Title: "Elegantly Wasted" 1/?
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: R, AU, SnC, LoCa
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own them.
Summary: How far would you go for the man you love?
A hush seemed to fall over the room...at least the female portion, when the man appeared at the top of the stairs and was announced as Senor Alcazar, a plantation owner from Venezuela. He was dressed impeccably, from head to toe, in black. From the crisp frock coat to his Hessians to the scarf at his throat. Everything about him, in fact, was dark... except for his eyes. Even from this distance, it was clear they were a startling blue. His hair was just a tad too long for fashion...deliciously indecent.
Just the way Caroline liked it.
"He's a widower," the other woman confided from behind her rapidly- moving fan. "Tragic, really. They say that his wife died down in Brazil or some place like that. The poor dear... she probably expired from *exhaustion.*"
"Tragic", thought Caroline, really meant "advantageous."
There wasn't a man in New Orleans safe from Faith Flynn's roving eye and her even *more* roving hands.
She had to admit, though, that the other woman was right. The man across the grand ballroom was something. She didn't know what exactly... but definitely *something*.
Of course, the society matrons, the biddies, and their simpering daughters would get first pick. Even as she had the thought, Janine Baldwin -- the mayor's wife-- was pushing her insipid little Courtney forward. The scared rabbit would faint if anyone so much as said "boo" to her and this sleek, dark, wolf would probably eat her up.
Women like Caroline, like Faith...like the stately, beautiful, Gia... they were here merely for courtesy, for decoration.
For entertainment.
Caroline searched the crowd for her friend, a tall, exotic, quadroon whose family had emigrated from the islands after the War Between the States. There was no denying that Gia Campbell turned heads... and warmed beds.
She would never, ever, be the wife of one of the men here.
None of them would.
That didn't mean they couldn't have high aspirations.
Caroline left Faith talking to a vaguely slick lawyer who would, no doubt, be her "tragic" conquest for the evening and moved around the perimeter of the ball. The music was loud, rollicking, full of fiddles and piano and the champagne flowed as freely as the money changing hands.
The room was overfilled and while she was thankful for the low neckline of her red silk gown, she was infinitely *not* thankful for the underskirt and the hoops below. "I'm a whore," she'd complained to Miss Bobbie, "it's all just going to come off anyway." "My girls are high class!" the madam had reminded, sharply. "Now behave yourself, Caroline and be careful tonight."
One was always careful at Michael Corinthos's balls.
Many a man had been known to wind up floating face-down in the bayou for forgetting that simple rule.
The mayor and his staff turned a blind eye, of course. A former privateer who'd smuggled goods during the War, Corinthos knew how to get things done.
Now, there was a sweet deal that could set a girl up for life. There were worse things than being the most powerful man in New Orleans' mistress. But Caroline was smarter than that. She knew Michael from way back... before this fancy house in the Garden district...when they'd both cruised the docks. Those black eyes and those dimples alone had been worth the tumbles on his ship that had left her wobbly and sea-legged for days.
You could dress him in lily-white suits and spit-shine his shoes and put a pretty maid on his arm, but he was still dangerous. He was still a pirate at heart and gold flashed across his palm like magic. So did the silver of knives.
There were worse things than being his mistress... but there were better things, too.
"Caroline..."
His voice was like the silk of her dress. Smooth, slippery, and stuck to her skin. His mouth feathered across the back of her hand in greeting even though he knew she was no lady.
"Michael," she greeted, civilly, tapping her closed fan against her thigh.
His eyes flickered with amusement, and a sensation fizzed through her like too much sloe gin. "I'm glad you could come."
"Miss Bobbie's could use the business," she said with a shrug.
"And you...? You struggling? Miguel?" The question was loaded ...inappropriate. One *never* asked after a whore's bastard children...but their relationship had never been quite proper.
"Miguel is fine, thank you." They both knew it was Michael's continued patronage that kept her son at the convent school where know one would know what his mother did to earn a living. He was six. The light of her life. But as she couldn't be a wife...she couldn't really be a mother either. He was safe with Sister Leticia and her order.
The fan tapped more firmly against her thigh and she willed the nervous motion to stop, clenching her fingers around the handle. "I was searching for Gia. Have you seen her this evening?"
Michael nodded towards the stairs..."She was going out to the lawn for some air with some Russian royal. I don't even know how he wrangled an invitation."
She laughed despite herself. "Sweetheart, when you throw a party... people come from miles around whether they're invited or not. You *are* a sensation. This is the place to be."
The comment pleased him. As it was meant to. He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, pleased by her involuntary shiver, too.
Oh, nights with Michael were the best she had ever had...
The problem was...in the morning he came back to this house.
To his wife.
"The lady of the manor feeling indisposed tonight?" she wondered, cattily. Faith's indiscretion was her cross to bear. Gia's was her beauty. Her own... was her tongue.
