A Warlord's Lady

Chapter 1

I stumbled from the room, looking as though I’d been riding a horse for hours — which I had, I suppose. The Warlord’s sexual appetite was as prodigious as his hunger for power and domination. He rarely spoke to me, but I often heard him speaking at length to his generals as they walked down the marbled corridors surrounding my rooms. The Warlord’s manner was always brusque, his tone always curt and his face always hard — but man, he was handsome, and this fact alone made certain my sexual duties were never a chore.

[Excerpt from Memoirs of a Warlord’s Love Slave, Chapter 7]

***

Sabra looked up from the book, her book: Memoirs of a Warlord’s Love Slave, a New York Times Best Seller.

She dropped it back on the crumb-covered coffee table. There it landed, rejected in a rain of biscuit debris. The book was a mistake. It should never, ever, have been written.

Yet her eyes lingered upon the glossy cover, reluctant to completely ignore it. A model, much thinner and prettier than she’d ever be, graced the cover. In a sweeping low-cut mauve blouse that barely covered her nipples, she smiled saucily up at Sabra. Behind the girl stood a male model, shirtless and glowering. He looked as though he’d discovered regular milk in his soy latte. The real Cain Dath could never look so spoilt.

Her stomach clenched and memories rushed through her body, leaving her hot and restless. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to push them aside and stared again at the cover of the book. It lay discarded, like a dead thing.

Having a best seller had come with a hefty price, and not just in the book royalties. Once released, it had taken investigative reporters little more than a week to decipher her nom de plume. Within two, the world media had been banging on her door. Sabra’s round, wide-eyed face now stared back from every magazine, newspaper and television she looked at.

‘It’s been said that the Magician Warlord, Cain Dath, has a harem full of women. Why did he kidnap you?’

‘What is special about Sabra Westwood?’

‘What can you do that all other women could not?’

So many questions and she couldn’t answer even one. She didn’t know why the Warlord had captured her…she really didn’t.

Until her kidnapping while holidaying in Laos, she’d worked at a metal fabrication company in the payroll office. No, there was nothing particularly special about Sabra Westwood. Mousy brown hair, grey eyes, short and more than a little squat — people rarely looked at her twice. Yet there was one thing; one small thing that Sabra took pains to keep secret. This abnormality of hers, which she’d rather people not discover, did make her just a little different from every other late-twenties, single Aussie girl. Sabra Westwood, despite all other appearances, was a Chameleon.

In a world where magical beings were as common as spots on a leopard, a Chameleon wasn’t anything particularly outrageous. It was just odd. For all intents and purposes, she was just like any other ordinary woman — except her skin contained cells collectively known as chromatophores. The presence of these cells gave her the rather unique ability to change skin and hair colour and, if she so desired, blend in with the background. Providing she was stark naked, Sabra could blend in with anything, from a brick wall to paisley carpet. However, walking around camouflaging yourself constantly was tiresome and not entirely practical, especially given the nudity requirement; Sabra rarely used her ability and, as she didn’t like to be singled out, took pains to hide her difference.

For much of her incarceration with Cain, she’d wondered if it was her Chameleon abilities that had attracted him and his minions to her. It certainly couldn’t have been her plain-Jane appearance. Sabra found herself pondering why the great Warlord couldn’t have found another Chameleon to satisfy his desires — if indeed that was what titillated him so much? Why her? She wasn’t even slim; less so now that she was practically under home detention — for her own protection, of course.

Sabra Westwood took a bite and released the half-eaten chocolate biscuit onto the saucer from where it came. The skin on her fingers had turned a soft chocolatey brown to match it, but instantly returned to its usual golden olive once she released the biscuit from her grip. She could control the ability much better these days, but when she didn’t concentrate, portions of her body would camouflage to match whatever they made contact with. It used to dismay her schoolteachers no end. She snorted, and then licked her fingers clean of the melted chocolate remnants. At the warm slippery sensation, her mind was instantly thrown back to Cain’s touch. Frustratingly, Sabra felt her heart speed up. It thumped loudly in the fleshy confines of her chest and her loins tightened. Lord, I must have Stockholm Syndrome, she thought. The worst thing was that she probably did. It had been just over a year since she’d escaped; she was no closer to being relieved of the torturous, traitorous feelings and crippling flashbacks that swelled within her every time her mind roamed restlessly to her time in captivity, or the seductive captor who’d kept her there.

