Ted Bell - Tsar

She wore a pale blue dive mask pushed back above her high forehead, and damp gold tresses fell to her bronzed shoulders. He had never witnessed such raw animal beauty; her presence as she drew near seemed to give him vertigo.

She paused in mid-stride, staring down at him for a moment in frank appraisal. Her full red lips pursed in a smile he couldn’t quite read. Amusement at his predicament?

Hawke cast his eyes warily at the mangrove branch some ten yards away. His faded red swim trunks hung from a bare branch among the round, thick green leaves. Following his gaze, the woman smiled.

“I shouldn’t bother about the bathing suit,” she said, her wide-set green eyes dazzling in the sun.

“And why should I not?”

“That horse has already left the barn.”

Hawke looked at her for a long moment, suppressing a smile, before he spoke.

“What, if I may be so bold, the bloody hell are you doing on my beach?”

“ Your beach?”

“Quite.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

She was carrying a clear plastic drawstring bag containing what looked to be small pink conch shells and other objects. Hawke also noticed a line looped around her waist, strung with a few small fish. His eyes had been far too busy with her extraordinary body to register the spear gun in her right hand.

“Look here,” Hawke said, “there are countless coves just like this one along this coast. Surely, you could have picked-”

“The shells here are unique,” she said, holding up the bag so it caught the sun. “Pink Chinese, they’re called.”

“No kidding,” Hawke said. “Do they come in red as well?”

“Red Chinese? Aren’t you the clever boy?” she said, laughing despite a failed attempt at a straight face.

For the first time, he heard the Slavic overtones in her otherwise perfect English. Russian? Yes, he thought, suddenly remembering the double-headed eagle above the monogram, the ancient symbol of Imperial Russia.

She continued to stare down at his naked body, and Hawke shifted uncomfortably under her unblinking gaze. The intensity of her stare was causing an all too familiar stir, both within and without. He thought of covering himself with his hands but realized that at this late juncture, he would only appear more ridiculous than he already did. Still, he wished she’d stop looking at him. He felt like a bloody specimen pinned to the board.

“You have an extraordinarily beautiful body,” she said, as if stating a scientific fact.

“Do I, indeed?”

“Light is attracted to it in interesting ways.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Hawke said, frowning. But she’d spun on her heel in the sand and turned away.

She strode lightly across the sand to the blue towel and folded herself onto it with an economy of motion that suggested a ballet dancer or acrobat. Crossing her long legs yoga-style before her, she opened the tote bag and withdrew a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Then a slender gold lighter appeared in her hand. An old Dunhill, Hawke thought, adding rich girl to his meager knowledge base. She flicked it and lit up, expelling a thin stream of smoke.

“Delicious. Want one?” she asked, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

He did, badly. “You must have missed the ‘No Smoking’ sign I’ve posted out there in the surf.”

No response to that. She plucked one of the violently pink shells from her bag, dropped it onto the sand beside her, and began sketching it in a small spiral notebook. She began whistling softly as she drew and soon seemed to have forgotten all about him.

Hawke, who felt that her skimpy white triangle of pelvic cloth gave her an unfair advantage, rolled over onto his stomach and rested his head on his forearm, facing the girl. In truth, he would have loved a cigarette. Anything to calm his now disturbed mental state. He found he could not take his eyes off her. She was leaning forward now, puffing away, elbows on her knees, her full, coral-tipped breasts jutting forward, rising and swaying slightly with each inhale and exhale of the cigarette.

Watching her body move to adjust the shell or flick an ash, he felt his heart miss a beat, then continue, trip-hammering inside his ribcage. It seemed to ratchet, and each thud only wound him tighter.

She smoked her cigarette, not bothering with him anymore, staring pensively out to sea every few moments, then plucking her pencil from the sand once more, resuming her sketch. Hawke, transfixed, was faintly aware that she seemed to be speaking again.

“I come here every day,” she said casually over her shoulder. “Usually very early morning for the light. Today I am late, because…well, never mind why. Just because. You?”

“I’m the afternoon shift.”

“Ah. Who are you?”

“An Englishman.”

“Obviously. Tourist?”

“Part-time resident.”

“Where do you live?”

“I’ve a small place. On the point by Hungry Bay.”

“Really? I didn’t think anything lived out there but those nasty spider monkeys twittering in the wild banana trees.”

“Just one small house still standing on the point. Teakettle Cottage. You know it?”

“The old mill. Yes. I thought that ruin blew away three hurricanes ago.”

“No, no. It survived,” Hawke said, feeling inexplicably defensive about his modest digs.

“Squatter’s rights, I suppose. You’re lucky the police don’t rout you out. Bums and hoboes aren’t good for Bermuda’s tourist image.”

Hawke let that one go. She was staring at him openly again, her eyes hungry and bright. He avoided those riveting emerald searchlights only by looking out to sea, scanning the horizon, looking for God knows what.

“You’ve got an awful lot of scars for a beach bum. What do you do?”

“Alligator wrestler? Wildcat wrangler?”

The girl, unsmiling, said, “If you’re so damned uncomfortable, just go and get your swim trunks. I assure you I won’t watch.”

“Most kind.” Hawke stayed put.

“What’s your name?” she suddenly demanded.

“Hawke.”

“Hawke. I like that name. Short and to the point.”

“What’s yours?”

“Korsakova.”

“Like the famous Russian composer Rimsky-Korsakov.”

“We’re better known for conquering Siberia.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Anastasia. But I am called Asia.”

“Asia. Very continental.”

“I’m sure that’s an amusing joke in your circles, Mr. Hawke.”

“We try.”

“Hmm. Well, here’s Hoodoo, my chauffeur. Right on time.”

She pulled a tiny white bikini top from her magic bag and slipped herself into it, one pale and quivering breast at a time. Hawke, unable to stop himself from missing a second of this wondrous performance, found his mouth had gone dry and his breathing was shallow and rapid. Her rosy nipples were hard under the thin fabric, more erotic now that they were hidden.

Hawke again felt the stirring below, suddenly acutely aware of his missing bathing trunks. He quickly turned his thoughts to a humiliating cricket match from long ago, Eton and Malvern at Lord’s, a match he’d lost spectacularly at age twelve. That painful memory had successfully obliterated ill-timed desire in the past, and he prayed it would not fail him now.

Seemingly unaware of his agonizing predicament, she quickly gathered her things and leaped to her feet as a small center-console Zodiac nosed into the cove. At the helm was an elegant black man, lean and fit, with snow-white hair. Hoodoo was dressed in crisp whites, a short-sleeved shirt, and Bermuda shorts with traditional knee socks. He smiled and waved at the beautiful blond girl as he ran the bow up onto the sand. There were two big outboards on the stern. Must be four strokes, Hawke thought. They were so quiet he hadn’t even heard the small boat’s approach.