“Love has nothing to do with it,” Gretchen sobbed.

  “Regan is married now. And I would wager before long Sirena will make him happy, and they’ll begin to raise healthy, happy babies.”

  “Then she’ll grow fat and ugly!” Gretchen spat.

  “What difference will that make? She’ll still be married to him!”

  “Please Chaezar … you must help me.”

  “And if I do? What will be my reward?” the Spaniard asked softly, his dark glance falling on her sulky mouth and coming to rest on her bosom.

  “Name it, and it’s yours,” Gretchen whispered.

  This would be easier than she thought. She’d known that his assistance would require some sort of payment and she had been momentarily fearful that he would demand several pieces of her jewelry. Most of her jewels were merely costume baubles, but several gentlemen admirers had gifted her with exquisite and valuable pieces. Gretchen was both amused and relieved that Chaezar obviously would be satisfied with an hour’s dalliance.

  From the fervid gleam in his eye she knew that his appetites ran to the exotic today. Chaezar gripped her wrist with a feverish hand and led her to his chamber. She followed him willingly, eager to meet his demands so that she could leave early enough to keep an appointment with her dressmaker.

  Chaezar, on the other hand, attributed Gretchen’s willingness to eager anticipation and, as was his way, he stripped off his clothes without a word. He preferred not to engage in any conversation at these times —as Gretchen well knew; she supposed it was because he wanted nothing to divert his concentration on his role.

  Gretchen knew the rules by which Chaezar insisted this game be played. She stood coolly in the center of the room and waited.

  Each time Chaezar played this exotic game that was about to begin, Gretchen was amazed at the transfiguration of the man. She knew, from other experience with him, that the Spaniard could be a dynamic, vigorous lover, completely at ease and fully masculine. But this was one of those “other” times. Gone now was the forceful yet urbane gentleman sure of his every move. Before her stood a simpering, mincing, cowering minion—it was a fantasy, of course, or so she hoped—intent on pleasing a cruel, flint-hearted mistress … and trembling with the knowledge that she would be impossible to please. The Mistress was a role Gretchen herself had no trouble playing.

  Reverently his hands went to the buttons at the back of her gown. Carefully, he undid them one by one, his fingers barely grazing the silky flesh beneath her gown. Layers of clothing were removed until all she wore was her satin corset, frilly lace drawers, black silk stockings, and high-heeled slippers. Deliberately, yet feverishly, he snapped her garter and immediately recoiled in terror.

  Gretchen knew her cue. “Clumsy oaf!” she said . sternly. “See how you’ve bruised your ladyship’s thigh!” She extended her silky limb, pointing to where the garter had snapped against her creamy leg. “Kiss it!” she ordered him harshly.

  Chaezar dropped to his knees before her and pressed ardent lips to the imaginary wound. Gretchen was pleased to notice how aroused he was: a little while longer and she would be free to leave.

  “You realize you must be punished for your clumsiness,” she said with great authority.

  Chaezar’s answer was to grovel pitifully at her feet, kissing her insteps, her ankles; his whole attitude was that of a panic-stricken animal.

  “Get the whip!” she ordered. Chaezar cowered close to her legs, whimpering. “Get the whip, I tell you! Now!”

  Chaezar hesitantly pulled away from her and dragged himself to his feet. His eyes were black pools of anguish, his lips quivered with fear. From his face and posture anyone would have believed him to be the badly used servant of a monstrously brutal master. Only his loins betrayed his pose. Alive and erect, his phallus betrayed the true object of his desires.

  From the top of his clothes press, he withdrew a long, evil-looking whip. The handle was heavy carved wood, ornate in design. At one end of the handle were large, round opalines, and when one looked closely one could see that the shaft of the handle and the placement of the opalines represented the male sex organ. The tails of the whip, while cruel-looking, black, and knotted, were actually braided silk, designed to sting the flesh yet not cut or tear it or even raise a welt.

