her first gasp of surprise, his tongue was inside her mouth, stirring her dormant passion. Abruptly, she threw herself into his enfolding arms, her hands burrowing under his coat to hug him closer. “It’s over,” she murmured incoherently into his mouth. “Over! I’m free!” “No you’re not,” he said unsteadily. His lips left hers. Unexpectedly, he pulled up his sweater, dragging it over her head and pulling it down again so that she was trapped inside it with him, deliciously warm against his chest. “You’re mine now.” Half-laughing, half-aroused by his reaction, she spread her palms across his back, reaching up again for his lips. Kissing her mouth, Andrei drew his arms out of the sweater’s sleeves and tugged at her jacket. Christi helped, without breaking the kiss, eagerly shrugging herself out of it. Impatiently, he threw it aside, reaching under her shirt for her naked breast. His hand was urgent, making her gasp with excitement as much as with the cold of his fingers. Her nipples formed instantly into hard little pebbles for him, pushing against his hand and his chest. “Yes please!” she whispered into his lips. They smiled against hers. “Then I want – I insist – on being the first man to love you in the light of day.” His hand on her breast kneaded waves of desire through her whole body. Slowly, it traced fiery circles around her stiff nipple, before tenderly rolling it between his long fingers. Intoxicated, Christi bit sensually into his shoulder, enjoying the startled hiss of his breath. His other hand swept downwards to hold her between the legs where her jeans were already warm and damp, and involuntarily she thrust into his palm. By then, although what he was doing to her was so delightful that she couldn’t bear him to stop, her need was becoming too urgent to let her stay where they were. Wriggling, she said breathlessly, “Come on, then – my room.” “Here,” he interrupted. “Right here.” and caught her mouth again with his, his

hand rubbing rhythmically between her thighs, making her moan aloud. Excitement galloped through her. She neither knew nor cared how much of what they were doing could be seen from the road, only that she wanted him desperately, right now, out in the open by the pale light of her first dawn in centuries. Loosening his lips, he whispered, “You’re not cold are you?” “Not now,” she gasped, aware only of the heat spreading upwards from her hungry pussy and the wonderful warmth of Andrei’s big body. Inside the cocoon formed by his sweater and coat, she gave herself up to his tender, arousing hands, delving with her own inside his shirt to caress his chest, playing with his nipples in conscious imitation of what he was doing to hers. She felt his breath of excited laughter tickle her cheek, and wriggled her head under the sweater to replace her fingers with her flickering tongue and then with her lips, softly sucking and rolling. At the same time, her questing hand found the stiff column of his cock that was almost bursting through the denim, and stroked. A low, growling sound came from deep in his throat, stirring her further. His hand traveled up her abdomen to the zip of her jeans, yanking it down and sliding inside. Already heated between her legs, it felt wonderfully warm. His clever, sensitive fingers played deliciously among her soft, moist petals despite the restriction of her jeans, gliding exquisitely over her slick, swollen clitoris and lingering there while she closed her eyes in ecstasy and gyrated with his hand. Then his other arm moved, dragging her on to his lap. Straddling him where he sat, she rocked her crotch deliberately into the steel-hard erection in his jeans. Groaning, he tugged her trousers downward, and she shifted her body to aid him. It only took a moment for her to unfasten his jeans and free his big, angry cock, another instant to push back the wispy cotton of her knickers and sink down on him with a long gasp of pleasure at the sheer hugeness of the thing within her. His breathing ragged, Andrei hauled them both slightly backwards - the sudden motion igniting wild flames of pleasure inside her pussy - so that he could lean his back against the bank running up to the road. Then, pulling the abused sweater down as far as it would go to cover her, he brought his hands back into their cocoon to hold her buttocks. He drew back a little, his eyes moving downwards from her face, inside the neck of his sweater, to see where his cock entered her. Slowly, she began to gyrate, caressing him with the velvet glove of her body. Sitting on him like this, they were almost eye to eye and she could watch avidly for every sign of his pleasure - every crease in the skin around his burning, clouded eyes, each involuntary twist of his mouth, the tiny beads of sweat already forming on his forehead and lip. He pushed hard inside her right up to his balls. Moaning, she bent her head and fastened her mouth to his, welcoming his tongue as he drew his cock out of her nearly all the way and thrust back in. Eagerly matching his rhythm, which quickly grew to a frantic pace, she rocked on him, squeezing him with her internal muscles, glorying in his every gasp and groan. Their tongues followed the desperate dance, thrusting and caressing in time with his cock,

all pulling her invincibly towards orgasm. Now, no longer simply caressing or guiding, his hands on her buttocks lifted her up and down at breakneck speed until the rushing waves of her climax broke over her with impossible intensity, making her scream out her joy into his mouth. At the same time, he exploded powerfully inside her, shooting his seed deep within and her whole body pulsated along with his passion. The staggering happiness seemed to consummate the greater miracle that had gone before, and suddenly she wanted to weep from the sheer unbearable emotion. Ending the kiss at last, Christi collapsed on his neck, surreptitiously wiping her wet eyes on his hot, sweat-damp skin, savoring every last spark of pleasure still glowing in her body. Andrei held her close, protectively drawing his coat as far around her as it would stretch. She smiled, valuing the gesture, although she could no longer feel the cold morning air, only the delicious heat of their sated bodies. Stroking her hair, he said languidly, “So how was your first time as a free woman?” She spoke shakily into his neck. “Extraordinary. It’s always extraordinary with you.” His arms tightened. Christi lifted her head to say more, but abruptly she became aware of movement on the road above them. Two people were walking past, idly talking. She could hear a dog sniffing, emitting a low growl as its nose almost touched the top of her head. Laughter caught in her throat, instantly reflected in Andrei’s dancing eyes. Inside her, his cock throbbed wickedly. They stayed very still until the impatient owner called the dog away, and the footsteps began to fade. Then, under the lightening sky, Christi snuggled back down on to her lover’s chest, not prepared just yet to leave their sensual cocoon, but ready at last to enjoy her whole life.