Sighing and pushing other more difficult thoughts aside, she glanced out the window to where several armed security men stood posted outside her home. She was back in Australia, at home, free from the Warlord’s capture, but almost enslaved again. The Australian Government was certain Cain would come to collect her, sooner or later. How they knew this and why they thought it true was a mystery to Sabra — but they fervently believed it. Now, Sabra couldn’t leave her home without armed guards, and the government insisted on placing Magical Ion Sensing Devices all around her home. No untoward magic would happen on their watch; none at all. Sabra wondered when it would all end.

Disrupting her thoughts like a gunshot, the telephone rang and echoed down the corridor. A high-voltage spasm of excitement rippled through her body. It was him. Struggling not to run, she paused and waited for the requisite six rings, to ensure the phone-tapping specialist was ready to do his part. Finally, she strode up the corridor, her bare feet padding on the thick, woven hallway runner.

‘Hello?’ her voice was breathy, and her hand turned as white as the slimline handset.

‘I’m coming to get you.’ The voice was low and gravelly and it resounded with fury.

Sabra’s heart exploded. Fear, exhilaration, outrage — everything — ran through her mind.

‘Why?’ she croaked.

‘You’re questioning me? Why don’t you answer me something, Sabra? Why the exposé? Did you think I wouldn’t find you?’

Sabra bit her lip. ‘I — ’

Typically, Cain didn’t allow an explanation. ‘I’m coming to get you,’ he hissed, his voice threateningly low.

‘I have police protection,’ Sabra whispered. ‘You can’t.’

‘You have a lot more than police protection. You have no idea…’

Sabra felt irked and was about to retort when a loud beeping split the line.

He’d hung up. Again.

Growling softly, she released her phone into the holder and watched her hand resume its natural colour.

She was about to return to the lounge room and indulge in some calming daytime television and several more chocolate biscuits when a loud rapping at the door stopped her.

Every muscle in her body tensed.

‘Ms Westwood. Open the door. This is Sergeant Hollis,’ a hard Australian accent carried through the door.

Sabra’s gaze flew to the door and she could see his form loom beyond the leadlight panel. She bit her lip. She did not like Hollis, and whether or not he was there to protect her, she felt more unsafe with him than she ever had with the Warlord. Running an anxious hand over her crumb-littered bosom, scattering the crumbs to the floor, Sabra threw a frustrated glance down at her attire. A stained white tee-shirt strained against her chest and stomach, and pilled, black tracksuit pants completed the outfit.

‘I’m not dressed for company,’ Sabra called through the door.

The sergeant hammered on the door again. ‘You’re never dressed for company,’ Hollis barked. ‘This is not a request, Ms Westwood. It’s an order. Open the door.’

Growling again under her breath, Sabra strode and opened the door with a quick jerk. ‘Yes?’

The fresh air from outside swooped into the house and the bright daylight made her wince. It seemed autumn had fallen on Perth while she wasn’t looking. Orange and brown leaves were scattered on her verandah from the large, nearly naked plane tree on the verge.

‘Was that him?’ Hollis said without preamble, and Sabra noticed his cool icy blue eyes flick over her apparel with evident disdain.

Sabra hesitated. She’d been interrogated ad nauseam about the Warlord who had kidnapped her. Cain was a wanted man, in Australia and all around the world — but it seemed wrong, telling this man about him.

‘You know it was,’ she eventually retorted.

‘We couldn’t get a trace on the line…again!’ Hollis snarled, running a hand through his cropped grey hair and pursing his thin, dry lips.

‘I didn’t think you would,’ Sabra replied, feeling odd flutters in her belly.

Again Hollis’s reptilian eyes flicked over her again, the small pale pink tip of his tongue hovered between his parted lips. ‘We want you to go into Cerebral Management,’ he said, clearly waiting for her outrage.

Sabra froze. ‘Cerebral Management?’ The words caught in her throat. Cerebral Management was a detention centre for magically affected humans. She was a Chameleon, not magical, and certainly not magically affected. There was no need to detain her there, yet this was the second time it had been suggested. ‘What have I done?’

