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Away from the open beach, the island was a different world. Tree trunks crowded the narrow path and blotted out the sun. The ground beneath was spongy with leaf mold, silencing their steps. The dense undergrowth prevented Nicole from seeing more than a few feet in front of her and on either side, but she could hear many unseen things: strange birds calling in the canopy overhead, small creatures scuttling on the jungle floor, tree branches scraping together, palm fronds rattling like rusty chains.
“It must have looked just like this when Passionata was here,” she said softly.
“Hmmph.” Adam grunted as he shoved a tangle of vines out of his way. “Remind me next time we come exploring to bring a machete.”
“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” she asked, looking around. She could barely make out the path they’d already traveled. “We’re not going to get lost, are we?”
“The island is barely a mile wide. We won’t get lost.”
As if to prove his words, they suddenly emerged into a clearing. Nicole blinked in the bright sunlight and stared at a tumble of volcanic boulders in front of them. From this chaos of razor-sharp rock rose a fat stone tower, three stories high, pocked with narrow windows, the gray stone streaked liberally with white bird droppings.
In fact, there were birds everywhere—gulls wheeling and screaming overhead, perching on the rocks, strutting in the sand. The sound—and the smell—were almost overwhelming. She put her hands over her ears. “I don’t think we’re going to do much exploring here,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din.
“Let’s see what’s on the other side.” He led the way across the rocky clearing, birds fluttering out of their way at the last minute. Nicole shielded her head with her hands, just in case any offerings dropped from the sky.
The jungle growth on the other side of the tower was not as dense. Adam stopped to examine the ends of cut vines beside the path. “This looks fresh,” he said.
“You mean, someone besides us is here?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but plunged ahead. Nicole stepped over fallen coconuts and sagging branches, hurrying to keep up with Adam’s long strides.
She was so intent on watching her step on the uneven path she didn’t realize he’d stopped until she collided with the solid wall of his back. “Oooph,” she grunted, pushing herself off of him. “What is it?”
He held out a hand and pointed. “Looks like we have company.”
She leaned around him and stared. Some twenty yards away from them stood a palm-frond-covered shelter. Beneath it, slightly bent over something she couldn’t see, his back to them, was a man.
A man with a muscular bronze back and shoulders, long legs and a nicely shaped and very naked backside. The whole man was naked, a fact Nicole’s mind deduced in a microsecond, all while taking inventory of his delectable assets. Was this a descendant of one of Passionata’s conquests? Or a modern-day Robinson Crusoe living alone on the island?
“Who the hell are you?” Adam demanded.
The naked man whirled to face them, clearly startled, then straightened himself to his full height. When he spoke, his voice was distinctly British and very proper. “I might ask you the same question.”
IAN HAD SET HIMSELF a simple task for that morning—washing his clothes. At some point yesterday the magic potion the Jamaican woman had sold him had shattered in his luggage, leaving everything smelling like fermenting fruit—sweet and slightly intoxicating. When he’d first discovered the accident that morning, he’d laughed out loud. If the mysterious woman the old lady swore he’d meet ever did show up, he’d be on his own. Which was how he preferred things.
But, purely in the interest of scientific discovery, he sucked some of the liquid out of a sodden shirt, to see if it really would give him a hard-on that wouldn’t quit.
It had not.
Doing laundry on a deserted island was not as simple as he’d expected, however. He had to collect rainwater from the cistern beside the tower, heat it over a fire, then scrub the clothes over rocks. Determined to repeat the task as seldom as possible, and not having seen another soul in the week he’d been on the island, he decided to wash everything at once and get it over with. In fact, he’d save wear and tear on his clothes in general if he went around naked most of the time. He liked the feel of the sun on his entire body. All part of getting in touch with his primitive side.
Only, now he was feeling at a decided disadvantage, facing this hulking man who’d emerged from the jungle. The big blond advanced toward him now, looking none too friendly. “I was told this island was uninhabited,” the man said with an American accent.
“It is,” Ian said. “I’m only visiting.”
The blond glanced around at the shelter. Ian had spent the better part of three days erecting it, after he’d discovered living in the tower would be impossible. He was pleased with how it had turned out, proud to discover that, despite his academic background, he could work with his hands. “Looks pretty settled to me,” the blond said.
