Stranger in My Arms(26)

The Frenchman took the design and examined it closely. “Bien ….. .

it is a simple design. It will not take long.”

Picking up his stool, he carried it with him as he walked away, gesturing for Hunter to follow. They walked from the market to a streetside cellar, lit by guttering candles that filled it with a lurid orange glow. Two copulating couples were busy on rickety wooden cots.

A few whores of varying ages lingered outside the cellar, beckoning to potential customers.

“Out,” the Frenchman said briskly. “I have a customer.” The whores cackled and cawed, moving away from the doorway. The Frenchman cast Hunter a vaguely apologetic glance while the couples inside finished their transactions. “It’s my room,” he said.

“I let them use it in return for a share of the profits.”

“An artist and a pimp,” Hunter commented.

“You’re a man of many talents.”

The Frenchman paused, clearly deciding whether to be amused or offended, and finally laughed. He led Hunter down into the cellar and went to a table in the corner, setting out an assortment of tools, pouring dishes of ink. “Where would you like the design?” he asked.

“Here.” Hunter pointed to the inside of his upper arm.

The man raised his brows at the location, but nodded in a businesslike manner. “Remove your shirt, s’il vous plait.”

A group of four or five whores lingered in the cellar, ignoring the man’s curt command for them to leave. “‘Andsome devil,” a girl with garish red hair remarked, flashing him a friendly smile loaded with decaying teeth. “Care for a toss after Froggie’s done?”

“No, thanks,” Hunter said easily, though he was inwardly repulsed.

“I’m a married man.” That comment earned screams of delight and appreciation.

“Ohh, he’s a darling!”

“I’ll toss you for free,” a large-breasted blonde offered, giggling.

To Hunter’s discomfort, the whores stayed to watch him remove his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. As soon as the baggy linen shirt was stripped away, they erupted in peals of admiration.

“‘Ere’s a ‘andsome bit o’ beefsteak, dearies!” one of them cried, and ventured forward to touch his bare arm. “Jaysus, ‘ave a look at those muscles. Built like a bloody bull, ‘e is!”

“With a nice, tight breadbasket,” another said, poking at his flat stomach.

“What’s this?” The redhead had found the scar on his shoulder, another on his side, and the star-shaped one on his lower back. She made a cooing sound and examined the marks curiously. “Seen a bit o’ action, ‘ave ye?” she asked, favoring him with an approving smile.

Although Hunter kept his features emotionless, he felt a flush spreading over his face. Delighted by his obvious discomfort, the whores continued to giggle and tease, until at last the tatouage artist was finished with his preparations and ordered them out.

“I can’t work with this noise,” the Frenchman complained. “Gut, girls, and don’t come back until I’m finished.”

“But where do I take the cock-stands?” one of them said plaintively.

“The alley wall,” came the decisive reply, and the prostitutes filed out in a surly line.

The tatouage artist looked at Hunter assessingly.

“You might find it more comfortable to lie on the cot while I proceed, monsieur.”

Hunter glanced at the se**n-stained ticking on the bed and shook his head in distaste. He sat on the stool and lifted his arm, bracing his shoulders back against the wall.

“D’accord,” the Frenchman conceded. “But I warn you, if you move or flinch, the design will be flawed.”

“I won’t move.” Hunter watched as the man approached him with two ivory instruments, one of them fitted with a short needle. After studying the drawing on the paper Hunter had given him, the Frenchman dipped the needle in a dish of black ink, placed it against Hunter’s skin, and tapped it with the other instrument.

Hunter stiffened at the fiery sting. Once again the tatouage artist dipped the needle and tapped it into his skin, this time creating a long chain of pinpricks.

It was the repetition that soon proved excruciating.

Each sting in itself was nothing, but endless lines of them, accompanied by the maddening clicking of the bone instruments, made his nerves screech in protest.

He felt sweat collecting on his forehead, stomach, even his ankles.

Soon it felt as if his arm had been set on fire. He concentrated on breathing steadily, in and out, willing himself to accept the burn instead of fighting it.

The Frenchman paused, allowing him a moment of respite. “The pain makes most men weep, no matter how they fight it,” he commented. “I’ve never seen anyone bear it so well.”

“Just get on with it,” Hunter muttered.

Shrugging, the Frenchman picked up the instruments. “Le scoipion is an unusual design to choose,” he said, while the delicate click click of the needle resumed. “What meaning does it have for you?”

“Everything,” Hunter said, his teeth clenching until his jaw ached.

The Frenchman paused as the needle hit a sensitive nerve that made Hunter twitch. “Please hold still, monsieur.

Hunter remained steady and dry-eyed. He thought of the future that beckoned before him, of Lara and the work of the needle became welcome indeed.