‘I’ve told you. You’ll be safer there. It’s for your own security. You know, I’ve got the authority to place you there,’ Hollis replied, his large meaty hand stretching through the doorway and grabbing her tightly by the bicep.

Sabra frowned and glanced down at his hand; it bit painfully into the fleshy top of her arm. Something, she wasn’t sure what, burned through her sweater at his touch. ‘Ouch, let go.’ She wrenched away, unsuccessfully. The man was like the Terminator. She stared at him and saw her face reflected in the ice blue of his eyes, and shivered. She looked terrible…really terrible.

‘Ms Westwood, this is the fourth phone call Cain has made to you this month, and he’s now stated that he’s coming to get you. For your own protection, you must come with us.’

Sabra took a great breath. ‘No.’ She tried to yank her arm free, with little success. ‘Let go of me. I’m not your prisoner.’

Hollis’s face sharpened with scorn. ‘Of course not,’ he said, his voice literally dripping with sarcasm.

There was one of those horrid moments of silence, and the unsettled feeling that constantly gnawed at her guts exploded like a bomb. ‘What do you mean by that?’ she wheezed, wrenching her arm again, this time successfully.

Hollis stared at his empty hand before thrusting it deep in his pocket.

Sabra took strength from his gesture. ‘You cannot make me leave my home. This is a democratic country.’

‘I am here to protect you!’ Hollis snapped.

She felt stronger. ‘Then protect me here. I am not going to Cerebral Management. That place is for criminals. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Sabra could feel her face fluctuate in colour, like an angry cuttlefish, and she knew the sergeant found her words hard to believe.

He narrowed his eyes again. ‘You’re in no fit state to make that decision,’ he snarled, glancing down dispassionately at her shabby attire. ‘I have the authority, and all I need is the urgent Interim Place of Safety Order. Make no mistake, Ms Westwood, you will not be staying here much longer. Cain Dath is after you, and I will not allow that…terrorist to take what belongs to the government.’

With that, Hollis spun on a shiny heel, crunching a golden autumn leaf as he did. Sabra watched him leave, strutting like an agitated rooster down the garden path and into a black sedan.

What belongs to the government? Sabra pondered as she rather forcefully slammed the door behind him. Me?

The sense of creeping unease intensified somewhere in the region of her belly, and a shiver wracked her body despite the temperature of the house being almost oppressively warm. She stared at her mantle; it had been her birthday last week, and only one card graced the shelf. Where had all her friends gone, she wondered. The lone card was from Elka, her only friend, it seemed. It was a depressing sight.

She didn’t want to watch telly now. Would Hollis take her to Cerebral Management? Was it just a threat? What had he meant? His words chased their tails around and around her brain. Closing the curtains completely, to obscure the armed guards’ view of her, she loped back into the living room. All this money, but she couldn’t spend it, trapped as she was. She stared down at her book again. How her life had changed.

Chapter 2

Eighteen months ago, Sabra had signed up for a trip with Wicked Women Tours after she’d broken up with Jayden. Jay had been more interested in drag car racing, and tinkering in his shed, than he’d ever been in her. It was disappointing. Sabra had met him at work; he was one of the fitters in the workshop at the metal fabrication company for which she worked. Funny, gregarious, and generous by nature, they’d had fun, but Sabra wanted more. She was 28, and was feeling the tick of her biological clock like a victim of Chinese water torture. Jay, however was not.

In the kindest way possible, he had gently turned down her proposal of marriage. Devastated and single again, Sabra had decided to take a sabbatical. With three months of annual leave owed to her, she booked a touring holiday around Asia. Wicked Women Tours took her on a winding path through Thailand, Cambodia and, fatefully, Laos.

Sabra had enjoyed it immensely. She’d felt safe with the affable tour guides and other single women. It had been a sweaty evening in Vientiane when everything changed.

