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.
