It was only after two days that it finally dawned on him that she had left him for good.
Worse, she appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth. There was no trace of her.
Her friends appeared to be as baffled as he was.
In the ferocity of his anger, he had driven to the apartment that very night, the one she had shared with her old friends, although it had been close to 4 a.m. when he stood, banging on the door, unmindful of the commotion, ignoring the irate neighbours.
One look at his furious snarling face, and the old woman who had peeked out from the neighbouring apartment to complain had vanished hastily.
The bleary-eyed girls had been as perplexed and openly worried.
The tall blonde, Tanya, had been on the verge of tears.
"You...gangster," she sobbed,' You broke her heart, didn't you? With those cheap photographs pasted all over the net!'
She had been too distraught to continue, sitting down on the couch and howling.
'Now she's gone...!!!"
Lucien stood in the centre of the room, his fists on his hips, as he realized that the girl he had made love to a few hours ago, had vanished.
The other girl, Rachel, had sized him up levelly.
'"Even if we knew, we wouldn't tell you.' She declared defiantly, folding her toned arms, feet apart, standing like a fighter.
And as he turned to leave, she shot,
"You didn't deserve her, you pervert. She loved you; did you even know that?'
***
So Proserpina had been devastated on seeing the pictures taken by the paparazzi-the ones where he had been shagging Gloria Haysmith-Rhys? The thought pleased him in some dark corner of his mind; he had wanted to break free of the allurement the young girl had, the power the witch Proserpina, had over him, albeit unconsciously.
As James Schwartz would have said in his quaint style, he had been bewitched.
He had been fighting the disastrous attraction he felt for the innocent he had picked up from the club that night. He could still picture her as she had stood there that night-the cascading mahogany hair, the eyes like warm caramel, her pouting mouth, and a delicious body with curves that made a man want to caress it and squeeze it.
Despite being drawn to her unusual appearance, he would have dismissed her and entered the club that night, but when she challenged him, her full breasts heaving and eyes flashing, he came to a halt.
***
One look at her face, and he knew that she was a walking invitation to the men in his flagship Fight Club. The girl looked little more than a teenager; the c*ke-snorting Harding who had been chasing her with his equally d*ped friends, preferred women who were experienced and worldly wise. Besides, having had a light-hearted affair with Harding's mother who had been on the lookout for husband Number Three, he was familiar with the boy.
That one night had changed things for him. He was like a man possessed.
Lucien had always preferred blonde women with slim bodies and small breasts. This voluptuous little girl with the face of an innocent and the body of a siren, her masses of mahogany-coloured hair and the pouting, full mouth, the eyes filled with adoration, it had intrigued him and aroused him. Soon, she had become like a dr*g that he could not do without.
But Lucien Delano was not addicted to anything.
Or anyone.
He had wanted to punish her; for being young and desirable; hell, even the young men he employed lusted after her, damn it! The way men looked at her when she laughed, watched her covetously as she walked, seeming to strip her with their eyes. Even in a pair of faded jeans and a large shirt, she looked ravishing. The sway of her full hips, and the way her large breasts bounced as she moved, unaware of the looks she was receiving-all of it came back in a rush. When he saw her, he felt a pang of insecurity.
And he had felt old then.
An old man with a bullet lodged in his thigh, who dragged his leg when he walked.
And hadn't she once told him that he was too old for her...???
***
When he arrived at the house he kept for his mistresses, a small house on the outskirts of the city, he found it empty. The terrified housekeeper was no help either. She wrung her hands and bawled.
The musty air that lingered in the bedroom hinted at days of disuse.
That was when it struck him.
He, Lucien, the serial womanizer and astute tycoon, mob boss, arms supplier, and trafficker, -had been dumped.
Royally.
He sat down on the couch, furious. No woman had ever left him high and dry. He gritted his teeth. When he found her, he would make her pay, make her beg for mercy.
He turned to his bodyguards, who stood silently, watchful.
"Find her!" He growled.
***
The next few months went by in a blur of drinking binges and a succession of women who came to his bed and left as quickly. He used them brutally, but none of them could satisfy him. His body craved hers and hers alone.
Finally, almost four months later, he looked in the mirror, bleary-eyed; the gaunt-eyed, grim-faced man with two days' growth of beard stared back, bleakly, as he accepted the bitter truth.
He, the great Lucien Delano, craved the tantalizingly youthful Proserpina Martinez.
He wanted her.
She was like a disease in him; he couldn't do without that soft, willing, generous body, the smiling eyes, the wide laughing mouth, her youthfulness, and yes, her innocence.
The way she moaned his name as she came...