“I’m staying the summer.” Ian spotted the machete hanging by the door and moved toward it. Just in case.
“So are we,” the man said.
We? Ian looked beyond the man and stared at the woman who was walking toward them. A tall, curvy brunette in a very small bikini. His physical response to this vision straight out of his most erotic fantasies was immediate and emphatic. He snatched a wet towel from the makeshift clothesline he’d hung at the back of the shelter and wrapped it around his waist. Unfortunately, this only served to emphasize his arousal, which tented out the towel like a pole.
The woman’s cheeks were flushed, and she appeared to be holding back laughter. So much for him making a great first impression.
“I’m Nicole and this is my friend Adam,” she said, offering her hand. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s an academic and doesn’t know how to behave in public.”
“Ian Marshall.” He shook her hand, spirits plummeting further at her remark about academics. Not that the blond looked like much of an intellectual. More like a sea captain. Or one of the pirates the island was said to have once harbored.
“We’ve come to relax and do some diving,” Nicole continued, ignoring the frown from her companion. “I hear the reefs here are spectacular. Have you seen them?”
He relaxed a little. “Yes. There are a number of rare species of fish here. Definitely worth seeing.” One of his duties this summer was to photograph the fish and other native flora and fauna. Though he wasn’t crazy about diving alone—it went against every safety rule in the book—once he’d decided on a solo trip he didn’t have much choice. Fortunately, much of his work could be done snorkeling. When he did have to dive, he was extra careful with his equipment, and only allowed himself to stay down very limited amounts of time. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but he thought he could make it work. He’d already used up rolls of film and a big chunk of the memory of his digital camera.
“So what are you, some kind of hermit?” Adam was still looking around the shelter, like a detective collecting evidence.
“I’m here doing research,” Ian said.
“What kind of research?”
“Adam, don’t be rude.” Nicole put a hand on her companion’s arm and smiled at Ian. A smile that made him a little dizzy. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you,” she said. “But we’d better get back to our ship. We didn’t mean to disturb you.” Her gaze flickered over the towel, and laughter danced in her eyes. Then she turned and led Adam back across the rocks and into the jungle.
When he was sure they were gone, Ian sagged onto the wooden crate that doubled as a chair. So much for thinking he’d be spending the summer alone. Not that he was complaining about the woman. The thought of three months in a tropical paradise with her made him grateful Danielle what’s-her-name had dumped him.
Was Nicole the woman the Jamaican had predicted—the one whose goal would be to wear him out? The idea was intriguing.
Of course, there was the matter of her disgruntled boyfriend to deal with. Yes, definitely a problem. Then again, Nicole might grow weary of her academic pirate’s ill temper. Or decide she preferred dark, scholarly Englishmen.
And it might snow here tomorrow, too.
With a groan, he stood and attacked the washing with renewed vigor. But he kept the towel around his waist, just in case. It figured the only beautiful woman to show up on this deserted island was already attached to someone. So much for the Jamaican woman’s prediction that he’d meet a great seductress. Nicole had been friendly, but there was nothing overtly seductive about her, beyond the gorgeous figure, great hair and beautiful smile that would have attracted the attention of any man.
He finished the laundry and hung it to dry beneath the shelter, out of the reach of the birds, then looked around for something else to do. He could take his notebook and cameras and finish cataloging the plant life in the north lagoon, but he’d learned to avoid that sort of work in the hottest part of the day. His second day here he’d almost succumbed to sunstroke in the intense heat and humidity.
Better to take it easy for a couple of hours. Maybe catch up on his reading. He turned to the crate of books he’d brought along with him—a cookbook, a first-aid guide and half a dozen tomes on the ecology of the Caribbean, the subject of his doctoral thesis. But discussions of the life cycle of coral or poisonous plants of the South Seas held no appeal to him this afternoon, distracted as he was by memories of Nicole and Adam.
