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  • White Horses Ch. 01

White Horses Ch. 01

The villa was built into a hillside, its numerous sprawling wings of elegant pink adobe and black wrought iron forming terraces along the verdant slopes. Open-air patios flanked by graceful arches were lent an air of privacy by dense surrounding foliage. The encroaching profusion of flowering bushes, gnarled trees, and creeping vines made the interconnecting red brick platforms seem like tiny outposts of civilization in the midst of a teeming jungle. The interior of the villa only confirmed the impression of gracious living with its open, flowing spaces and tastefully appointed rooms.

To the west of the complex, the well-tended grounds boasted a stable of twenty sleek horses – Andalusians, all – various indoor and outdoor riding arenas, a nine-hole golf course, and four tennis courts. Nestled against the rear of the main wing, like a topaz tear sparkling in a copper setting, was an immense pool. The adjoining sauna was large enough to accommodate ten people; the Jacuzzi, another five.

Almost certainly tucked away in the distant reaches of sunny Spain or Portugal, the Mediterranean-styled chateau might have been a retreat for jaded celebrities and overworked businessmen; might even have been a choice locale for tourists with more money than common sense. Despite outward appearances, it was none of these things.

For the fifty young women secreted behind its high, guarded walls, La Villa de las Caballas Blancas was a prison.

The lounge chair's plush floral cushion gave Maggie little comfort. Having no Biblical fig leaves with which to cover her nakedness, the displaced young woman crossed her ankles and drew her knees tightly to her chest.

A dozen or so nude women strolled the intricately patterned red and cream tiles of the pool deck, seeming to share neither Maggie's modesty nor her mortification. Indeed, their languid strides and unconscious sensuality were reminiscent of lionesses grown accustomed to their cage. Maggie's gaze followed the indolent progress of one such woman, a short, curvy brunette – Romina? Romila? Rominae? – whose name she couldn't quite remember. The diminutive beauty's hips rolled as though they were attached to her sleek thighs by ball bearings, causing her black mane to sway enticingly against her spine. Her nut-brown skin bespoke her Grecian heritage, as had her lovely broken English when she had introduced herself earlier. Maggie averted her eyes.

She bet Romi-whatever was popular with the clientele.

"Ah, here's our sweet little Maggie Mae, now!"

The Voice – oily, jovial, faintly accented – caused the young woman to hug her knees all the tighter, blanketing them with a cascade of spiraling red as she buried her face in the knot of her limbs.

Not Mae. Etain. It's Maggie Etain.

She had first heard The Voice – fear gave the words capital letters – shortly after her abduction. Within the close, humid confines of a rough grey hood, Maggie's teeth had clenched the strip of rag between her lips, swallowing a scream while The Voice inspected her body. As indifferently as one might handle the produce in a supermarket aisle, he had lifted and squeezed her breasts, pressed the instep of each foot, pried apart her buttocks, parted the folds of her sex. Doubtless he would have examined her eyes and teeth, had she not been hooded. The callous hands had informed Maggie that she was a piece of property, livestock to be bought and sold.

His slave.

"We were wondering where you'd gotten to," continued the overly cheerful, faintly mocking Voice. His cajoling tone was the same as one might use when addressing a small pet dog.

Oh, yes, I'm sure it was so hard to find me. All those surveillance cameras...

"Come, come, darling Maggie, don't be shy. Doctor Portnoy has come to pay you a visit."

Maggie hunched her shoulders and turned her face away from The Voice. Even as she finally placed the speaker's accent – Spanish or Latin-American, some brand of Hispanic – her mind conjured an unbidden image of his companion: a wizened old man in a dirty lab coat, liver-spotted lips slick with lecherous spittle.

Go away. Go away.

"Look at us, you insolent bitch!"

The Voice cracked like a whip, and Maggie's head snapped up, her eyes wide. In her peripheral vision, the lionesses prowling the poolside paused, scented the air, and resumed their leisurely activities. The hunter was not interested in them.

Caught in the gimlet stare of the man behind The Voice, Maggie would have dropped her eyes if her captor had permitted it. The olive-skinned features were lean, cruel, the eyes glittering like black glass. It was a hard face, a chiseled face, one which well-matched the violence of his stocky form. She shuddered, dragging her gaze to the doctor – and her eyes grew wider still.

