Read Online Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy by Judith Gould - Free Book Online
Authors: Judith Gould
Tags: Action, hollywood, New York, israel, Marriage, Terrorism, Actresses, Palestine, movie star, Actress, arab, hollywood bombshell
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sign to merely drape the coat capelike over his Highness's broad shoulders.
'Follow me,' the Prince ordered without looking at his ser vant, making it plain that it was he who would lead the way. He strode forward like a general, the pistol at his side, and his servant hurried after him.
The small crowd gathered around the scene of the accident took one look at Vaslav Danilov and fell silent. Here was a personage of the uppermost crust, they could tell. Here was a man who took command of a situation at once. He was striding purposefully toward them, as though daring the treacherous ice to cause him to slip and fall. Despite the seeming reckless ness of his pace, his movements were calculated and precise.
The crowd drew back as one, respectfully putting more dis tance between the Prince and themselves. He was a man who commanded such respect, a man born to the power he exuded, and a presence to be reckoned with. He was a big man, and his towering height and wide shoulders gave an imposing impression. His bare head was dark with medium-length thick black hair combed backward and cut close about the ears. His beard was carefully trimmed, and his magnificent moustache made two sweeping handlebar curves. His eyes and noble brows were those of a grandee.
These autocratic hooded blue eyes now came to rest on the unfortunate horse, and without a word he held out the revolver, aimed it downward at the animal's head, and fired.
The horse immediately sagged and was then still.
Many people watching had shut their eyes at the gunshot, but Prince Vaslav never flinched. Nor, he noticed, had one young woman. Her ratty fur hat was pulled far down over her forehead, and the lower half of her face was hidden behind a thick woollen scarf so that she exuded an aura of challenge and mystery much like a Muslim woman hiding her face behind a veil. He knew the scarf was to shield her from the bitter cold: she and the others had obviously been riding on one of the two open lead wagons, exposed to the cruelty of the bitter elements. Her coat, despite its size, was too threadbare to offer any real warmth, and she shivered continuously. Yet her dancing green eyes were uncomplaining. Something about them was frank and startling, as though they were sizing him up; the pink flush on the narrow exposed portion of her face, he thought, was not a result of the cold. She held a well- bundled child of two or three years in her arms.
He lowered the pistol and walked around the overturned wagon, inspecting it closely. He noticed that neither axle had been broken and that the tarpaulin which had been tied down over the cargo, and on which the wagon and its contents now rested, was strong and had not come undone. He turned to the quiet crowd and gestured at the wagon. 'Whose wagon is this?'
There were some murmurs, which he gathered meant it belonged not to an individual but to the small crowd.
'What is in it? Any breakables? One of you can explain for the group.' His eyes swept the crowd. 'Which of you is your spokesman?'
The Prince was astonished when a tall golden-haired young man, sapphire-blue eyes gleaming with amused contempt, stepped quickly forward. He held himself boldly erect, as though he considered himself the Prince's equal.
The Prince sized him up in surprise. Despite the ragged appearance of his dirty clothes, he was quite the most extra ordinarily handsome and self-assured young man he had ever seen.
'I am the spokesman, your Highness,' the young man said quietly.
The Prince nodded, choosing to ignore the mocking look in the young man's eyes and the somehow disrespectful emphasis on the words 'your Highness'. There was an indefinable air about the young man—he could not put his finger on it yet— but he instinctively recognized him as arrogant and dangerous. 'What is in the wagon?'
The young man replied, 'Theatrical props and costumes, your Highness. We have just arrived here this afternoon after a tour of the provinces.'
'You are a
'Follow me,' the Prince ordered without looking at his ser vant, making it plain that it was he who would lead the way. He strode forward like a general, the pistol at his side, and his servant hurried after him.
The small crowd gathered around the scene of the accident took one look at Vaslav Danilov and fell silent. Here was a personage of the uppermost crust, they could tell. Here was a man who took command of a situation at once. He was striding purposefully toward them, as though daring the treacherous ice to cause him to slip and fall. Despite the seeming reckless ness of his pace, his movements were calculated and precise.
The crowd drew back as one, respectfully putting more dis tance between the Prince and themselves. He was a man who commanded such respect, a man born to the power he exuded, and a presence to be reckoned with. He was a big man, and his towering height and wide shoulders gave an imposing impression. His bare head was dark with medium-length thick black hair combed backward and cut close about the ears. His beard was carefully trimmed, and his magnificent moustache made two sweeping handlebar curves. His eyes and noble brows were those of a grandee.
These autocratic hooded blue eyes now came to rest on the unfortunate horse, and without a word he held out the revolver, aimed it downward at the animal's head, and fired.
The horse immediately sagged and was then still.
Many people watching had shut their eyes at the gunshot, but Prince Vaslav never flinched. Nor, he noticed, had one young woman. Her ratty fur hat was pulled far down over her forehead, and the lower half of her face was hidden behind a thick woollen scarf so that she exuded an aura of challenge and mystery much like a Muslim woman hiding her face behind a veil. He knew the scarf was to shield her from the bitter cold: she and the others had obviously been riding on one of the two open lead wagons, exposed to the cruelty of the bitter elements. Her coat, despite its size, was too threadbare to offer any real warmth, and she shivered continuously. Yet her dancing green eyes were uncomplaining. Something about them was frank and startling, as though they were sizing him up; the pink flush on the narrow exposed portion of her face, he thought, was not a result of the cold. She held a well- bundled child of two or three years in her arms.
He lowered the pistol and walked around the overturned wagon, inspecting it closely. He noticed that neither axle had been broken and that the tarpaulin which had been tied down over the cargo, and on which the wagon and its contents now rested, was strong and had not come undone. He turned to the quiet crowd and gestured at the wagon. 'Whose wagon is this?'
There were some murmurs, which he gathered meant it belonged not to an individual but to the small crowd.
'What is in it? Any breakables? One of you can explain for the group.' His eyes swept the crowd. 'Which of you is your spokesman?'
The Prince was astonished when a tall golden-haired young man, sapphire-blue eyes gleaming with amused contempt, stepped quickly forward. He held himself boldly erect, as though he considered himself the Prince's equal.
The Prince sized him up in surprise. Despite the ragged appearance of his dirty clothes, he was quite the most extra ordinarily handsome and self-assured young man he had ever seen.
'I am the spokesman, your Highness,' the young man said quietly.
The Prince nodded, choosing to ignore the mocking look in the young man's eyes and the somehow disrespectful emphasis on the words 'your Highness'. There was an indefinable air about the young man—he could not put his finger on it yet— but he instinctively recognized him as arrogant and dangerous. 'What is in the wagon?'
The young man replied, 'Theatrical props and costumes, your Highness. We have just arrived here this afternoon after a tour of the provinces.'
'You are a
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