He squeezed her fingers in warning. "She's visiting her family in Charleston."
The Hardys of Charleston. Also in shipping. Really one of the few profitable industries after the war. Their name held history, honor, credence... and their bloodline had bought Michael his ticket into society.
He was just lucky that his sweet young bride took frequent trips to South Carolina because the city was too vibrant, too noisy, too busy, for her delicate constitution. Mayhap her husband was too vibrant for her as well.
"So, I suppose you'll be wanting company?" She batted her lashes in an imitation of flirtation.
"I might, Miz Caroline." This time he swatted her, gently. An echo of what he liked in the bedroom. "But I have bigger plans for you."
It soon became clear exactly what those big plans were, as he guided her through the throng of biddies towards the man of the hour who had turned her head, and everyone else's, only moments before. Little Courtney and her hangers-on flinched back, as if Caroline's occupation, and her deep capacity for pleasure, was somehow contagious and she smiled, archly, at them before Michael stopped with her in front of Senor Alcazar.
"Lorenzo Alcazar...may I introduce the delightful and dazzling, Caroline Benson?"
Delightful? Dazzling? She resisted the urge to kick his ankle and focused on the eyes that were even bluer at close range.
"It is a pleasure to meet one more beautiful flower in this city's exotic garden." The gentleman bowed low before her hand and then took it and brushed his lips across her knuckles. Even that light touch was made of fire. If Michael was gin, this man was whiskey.
And if Michael wanted her with him... he was important.
"Some flowers are more exotic than others, wouldn't you say?" she murmured, wryly.
A small smile played at the corners of Alcazar's lips. The power of it was staggering... so much so that she wondered what a full smile would do. Mayhap like the little bunny, this wolf would eat her up, too. "That only makes them more tempting to pluck...wouldn't *you* say, Senorita?"
"Mmmm...I see we're of like minds, Senor." She curtsied, dipping low, and felt both his eyes and Michael's on the shadow of her breasts.
"Would you care to dance?" His voice and his gaze were heavy yet soft... signs she knew all too well. Signs that would lead them straight to bed. Or the floor. The chaise. The wall.
"All night long if you desire." She flowed into his arms with ease and he took her hands in his strong, suntanned ones.
As he whirled her away to the music, into the crush, she was all too aware of Michael's expression. Like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
Big plans indeed...
She just hoped he remembered that she was just a whore.
Not a thief.
And not a killer.
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "General Hospital"
Rating/Classification: R, AU, SnC, LoCa
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own them.
Summary: How far would you go for the man you love?
A hush seemed to fall over the room...at least the female portion, when the man appeared at the top of the stairs and was announced as Senor Alcazar, a plantation owner from Venezuela. He was dressed impeccably, from head to toe, in black. From the crisp frock coat to his Hessians to the scarf at his throat. Everything about him, in fact, was dark... except for his eyes. Even from this distance, it was clear they were a startling blue. His hair was just a tad too long for fashion...deliciously indecent.
Just the way Caroline liked it.
"He's a widower," the other woman confided from behind her rapidly- moving fan. "Tragic, really. They say that his wife died down in Brazil or some place like that. The poor dear... she probably expired from *exhaustion.*"
"Tragic", thought Caroline, really meant "advantageous."
There wasn't a man in New Orleans safe from Faith Flynn's roving eye and her even *more* roving hands.
She had to admit, though, that the other woman was right. The man across the grand ballroom was something. She didn't know what exactly... but definitely *something*.
Of course, the society matrons, the biddies, and their simpering daughters would get first pick. Even as she had the thought, Janine Baldwin -- the mayor's wife-- was pushing her insipid little Courtney forward. The scared rabbit would faint if anyone so much as said "boo" to her and this sleek, dark, wolf would probably eat her up.
Women like Caroline, like Faith...like the stately, beautiful, Gia... they were here merely for courtesy, for decoration.
For entertainment.
Caroline searched the crowd for her friend, a tall, exotic, quadroon whose family had emigrated from the islands after the War Between the States. There was no denying that Gia Campbell turned heads... and warmed beds.
She would never, ever, be the wife of one of the men here.
None of them would.
That didn't mean they couldn't have high aspirations.
Caroline left Faith talking to a vaguely slick lawyer who would, no doubt, be her "tragic" conquest for the evening and moved around the perimeter of the ball. The music was loud, rollicking, full of fiddles and piano and the champagne flowed as freely as the money changing hands.
The room was overfilled and while she was thankful for the low neckline of her red silk gown, she was infinitely *not* thankful for the underskirt and the hoops below. "I'm a whore," she'd complained to Miss Bobbie, "it's all just going to come off anyway." "My girls are high class!" the madam had reminded, sharply. "Now behave yourself, Caroline and be careful tonight."
One was always careful at Michael Corinthos's balls.