He spied a paperback among the books and drew it out. Confessions of a Pirate Queen was written across the front in bold red print, above a painting of a scantily clad woman on the gallows. He grinned. His buddy, Bryan Peachtree, had given him the book when he’d learned of Ian’s plans for the summer. “If you’re going to Passionata’s Island, you should read this,” he’d said with a wink. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
No doubt some lurid soft-porn epic, Ian thought, settling into his hammock beneath a nearby pair of palms and opening the book. Bryan’s idea of a joke. But since his encounter with Nicole had already put sex on his brain, why not?
BACK AT THE SHIP, Nicole prepared lunch while Adam checked his diving gear. “Why were you so rude to Ian?” she asked. “Now he’s going to think we’re ugly Americans.”
“Judging by his reaction to you, I doubt ugly is the first word he thinks of.” He spat into his snorkeling mask and rubbed the saliva around with his fingers.
“I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about you.” She slapped cheese slices onto bread and began slicing an avocado. They’d be out of fresh produce before long—except coconuts, of course. And maybe she could find banana trees somewhere on the island. “Why were you so hostile to him?” she asked.
Adam set the snorkeling mask aside. “I guess I was looking forward to having the island to ourselves,” he said. “How do we know he’s not another treasure hunter, out to beat us to the find?”
“Isn’t that the way these things work—finders keepers?” She handed him a sandwich, then took hers and sat across from him. “Who owns this island?”
“The British government. They’ve talked about building an airstrip here for years, but nothing’s come of it.”
“That treasure’s been down there for three hundred years. Are you sure no one’s recovered it before now?”
He nodded. “Pretty sure. It’s hard to keep a find like that secret.”
“Then there’s no reason to believe Ian’s after it, or that he even knows about it.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ll try to be nicer to him next time we meet.”
“We should invite him to dinner,” Nicole said. “I’ll bet he’s lonely.”
Adam laughed. “Did you see the look on his face when he saw you? Pretty impressive boner you caused.”
She stuck her tongue out at Adam, but she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t a little bit flattered. Seeing Ian’s reaction to her had given her an inkling of the power Passionata was talking about. And Ian was a very good-looking man. Someone who could make her time on the island that much more interesting.
“What are you going to do this afternoon?” she asked Adam, changing the subject.
“I’m going to do some snorkeling, try to pin down the most likely location of the wreck. I’ll take the Zodiac out. Do you want to come with me?”
She shook her head. “No. I think I’ll stay here on the yacht and read. I came to relax, after all.”
“Okay. But tomorrow I want us to go diving.”
“We can do that. Tomorrow.”
After lunch he inflated the Zodiac, fired up the motor and took off across the lagoon. Nicole brought her book out onto the deck and pulled a chaise into a shaded spot under the canopy. At last she could continue Passionata’s adventures, and learn more about her approach to male/female relationships.
The story has been told of how I and my crew, like the Sirens of legend, would lure sailors to the rocks and their undoing. When these lonely men, long at sea, would spy our fair forms reclining near the sea, most seductively arrayed and beckoning, they seldom resisted long. Even after word of the hazard we posed passed among the sailing crews, they were loathe to avoid us. Indeed, it is said many sought us out, though their defeat was inevitable.
What has not been told—until now—is what happened to those men who survived the wreck and battle. The fate of those who became our prisoners. The bravest and best of these became our slaves and courtesans. They served at our pleasure, as women have been made to do for centuries. But this time the women were in charge, and the men were at our mercy.
They were wont to resist at first, but soon learned the futility of this. And more than a few discovered a taste for subservience. For though they had been raised to always be in charge—in control—they discovered the erotic nature of surrender.
The chapter ended, and, breath quickening, Nicole turned the page and found the narrative interrupted by a note from the editor.
Though Confessions of a Pirate Queen first appeared as a serial printed in the London Times in 1715, the following portion of the original manuscript was deemed too obscene for public consumption, and was unknown for more than two centuries, until an original of the entire document was discovered in the London Times’s archives in 1993.
Here, Passionata’s narrative resumed:
When a woman is in control of a relationship, everything changes. No longer is she at the mercy of a man’s wishes and desires, subjugating her own wants and needs to his timetable. Now he must serve her desires. And, as the men who served the women of Passionata’s Island soon discovered, a woman in charge of her own sexual destiny discovers a true flowering of desire, and a capacity for sexual pleasure heretofore unknown.