He needed her.
Just the thought of her made him rock hard, and he groaned, disgusted with his weakness.
Squaring his shoulders, he made up his mind.
***
The detective eyed the man sitting across the table with some trepidation. He had heard all about Lucien Delano, ruthless business magnate and billionaire to the world, Mob Boss and murderer too, as he was known in the underworld circles. A well-known womanizer, who was now asking him to find a woman who had dared to walk out on him.
The detective swallowed unhappily. He felt sorry for any misguided woman who would be stupid enough to cross swords with the dangerous man in front of him. He silently predicted gloomily that she would end up in a body bag or with a slit throat, his shoulders sinking as he huddled in front of the cold gaze of the man in front of him.
Lucien tossed a photograph across the table: That's a picture of her, he said in a gruff voice.
Glancing down, the detective did a double take. But this was a young girl, almost half the age of the man before him. And lovely, with an unassuming sexuality that made you want to stare at her. A body that men would drool over. But her heart was in her eyes as she gazed at Lucien. A dangerous kind of beauty, which made her alluring. Every man who looked at her would want to possess her, stamp his ownership on her...
Jeez, he whistled soundlessly as he devoured the photograph of the young woman, she was hot!
A press photographer had captured the couple; she was smiling widely, looking up at Lucien with her love shining in her eyes. while the Mafia Don had a firm grip on her upper arm as he glared into the camera with a glacial look. The arrogance and possessiveness in his demeanour were unmistakable; they were those of a man who owned a priceless possession.
The little private eye's expression must have mirrored his confusion, but Lucien jabbed his finger at the detective and said grimly,
"Just do it. Find her for me. I want her back."
***
Almost a year and a half later, Lucien sat in his darkened office in the club. Only a desk lamp burned, throwing light on a set of photographs in front of him. He had been sitting there for hours, since the afternoon when the snaps had been delivered to his office. The numbness inside him was just beginning to wear off.
He took up the first photograph.
***
It had been taken in a small town at the foothills of the Himalayan mountains in Bhutan. A Buddhist monastery, the detective had explained excitedly.
Proserpina. His Woman stood, half turning to smile at a young man with red hair, unconsciously facing the camera, which she had not known was trained on her.
She had been smiling at a Frenchman who lives close by; he likes her a lot, the detective had explained almost apologetically.
Seething with jealous rage, Lucien traced her figure with his forefinger, the swollen belly and the heavy breasts.
She was pregnant.
And she looked beautiful.
His balls tightened, and he grunted ferociously.
Lucien Delano wanted his Woman back.
***
And then another picture, taken a few months later, showed Proserpina sitting outside what looked like a temple, a child at her breast, another child lying in a makeshift cradle.
She had given birth to twins, the detective had informed him.
His children.
After she had run away from him, she delivered his twins.
He traced the pictures of his children and the woman who had borne them.
Looking at the photograph; he knew he wanted to take her. Right then.
It had been too long...
Lucien threw back his head and roared. Frustration, anger, and the thrill of the chase which was coming to an end.
His trusted bodyguard raced in, alarmed: "Sir?"
"Get me a flight to Bhutan.' He growled.
***
She looked down at the small head nestling against her breast and stroked her son's head. Her daughter was asleep in the makeshift cradle. She gently lowered her son onto the mattress and stood up sighing, stretching, and modestly covering her breasts.
A languid feeling of peace and yet a strange feeling of sadness. She had known she was pregnant before she went to meet Lucien. But for him, she was only a plaything...the tears that were never far away, filled her eyes.
If only, she thought...
***
Her journey had been a panic-filled flight, with her running away with only the savings she had, leaving behind all Lucien's expensive gifts. Rachel had helped her plan her escape; without her strong friend's help, she had no idea what she would have done...
Without any clear idea, she had set out to get away as far away as possible, from the man she loved with all her heart. For she knew that fatherhood was not something he would accept; he might accuse her of trying to trap him into marrying her.
After a meandering journey across the East, she had finally reached Bhutan and had taken shelter at the monastery that had seemed to be too far away for him to ever trace her again.
This tiny hamlet, the generosity of the kind-hearted Buddhist nuns had been a heaven-sent sent for her. When she knew that she was carrying Lucien's twins, she had ached to hold him, to tell him.
But her love for him and the birth of their children must remain a secret, for he would never understand.
She shuddered and bent her head, her long hair swinging forward to cover her face. She still had vivid dreams of him, grinding his hips against hers, burying his face in her neck...Her breasts ached as she thought of him, about his rough acts demanding total subjugation.
And she knew she would always hunger for that...
Would she ever see him again?