He was beautiful.

The riot of brown curls that tumbled across his forehead gave him the look of a fallen angel, an image enhanced by the five o'clock shadow gracing his jaw. Rather than obscuring his features, the even stubble revealed the hollows of his cheeks and brought out the slight dent in his chin. He had a proud Roman nose, a firm and sensual mouth. Portnoy was young for a doctor, if indeed he had come by the title honestly; Maggie judged him to be no older than thirty-four. Though not particularly tall, at perhaps five-eleven, he was perfectly proportioned.

Athletic, Maggie thought, unconsciously assessing the broad shoulders, trim waist, muscular thighs. Substantial.

Deep-set eyes of pale green momentarily met her own cerulean stare before the doctor politely dropped his gaze. Maggie registered the fleeting impression that Portnoy had averted his eyes out of respect to her nakedness.

"Another one who can't take her eyes off you, yes?" the olive-skinned man chuckled, his good humor seemingly restored. Maggie found his smile almost as chilling as his stare. Then, to his newly acquired property: "See, little one, is... not all bad. This fine, handsome doctor will... ess-amin' you... to see that you are... intact. There could be worse things, eh?"

Ess-amin'. Examine. Great.

Since some reply seemed required, Maggie swallowed hard and nodded, her eyes fixed somewhere over the left shoulder of The Voice.

"See, she does not look down. She is learning already." The Voice slapped Doctor Portnoy on the shoulder and turned to saunter toward the villa, the leather soles of his expensive loafers slapping the ceramic tile. His progress was halted by the doctor's words:

"I want this one."

Maggie's stunned gaze flew to Portnoy's, and his pale green eyes caught and held her own with fierce intensity.

"But, Ruben, she is most probably a virgin, inexperi--"

"—Precisely."

"Ah, I see – you want to break this one in! If I had known you were so enamorado with the redheads... Well, then, enjoy! I gift her to you, since you never ask before."

"You bastard," Maggie hissed when The Voice had disappeared through a wide archway.

Inwardly, she cursed herself for daring to hope that this Doctor Portnoy was any different than the men who had grabbed her from a quiet college avenue and thrown her into the back of what appeared to be a flower delivery van, perhaps two days earlier.

"It is not as you think," Portnoy said quietly, extending a hand as he advanced.

"Obviously not!" she spat, scrambling to her feet on the other side of the chaise lounge. "You look like a decent man!"

Almost too quickly for her mind to register, Ruben Portnoy skirted the wrought iron deck furniture and snaked an arm around her waist, dragging her against his body while his free hand buried itself in her red curls. From the far side of the pool came the feminine laughter and appreciative whoops of several villa "guests."

"Show her, Signor!"

"Yeah, Doctor, show her you are a man!"

Maggie's heart threatened to pound its way through her ribcage as she shoved against Portnoy's firm -- substantial -- chest, to no avail. She lost her breath entirely when those full, sensual lips grazed her jaw and pressed delicately beneath her ear.

"Shh – relax. Let them think you submit. We must put on a good show," he whispered, his lips dragging across her skin with each word, his breath hot against her ear lobe.

Dimly, it occurred to Maggie that this man might be her savior.

It also occurred to her, at this most inopportune time, that Ruben Portnoy had quite an interesting, hard-to-place accent.

Jesus, Maggie, how... random.

His white, even teeth lightly captured the velvet lobe only millimeters from his lips, tugging gently, and Maggie moaned deep in her throat, turning her head away even as her body seemed to betray her, its softness yielding to the press of Portnoy's embrace. With his female onlookers calling ribald encouragement, the doctor dipped at the knees and bore his shoulder under Maggie's ribcage, hoisting her aloft as she yelped with bewildered surprise. Head down, consigned to the indignity of reaching their destination ass-first, Maggie kicked and cursed. That reaction, at least, she didn't have to fake.

Maggie utterly refused to analyze whether her moan had been prompted more by desire than by deception.

And replaying that low, needy sound in his mind, Doctor Ruben Portnoy didn't need to ask.

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