Many a man had been known to wind up floating face-down in the bayou for forgetting that simple rule.
The mayor and his staff turned a blind eye, of course. A former privateer who'd smuggled goods during the War, Corinthos knew how to get things done.
Now, there was a sweet deal that could set a girl up for life. There were worse things than being the most powerful man in New Orleans' mistress. But Caroline was smarter than that. She knew Michael from way back... before this fancy house in the Garden district...when they'd both cruised the docks. Those black eyes and those dimples alone had been worth the tumbles on his ship that had left her wobbly and sea-legged for days.
You could dress him in lily-white suits and spit-shine his shoes and put a pretty maid on his arm, but he was still dangerous. He was still a pirate at heart and gold flashed across his palm like magic. So did the silver of knives.
There were worse things than being his mistress... but there were better things, too.
"Caroline..."
His voice was like the silk of her dress. Smooth, slippery, and stuck to her skin. His mouth feathered across the back of her hand in greeting even though he knew she was no lady.
"Michael," she greeted, civilly, tapping her closed fan against her thigh.
His eyes flickered with amusement, and a sensation fizzed through her like too much sloe gin. "I'm glad you could come."
"Miss Bobbie's could use the business," she said with a shrug.
"And you...? You struggling? Miguel?" The question was loaded ...inappropriate. One *never* asked after a whore's bastard children...but their relationship had never been quite proper.
"Miguel is fine, thank you." They both knew it was Michael's continued patronage that kept her son at the convent school where know one would know what his mother did to earn a living. He was six. The light of her life. But as she couldn't be a wife...she couldn't really be a mother either. He was safe with Sister Leticia and her order.
The fan tapped more firmly against her thigh and she willed the nervous motion to stop, clenching her fingers around the handle. "I was searching for Gia. Have you seen her this evening?"
Michael nodded towards the stairs..."She was going out to the lawn for some air with some Russian royal. I don't even know how he wrangled an invitation."
She laughed despite herself. "Sweetheart, when you throw a party... people come from miles around whether they're invited or not. You *are* a sensation. This is the place to be."
The comment pleased him. As it was meant to. He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, pleased by her involuntary shiver, too.
Oh, nights with Michael were the best she had ever had...
The problem was...in the morning he came back to this house.
To his wife.
"The lady of the manor feeling indisposed tonight?" she wondered, cattily. Faith's indiscretion was her cross to bear. Gia's was her beauty. Her own... was her tongue.
He squeezed her fingers in warning. "She's visiting her family in Charleston."
The Hardys of Charleston. Also in shipping. Really one of the few profitable industries after the war. Their name held history, honor, credence... and their bloodline had bought Michael his ticket into society.
He was just lucky that his sweet young bride took frequent trips to South Carolina because the city was too vibrant, too noisy, too busy, for her delicate constitution. Mayhap her husband was too vibrant for her as well.
"So, I suppose you'll be wanting company?" She batted her lashes in an imitation of flirtation.
"I might, Miz Caroline." This time he swatted her, gently. An echo of what he liked in the bedroom. "But I have bigger plans for you."
It soon became clear exactly what those big plans were, as he guided her through the throng of biddies towards the man of the hour who had turned her head, and everyone else's, only moments before. Little Courtney and her hangers-on flinched back, as if Caroline's occupation, and her deep capacity for pleasure, was somehow contagious and she smiled, archly, at them before Michael stopped with her in front of Senor Alcazar.
"Lorenzo Alcazar...may I introduce the delightful and dazzling, Caroline Benson?"
Delightful? Dazzling? She resisted the urge to kick his ankle and focused on the eyes that were even bluer at close range.
"It is a pleasure to meet one more beautiful flower in this city's exotic garden." The gentleman bowed low before her hand and then took it and brushed his lips across her knuckles. Even that light touch was made of fire. If Michael was gin, this man was whiskey.
And if Michael wanted her with him... he was important.
"Some flowers are more exotic than others, wouldn't you say?" she murmured, wryly.
A small smile played at the corners of Alcazar's lips. The power of it was staggering... so much so that she wondered what a full smile would do. Mayhap like the little bunny, this wolf would eat her up, too. "That only makes them more tempting to pluck...wouldn't *you* say, Senorita?"
"Mmmm...I see we're of like minds, Senor." She curtsied, dipping low, and felt both his eyes and Michael's on the shadow of her breasts.
"Would you care to dance?" His voice and his gaze were heavy yet soft... signs she knew all too well. Signs that would lead them straight to bed. Or the floor. The chaise. The wall.
"All night long if you desire." She flowed into his arms with ease and he took her hands in his strong, suntanned ones.
As he whirled her away to the music, into the crush, she was all too aware of Michael's expression. Like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
Big plans indeed...
She just hoped he remembered that she was just a whore.
Not a thief.
And not a killer.