  Humbly, Chaezar offered the instrument to Gretchen. Chaezar worshipped the whip in a way he could never adore a woman’s body. While fascinated by its uniqueness, she therefore abhorred its significance to him. In some twisted way the whip represented a rival to her. To know that Chaezar could be sexually satisfied by three long cords of braided silk was an affront to her self-esteem. That she cared nothing for the man—in fact didn’t even like him, only used him as a means to an end—mattered not at all. She was a woman who recognized her own desirability and she demanded that a man, any man, appreciate her qualities.

  Gretchen accepted the heavy-handled whip noting the slavish, fanatical light in Chaezar’s eyes. He was ready. He had goaded himself to fever pitch. The muscles in his back and thighs quivered in anticipation. The dark curling hairs on his chest and belly were practically standing on end. His breathing was ragged; small flecks of saliva danced on his beard.

  Gretchen brought up the whip and spun the long, trailing braids in wide circles about her head. Chaezar held his breath and watched, mesmerized, waiting for the curling ends to strike his flesh. His eyes never left the whirling braids. At last, Gretchen brought down the adored instrument of torture. Again and again she lashed him about the back and chest. Again and again the long, trailing tails would glance off his buttocks and thighs. Chaezar moaned in ecstasy, his body trembling with paroxysms of passion.

  At last he fell to his knees gasping for air, until his convulsive excitement abated. He crawled across the floor until he reached her, tears of gratitude shining in his eyes. Like a dog at his master’s knee, he pressed his dark head against her thigh, small sobs catching in his throat.

  Now was the time for the cruel mistress to become the magnanimous benefactor. She petted his head and held him against her, soothing his pain and humiliation. Mutely moving closer, Chaezar began to kiss her hand, her thigh, begged her forgiveness. His face was moist with saliva and tears, staining her skin with silvery wetness.

  He kissed her fervently and she cradled him in her arms and led him to the bed. Soothing him with soft tones and maternal gestures, she dried his tears and held him close. With narrowed eyes she estimated the length of time she must stay with him until, still sobbing heartbrokenly, he would fall asleep.

  This was the part of Chaezar’s little play that really repelled her. She didn’t mind beating him with the whip—she enjoyed seeing him pay her homage and groveling at her feet. It was when she was obliged to forgive him that he disgusted her by crying all over her, his wet mouth and cheeks pressed against her skin.

  Chaezar’s grip on her was slackening now. Soon he would be asleep and she could leave and the events of the past hour would never be mentioned by either of them.

  She must have a bath before she went to the dressmaker’s!

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Sirena,” Caleb fretted, “Regan and Don Chaezar Alvarez are gone looking for The Hook! Why aren’t we chasing them?”

  “Remember what I told you about ‘wily women?’ Regan and Chaezar expect the Sea Siren to be out there. Never do the expected. Have no fear, little brother. The Hook will have gone into hiding as soon as word spreads he’s being hunted. He’ll wait, as we do. You must always be one league ahead of your adversary. This time we’ll let the men chase themselves. What they’re doing is sailing blind. Before long they’ll all be frustrated and losing money, for nearly all Dutch and Spanish shipping will have ceased for the time being.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because, if you’ll forgive me, little brother, men think with their loins. If they used their brains they’d never act so foolishly. I tell you, they sail blind. At best they’ll find some wild marauder and get their ships damaged—perhaps get themselves killed for their effort! I’ll give them ten days and they’ll be home, half-crazed with rage. Just in time for Chaezar’s party.” Sirena’s tone was light, her expression amused.

  “Perhaps there won’t be a party.”

  “There’ll be a party. The invitation came today from Chaezar.”

  “It should prove interesting?” Caleb smiled.

  “Very interesting,” Sirena agreed.

  One day ran into the next as Sirena and Caleb awaited Regan’s return. Every day the boy went to the wharf, but there was no news. On the ninth day he was sitting on the edge of the quay when he spotted the first sail. Waving excitedly, he raced to the end of the quay and waited.

  The minutes seemed like hours to Caleb, as the ship approached. Then, finally it was at anchor.