***

[Excerpt from Memoirs of a Warlord’s Love Slave, Chapter 1]

I was sitting in a small bar with fellow tourist, Maggie, drinking a pineapple cocktail of some description. I’d had far too many, and was likely to drink many more. The rest of the tour group had headed back to the hostel for an early night. We were returning to Perth two days later, but I was determined to make a night of it and, thankfully, so was Mags. The bar was one of those dodgy-looking local places, but our tour guide had recommended it as being ‘safe’, and who were we to disagree? The walls were made of bamboo strung tightly together, and the floor was raw cement, swept religiously every 15 minutes. Photos of drunk tourists and locals alike were pinned higgledy-piggledy on the walls. Mine was destined to be up there too, as they’d taken my photo only moments before. I’d been flushed, sweaty and looking far from my best. The barman, a gorgeous bronzed Laotian, had taken it, and despite my awkwardness I’d laughed, strangely flattered and titillated to have some evidence of my presence preserved on the soggy bamboo walls.

Thus far, the holiday had been a wonderful ego boost — the Laotian men were charming and a balm to my battered ego. The attention they gave me was nice, something I certainly wouldn’t get in the bars and clubs of my hometown, Rockingham.

In the steamy gloom of the bar, I noticed a particularly handsome Laotian man smile at me from a nearby table where he sat with two friends. He had cheekbones that could only be described as chiselled, and dark brown skin, shadowed in all the right places by sexy stubble. His hair curled slightly just above his collar. I felt myself blush. Not a good thing for a Chameleon to do, as I tend to turn a rather unflattering crimson red which seems to put most guys off. I took a gulp of my cocktail to cover my embarrassment. Was it just me, or was this drink stronger than the others? I found myself staring googly-eyed at the handsome guy again, but thankfully my blush stayed down. He offered me a long, lazy wink and raised his glass of beer in a cocky salute. I suddenly became aware of the artistic sculpture of muscles beneath his snug shirt. I really wanted to have a holiday fling. No, actually, if I dare to be uncouth — I was gagging for a shag. It had been months since I’d been with a man; I didn’t like it and nor did my body. My pulse began to race at the mere thought of touching the hard muscles that moved so enticingly beneath the white of his shirt. He must have read something in my eyes, and he smiled quickly, offering a flash of wolfish teeth. Something swooped inside me and I found myself barely able to suppress a gasp.

Let it be said, I am not modest, but I’m not a beauty by any means, not in Australia and certainly not in Laos, where the girls all seemed pretty and petite. Yet the look in the man’s eyes was appreciative and dare I say it — bordering on desirous? Perhaps he was just a gigolo? Did they have such things in Laos? They’d certainly had them in Thailand as we’d toured through. Then a thought came unbidden: did I want to become another western notch in a cocky bar-boy’s belt, for a paltry hundred thousand kip? Yes, actually, I rather liked the idea. The notion of handing over the equivalent of 20 Australian dollars to get my rocks off seemed like a better idea than returning to Perth sexually frustrated as well as single.

However, I am not bold by nature, and the distance between our table and his could have been a million miles because I simply didn’t have the gumption to walk it. At this point I was drowning in lust and swampy humidity. The smell of Asian perfumed cigarettes hung around me, dizzying and exotic.

‘He’s been eyeing you off since you got here.’ Maggie nudged my arm with hers, startling me. She threw a coquettish glance at a German-looking bloke seated not far from us. She lifted her cigarette lazily to her pursed lips in a sensuous salute.

I ran a sweaty palm down my top, all too aware that I wasn’t cutting a sensual figure like Mags. Wearing a loose cotton thing, which was practical for the weather but not all that flattering, suddenly felt like an oversight — I looked like a typical tourist. The only thing beautiful about me, according to most — is my eyes. Smooth steely grey, people say they’re almost hypnotic. The handsome guy gave me another appraising glance and I felt his gaze, heavy as lead, linger on the line of my unfortunately sweaty cleavage. I felt myself blush again, realising ruefully that I looked not only clammy, but red-faced as well. I took another frantic swig of my cocktail. The bitter tang of strong vodka almost made me gag, but I swallowed it purposefully down.

‘Why don’t you go over to him? You deserve a little bit of fun.’ Mags nudged me again, smudging out her cigarette with red painted fingertips.

I swallowed and my throat felt constricted. I glanced at her for confirmation. ‘You think?’ I croaked, watching Maggie’s prematurely aged face for any signs of jest. At 45, and a heavy smoking and drinking divorcee, Maggie was a blast, but I didn’t exactly trust her judgment.

