Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(102)
He handed back the gun, grips first, and watched Morgana tuck it away in its holster, all the while giving him a good look at her creamy thighs and the tip of the shadowed triangle above.
“Natalie, I’ve underestimated you,” he said as Natalie patted her face with the towel she had been given. “You really know how to choose your friends.” He still hadn’t taken his eyes from Morgana. His gaze roamed over her body in the way of ancient Roman slave traders; he did everything but look inside her mouth at her teeth and gums.
“You know, Lana,” he said, “I can see your nipples through the fabric of your dress.”
Like all women, Morgana had been subjected to the male gaze, but never like this. It was like being undressed and eviscerated. She had been reduced to a piece of raw meat ready to be devoured, without even a single thought as to its effect on her. In that one moment, Gora had stripped her of her humanity. It hurt—it hurt more than she could have imagined, like a knife slash, the first brick in the wall of domination. She wondered how Natalie managed it without curling up like a flower deprived of the elements it needs to survive and thrive.
“Perhaps it’s the trick of the light.”
A wicked smile sprouted on Gora’s face like a noxious weed. “Right.”
Natalie had been completely forgotten. She was old news, used goods, her value greatly diminished. Gora was homing in on the new girl: virgin territory, so to speak.
“Why don’t you lift up your skirt again,” Gora said. “I’d like to see that pistol wrapped around your thigh.”
“You’re the man,” Morgana replied. “Why don’t you do the heavy lifting?”
Gora laughed and reached for the hem of her dress. Morgana stepped back a pace. He came after her, faster this time. As his fingers were about to touch the hem, she swatted them away.
Gora stopped then, looking at her as if through a different lens. “You’re not like the others, are you?”
“I am who I am,” Morgana said neutrally. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
He held out his hand, and when Morgana took it she felt as if she had put her head between the open jaws of a crocodile. Her skin began to crawl.
Morgana could sense Natalie’s jealous gaze, mouth partly open, pearl teeth visible, but she had no idea what she was really thinking. She just prayed to whatever dark gods ruled her new shadowed world that Natalie wouldn’t lose her composure, that she would follow Morgana’s plan to the letter.
She allowed him to draw her down the wood-paneled corridor, past doorways to the formal dining area, the study he used as an office, several guest cabins.
The master suite was enormous, as plush and well appointed as any five-star hotel suite. It was all polished wood and brass fittings. A crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, and oriental lamps on hand-carved tables that were built into the wall haloed everything in an intimate glow. The king-size bed was covered in Frette linens, the love seat and two club chairs were covered in moiré silk. The teak deck was covered in an antique Isfahan carpet that quite possibly belonged in a museum. On the walls hung a Marilyn painting by Warhol and an early-career one by Jeff Koons, of the provocateur-artist himself entwined lustfully with his former wife, the former Italian porn star, Cicciolina. It was meant to be erotic, but in Morgana’s opinion was just plain crass, which is how she found pretty much all of Koons’s work to be. However, the Warhol’s garish primary colors and Koons’s even more garish subject matter clearly mirrored Gora’s idea of setting the mood for a night of Russian debauchery.
Morgana glanced around. No books, not even a bad erotic novel. Why am I not surprised? she thought. At last, her gaze alighted on Gora Maslov. Natalie had said that in whatever he does Gora tries too hard, and she was right. This was even reflected in his clothing, which was meant to seem casual, but like the bedroom itself, was a self-conscious attempt at aping the hip-hop mogul of current American culture. It was all she could do not to laugh. But, having absorbed the intel on the Maslovs Soraya had sent with the courier, she knew there was nothing amusing about the family’s history of murder, extortion, intimidation, and criminal enterprise. Dimitri, Gora’s father, was especially impressive, until he was gunned down in a barber shop, 1930s Chicago gangster style, by Boris Karpov.
It seemed to her now, regarding Gora’s vainglorious pose, that the son was suffering under an inferiority complex, trying and failing to live up to his father’s image. This was not a good sign. People like Gora tended to be nasty, volatile, aggressive, sometimes violent, beneath their calm, smiling exterior. She needed to be especially careful not to make a false step. This setup could go south in the space of a heartbeat. She took off her heels.
When he grabbed her, Morgana said, “I have to pee.”
“He likes to watch me pee,” Natalie had told her.
Gora pointed to an open doorway behind her: the bathroom glowing like a jewel box. She turned, headed toward it, acutely aware of him following a pace behind.
When she crossed over the threshold, he said, “Don’t you want to close the door?”
“Not especially.” She did not bother to put down the seat; instead she turned back toward him, hiked up her dress, and slowly bent her knees. With her legs on either side of the porcelain bowl and her eyes steady on him, she canted she hips slightly forward.