One Way or Another: A Novel by Elizabeth Adler Page A

raped by Ahmet and molested by that vicious woman. I shuddered, remembering her smile, her scent.… Another memory stirred and I remembered the bottle of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue and my need to perfume myself, the foolish need to feel like a normal woman.
    Courage. The word still hovered. I wondered how to find what it meant to be courageous, what I should do now, what I could possibly do to help myself.
    Then I heard Ahmet say, “Angie, come on in, why don’t you? It’s so much more comfortable in here, warmer too. I have a nice fire going and a very good bottle of red opened long enough for it to breathe.”
    I was not shocked that it was Ahmet, I had almost expected it. And it wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command. Again I obeyed. I walked to the door, pushed it wider, saw Ahmet comfortable in a red leather chair, the bottle of wine on a small table beside him, his feet in monogrammed black velvet slippers propped on a dark ottoman.
    He rose from his chair and stood in front of the blazing fire, smiling at me. Sparks from the fire flew all around him and I couldn’t help thinking it was as though they were from the flames of hell itself, because he was my fate. Whatever he wanted to do with me he had the power to do it.
    Courage. My mother’s word rang again in my ear. I knew I must face him on his own terms, after all, the only thing left that he could do was actually to kill me and it suddenly struck me that Ahmet was not the man to do that. He might employ a killer but I knew instinctively he would not do the deed himself. The soft chiffon folds of the dress flowed around my bare legs as I walked toward him.
    His eyes lit with a mocking smile. “Bravo, Angie,” he said. “I like women who do not show their fear.”
    “I am no longer afraid of you,” I said, because there was, after all, nothing left to fear.
    “Come, sit here, why don’t you?”
    He indicated the ottoman on which his feet had rested. I did as he asked, clamping my knees together, smoothing the dress down in the ladylike fashion my mother had taught me. He poured the wine and offered me a glass. I didn’t want it but, since I had no choice, I took it. His fingers brushed mine and he gave me that smile again that told me he knew me well, knew everything there was to know about me, the way I had felt under his probing hands, the faint aromatic tang of my body under his lips. And I knew he knew what I was thinking, that I was also remembering the way his body had felt on mine, and I blushed.
    “You are quite beautiful tonight, Angie,” he said, going back to his red leather chair. “Like a pretty feline, a smooth little pussycat in that dress.”
    His eyes still mocked me and I glanced away.
    “No,” he said loudly. “Look up.” He was giving me an order. “Look at me! I want you to remember this night, and all the nights that went before. I want your body to remember me as well as your mind. Fair’s fair, Angie. I remember you perfectly. I remember that first time when you couldn’t wait for me to put my hands on you, to put my cock in you, and I remember how much you liked it.”
    “You enjoyed it,” I said and wished I had not because it showed that of course I remembered. Then despite myself I added, “More than me.”
    Ahmet shook his head, tut-tutting. “Angie, Angie, you must learn. It’s ‘more than I.’ Not more than me.” He laughed and took a gulp of his wine. “Perhaps I will have to get you a tutor, teach you the proper use of the English language.”
    “You mean the way you had to be taught?” I don’t know how I knew, but I was right. I’d struck a sore spot and the color rose from his neck up his face, an angry red that made me know he was on the verge of hitting me. Courage, I told myself again and raised my chin, staring contemptuously at him.
    “You are only up from the streets yourself,” I went on, unable to stop now I had started. “You are just a poor boy made good, a boy who didn’t learn