‘Sure, why not?’ she replied, digging about in her fake Louis Vuitton handbag for another ciggie. ‘Get yourself a little rumpy-pumpy. Why not?’ She grinned at the enormous blond German man and he crooked a slimy finger at her, sleazily urging her to come to his side. ‘I’m going to.’ She smiled, displaying her white capped teeth.

Suddenly I was alone at my table and I watched, fascinated and awed, as Maggie’s rear deposited itself on the bar stool beside the German. Her arm slung over his shoulder in introduction, she threw back her blonde mane and laughed loudly. How did she do it? So casual, so natural and unashamed. It made me feel even more sweaty and awkward. Unable to tear my eyes from her flirty gestures and overt confidence, I could see she was completely absorbed in the German. He was huge and ugly, I thought. Evidently Mags didn’t care. Her skinny arm, jingling with bracelets, tightened around him, and she drew him into a wet, heady kiss.

Shameless, that’s what she was.

As I watched, I wondered — why can’t I be shameless like that? I gulped my drink, inhaling the heavy air woefully, resigning myself to returning to the hostel without her. I reached down to gather my bag, which sat between my sandal-clad feet, and I heard the scrape of a chair close by. My heart leapt and I looked up.

There he was looking down upon me — the handsome guy.

Up close he wasn’t merely cute, he was magnificent. All chiselled masculine grace. His slanted eyes were dark, exotic and mesmerising. Yum.

‘Hey,’ he said, his voice smooth and gentle despite the crass music that perforated the atmosphere.

‘Hi,’ I squeaked in return, willing my skin not to change colour or otherwise show off what kind of freak I was.

‘You Australian?’ he asked.

I felt the uncontrollable tingle on my skin that heralded change of colour. Without answering him, I found myself staring down at my hand. It was changing to match the pattern of the chequered tablecloth. Hoping he hadn’t noticed my abnormality, I tucked it underneath the table.

His gaze turned quizzical, rich chocolate brown eyes studying me.

‘You’re Australian, yes?’ he repeated in flawless English slightly flavoured with an accent.

Where was this bar-boy from?

‘Yes,’ I whispered, feeling a blush that I hoped was a normal colour rear up my cheeks again.

‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he purred, and swept down onto the chair beside me with the grace of cat. His hand, warm and dry, landed firmly on my exposed thigh.

If I were a romance writer I’d say ‘at that moment my loins melted’, but as I’m not, I’ll just say that it flat-out turned me on. No one had come on to me so overtly — ever — and suddenly in that steamy bar in the depths of Vientiane, one dirty little fantasy was about to be realised. Or so I hoped.

I struggled with an insane urge to throw myself onto the table and scream at him to ‘take me now’, but I found myself mumbling, ‘Thanks’. My hand reached down and touched his, and sparks of heat and electricity jolted up the pathway of my bones.

‘What is your name?’ he asked, and his warm hand captured mine, hauling me hook, line and sinker to stand.

‘Sabra,’ I whispered. Why was he so mesmerising? I couldn’t take my eyes from his, sexy, sparkling with intent.

‘Beautiful name for a girl with beautiful eyes,’ he purred, as he gestured to my handbag and I picked it up blindly, unwilling to remove my gaze from him, not for one second. ‘I am Tao.’ His hand tightened on mine and he turned to lead me from the bar.

Had I been careful, had I listened to my teachers all those years ago, I’d have recognised the magic in the air, the electricity in his touch as sorcery, but I didn’t. And maybe even if I had I wouldn’t have cared.

‘Sab!’ Maggie called as I followed the gorgeous guy from the bar. ‘Where are you going?’

I turned to face my friend, belatedly realising that I didn’t actually know.

‘Where are we going, Tao?’ I asked the man whose hand gripped mine so tightly. My head swam and I felt giddy; my head lolled onto his shoulder as he turned to speak to Maggie.

‘Just out, don’t worry.’ He smiled beatifically at Mags and, apparently placated, she shrugged and returned to her German man without a further word.

Tao laughed, and he said something in a flurry of his native language to the barman, who stood watching, warily, drying glasses behind the bar. Through the haze of toxic cocktails I saw the barman’s eyes drift to me, but they snapped back to Tao within a second. He nodded then looked away. At the time I didn’t understand, or take much note of the gesture, but I should have.

***

So, I left