  Regan was the first to disembark. His face was a mask of cold fury. “No sight of the long-legged bitch or of the man with the hook, Caleb. The scurve must have his ear to the wind and is hiding out. Either that or he is on a lengthy voyage. We came upon one small pirate ship, smaller than our own vessel, that would have run from us. But I signaled that we had peaceful intentions toward the tiny, flagless frigate, and they approached. They said they’d come across him in recent months, but none of them knew now of his whereabouts. One cutthroat is much like another—but I’m sure they told the truth. The bounty on the bastard’s head is too attractive. And we inquired among the ports of Borneo, Celebes, Bali, with no luck. We’d have gone farther—to the Moluccas and New Guinea—but have left such long trips till later.”

  “Perhaps the Sea Siren has given up too!” Caleb said hesitantly.

  Regan clapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders as they walked into the D.E.I. offices. “I think not. I believe, however, she learned of our voyage. She’s probably, right now, this very minute, laughing her head off at our stupidity. I admit it was ridiculous going to sea like that. When a man’s fortunes are at stake he is apt to do many foolish things. She’s won again.”

  “How could she ‘win’ if she didn’t go after you?” Caleb asked, puzzled.

  “She made fools of the lot of us!” Regan closed the door to his office and sat down on his leather-backed chair. “Fetch me a cigar, will you, boy?”.

  Caleb looked around the small office then went to the heavy-laden shelves. He let his eyes wander over the array of objects on the many tiers and finally bent down and reached for a square leather humidor; but he hesitated and reached instead for a small wooden box. He grasped it in both hands and handed it to Regan.

  Regan’s eyes blazed and the skin pulled back over his teeth suddenly like a snarling dog. “How did you know what was in that box?” he demanded harshly.

  Frightened by the man’s intensity, Caleb drew back, clutching the box to his chest. “But—you—said —to fetch you a—cigar.”

  “I know what I said. How is it you knew where they were?”

  “I … I don’t know. I must have seen you get them the—the last time I was here with you. Did I do something wrong? Is something in this box that you don’t care to have me see? I’m sorry, Mynheer!”

  Regan perceived Caleb’s fright and his tone calmed immediately. “I’m sorry, Caleb, it’s just that my own son used to get my cigars for me. I used to keep them in the big leather humidor, but, being less than five years old, he couldn’t lift it. I moved them to the box you’re holding now. When you bent over like that, it just reminded me of those long-ago days. I’m sorry if I upset you—I guess I’ve been out to sea too long. Sometimes I get caught up in the past and can’t forget.”

  “You must have loved your son very much,” Caleb said hesitantly.

  “Very much,” Regan said gently. “But you’d better get home now. I’ll see you at dinner. Tell your sister I’ve arrived, safe and sound—if she should inquire, that is.”

  “I’ll deliver the message, Mynheer,” Caleb said as he closed the door behind him.

  Regan paced the small room, his mind in a turmoil. He was positive he had never taken a cigar from the wooden box when Caleb was in the office. As a matter of fact, Regan preferred the brand of cheroot he kept at home and always carried several in his shirtfront. Lately, he’d kept the cigars in the office only for visiting merchants. His heart pounded wildly in his chest at the thoughts that invaded his mind.

  Chinese paper lanterns swayed lazily in the timid breeze that floated in from Batavia’s harbor. From the distance they resembled hundreds of fireflies dancing among the tropical shrubbery surrounding Don Alvarez’s palatial home. Situated on the elite Avenue of the Lion, within the walls of the city, Don Chaezar’s home surpassed any of the city’s dwellings in its charm and grace.

  Music spilled out the verandah doors into the dark garden. The lavish ball was a huge success. His guests tipped their fragile, long-stemmed wine glasses to smiling lips, toasting his generosity. Everyone on his long guest list had come—Spanish, Dutch, and Portuguese alike. Even some English and French merchants were here.

  Sirena and Regan had arrived nearly an hour late, owing to last-minute business Regan was forced to conduct in his office on the wharf. Whatever business it was that detained Regan, Sirena noted that it had left him in a black humor. His heavy brows were drawn together in a scowl, the muscles in his jaw were knotted beneath his lean, clean-shaven flesh. His eyes were bright, the black pupils narrowed to pinpoints glowering with barely suppressed menace.