It is an arrangement of benefit to both man and woman—as illustrated by the story of William D., a sailor who came to Passionata’s Island in the summer of 1707.
“We have the prisoners ready to present to you, madame.” My lieutenant, a dusky woman who had taken the name of Determinata, appeared in the doorway of my tower headquarters the morning after our most recent conquest of a British merchant vessel. The vessel had been carrying a cargo of gold bullion, silver coins and exotic spices, and we had spent a good part of the night securing the wreckage. Today the divers would begin retrieving the spoils from the hold and adding them to our stores.
“How many today?” I asked. It had been a large ship, but the battle had been fierce. The sharks would have feasted well last night.
“Seven. One is only a boy, but the others…” Determinata smiled. “There are some very fine specimens here.”
“Then I must see them.”
I followed her down the stone staircase and out into the plaza in front of the tower. It was a fine day, hot and clear. The men stood bare-chested, hands bound behind their backs.
One caught my eye. He was lean and tall, with the dark hair and fair skin of a continental. I stopped before him and he looked me in the eye, defiant. He was well muscled, with a fine dusting of black hair across his chest, narrow hips and strong legs. “What is your name?” I asked.
I could read in his eyes that he thought of not answering. But I kept my gaze on him, unflinching, and at last he said, “William.”
His accent was British and upper class. Perhaps the son of the ship owner, or a nobleman or tradesman who had purchased passage. Looking into his eyes, at the spirit there, I felt the heat build inside me. “William, you will come with me,” I said, and turned to walk back to my tower.
“Why should I come with you?” he asked, his tone haughty.
I didn’t turn around. I liked the question, but there was no hesitation in my answer. “Because if you don’t, one of my lieutenants will shoot you, and that would be a waste of good flesh.”
I anticipated he might need more persuading, but after a moment’s hesitation, he fell into step behind me. I kept my back to him, hoping he wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to overpower me or to run away. My guards would be watching him and they would shoot to kill.
But he made no such attempt and soon we were alone in my tower room. I bade him sit, and had one of my other servants, Marcus, bring him water and bread. William eyed the man with distaste. “Is this what you intend for me?” he asked. “To make me your slave?”
“The choice is yours,” I said, but explained no further. He would choose his own role here—slave or courtesan. I wanted him for my bed, but if he was unwilling, I would not force him. Men overpower reluctant women with rape. I preferred to use my sexual prowess to teach men the advantages of accepting my superiority and command.
While he ate, I made myself comfortable, divesting myself of my outer garments, revealing the sheer silk undersheath. I unbanded and combed out my long hair, all the while acting as if he was no longer in the room. I loosened the straps of my gown and rubbed scented lotion into my shoulders and across the top of my breasts, caressing myself, watching in the mirror as he watched me.
And he was indeed watching me, the remainder of his meal forgotten. One glance showed me the tightness at the front of his trousers. Yes, this one would make a good courtesan.
“Do you like what you see?” I asked him.
The question startled him. He snapped his gaze away. “Who would like being a prisoner?”
“In the world beyond this island, every woman is a prisoner—of her father or her husband or of the rules society has laid out for her. Most have learned to live with it.”
“But you did not,” he said.
“I did not. I have made my own kingdom, with my own rules.”
“And now the men are prisoners,” he said, frowning.
I nodded. “But it is not such an unpleasant existence for them, I tell you.”
He made a noise like a growl. I ignored him and sat on a high stool across from him. The light from the window was at my back, making my gown almost transparent. I wanted him to know what awaited him if he was willing.
I could feel his eyes burning into me, and imagined that same heat coursing through his body, into mine. “Are you trying to seduce me?” he asked after a moment.
I laughed. “Of course.” I leaned toward him, my breasts straining against the front of my gown. “Do you want to be seduced?”
He looked at my breasts, then back into my eyes. “What happens if I say yes?”
“That is part of the excitement, isn’t it?” I leaned closer still, and lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “But I promise, I have had no complaints yet.”
His eyes locked to mine, and tension radiated from him, vibrating the air. “What do I have to do?” he asked, his voice roughened by desire.