  Prior to their arrival at Chaezar’s, Sirena had timidly asked Regan what was wrong. She had even gone so far as to suggest that perhaps he didn’t care to attend Chaezar’s ball. If that were the case, she would understand and stay home with him. His answer had been to laugh. A great, booming, angry sound of derision. “Stay home?” he had exclaimed “Never! I’m going, even if I have to crawl!” Perplexed, Sirena had stepped into the carriage and held her skirts to make room for Regan on the seat next to her. They drove to Chaezar’s in silence, the Mynheer puffing angrily on the cheroot he held between tightly clenched teeth.

  Now, standing at the entrance to the ballroom, the blazing candlelight turning his pale blond hair to silver, Regan’s eyes raked the room in more than just a curious perusal of the party. Sirena knew he was looking for something… or someone.

  Sirena noticed Gretchen’s approach before Regan. As the blonde moved across the room, all heads turned to watch her. And why? Gretchen’s gown was infamous! Sirena saw. Made of incandescent blue silk studded with crystals across the bosom and pelvis, it clung seductively to her figure, revealing the fact that she wore absolutely nothing beneath it. As formfitting as a snake’s skin, the dress molded itself to her every curve, revealing quite plainly the separation between her buttocks and the sensuous indentation of her navel. Nevertheless, while her scantiness of clothing was shocking, she carried herself with dignity and grace, giving the effect of a mythical goddess instead of a brazen whore. The women were scandalized, the men delighted.

  A mocking smile spread slowly across Regan’s face. Sirena knew from the appreciative way he appraised Gretchen that the hillocks and valleys of her body were familiar territory.

  Sirena felt dowdy and outmoded alongside the German temptress. The blue of the scanty silk gown turned Gretchen’s hair to a pale shade of silver which almost matched Regan’s. Sparkling gems glimmered from her curls, their brilliance matching the sparkle in the widow’s eyes.

  It was Don Chaezar who rescued Sirena from the embarrassing spectacle of the charged glances between Regan and Gretchen. Bowing low over Sirena’s hand to plant a delicate kiss on her fingertips, he swept her away to introduce her to several guests from outlying islands. Faces swayed before her and names became garbled in her mind. The jealousy she had felt at the gleam in Regan’s eyes when he looked at Gretchen left her seething with rage. It was only with a concentrated effort that she was able to prevent herself from turning around to follow their movements.

  Alvarez, the perfect gentlemen, never left her unattended. He was a genial host and had planned his party with consideration for his guests’ enjoyment. The music was gay, the wines superb, the tables laden with tempting food of every variety. Once, when Chaezar left her for a moment to instruct his servants on the serving of the wine, Helga Kloss hurriedly approached Sirena.

  “You must share the secret with me, Sirena,” she gasped breathlessly. Her little, round eyes shone with excitement. “Surely Don Chaezar has told you what the surprise is! You must tell me! I shall faint with suspense if you don’t!”

  “I’ve no idea what surprise you speak of, Mevrouw,” Sirena laughed. “Unless, of course, you meant Frau Lindenreich’s surprising attire.”

  Helga Kloss’s face went blank for a moment before understanding flushed her round, pink cheeks. “Oh yes, did you see her? Of course, you must have,” she tittered. “Captain Kloss is simply scandalized! Whenever she’s within sight, the poor man doesn’t know where to look. But no, Gretchen is not what Don Chaezar has planned for this evening. It’s something else. He’s been hinting at it for most of the evening, hadn’t you noticed?”

  Helga cast Sirena a quizzical eye. What was wrong with the girl? Helga had always considered her quite clever. What was Sirena thinking of all evening if she hadn’t heard mention of Don Chaezar’s secret “spectacular”!

  After Helga ran out of gossip to impart to Sirena and she had secured a promise to “come to tea very soon,” she departed in search of her husband, leaving Sirena blessedly alone. The number of people, the music, and the sight of brightly colored, bobbing and dipping skirts had become a trifle overwhelming. Sirena looked for an opportunity to be alone with her thoughts and saw the perfect answer: the doors leading onto the verandah.

  The cool night air felt fresh against her cheeks, the strains of the music seemed sweeter out here in the moonlight.