Read Online Revenge of the Black Virgin by Serena Janes - Free Book Online
Authors: Serena Janes
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for harassment. It was an unfortunate and messy business,
resulting in Luc having to change his email addresses and contact
numbers. Then he had his name placed on a list that prevented
public access to his personal information. On paper, and in
cyberspace, he was invisible to anyone searching for him without
his permission.
Hilda was a different story. She seemed the
epitome of self-assurance and control. From Delft, she was tall and
beautiful, as Dutch women often were. She had a slim, athletic
body, a pretty oval face, and bright yellow pigtails that hung
halfway down her back. With her khaki-colored clothes and backpack,
she looked like a sexy adventurer, Luc thought.
The problem was, the Moroccans thought so,
too.
When he arrived in Tangiers, he checked into
a riad, or guesthouse, inside the casbah walls. After
washing off the road grime, he indulged in a long nap on the sunny
rooftop garden overlooking the Atlantic. As he dozed he listened to
the adhan, or call to prayer, snake across the city. He’d
always loved the sound, each man’s voice slightly different, but
all evocative and moving.
Now the sound made him think of Joanna—that
first time they were together in her stifling room in Rocamadour.
How the church bells rang out the first few notes of Ave
Maria four times each hour . How he’d fucked her so hard
she could barely walk the next day.
His body missed her. It was a strange
feeling—this visceral longing for a woman he’d known only a
week.
He groaned in frustration and longing,
catching the attention of his hostess, Sophia, a young Moroccan
woman who ran the riad with her husband.
“Is there a problem Monsieur LaPlante ? You are unwell? ”
“ Non. Non, merci. There’s nothing
wrong with me. I’m just hungry. Can you tell me where I can get
some dinner?”
“ Oui. It is very late but you can go
out the door to the left, and…”
It was just getting dark and he had some
trouble finding the restaurant. But the lamb tagine was very
good and he enjoyed his meal for the first time in weeks. He washed
it down with many cups of mint tea before deciding to walk the long
way back through the steep streets of the old town. When a ruckus
caught his attention, he approached and saw a young foreign woman
standing tall in the centre of a leering group of teenaged boys.
They were growing increasingly aggressive as they taunted her.
But she didn’t crumble. Holding her head
high, she let their cries bounce off her like hailstones, which
only incensed the boys further. Just as one or two of them began to
pull at her pigtails Luc saw something like fear creep into her
posture. He stormed through the circle and grabbed her by the hand,
shouting in French at the boys, who scattered like gulls. He pulled
her along the dark, narrow passageways of the souk, and she
followed without a word. He was a little unsure where he was headed
until he found himself at the door of his riad .
He brought her up to his room, closed the
door behind him and turned to look at her. She wasn’t crying but he
knew she’d been badly frightened.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said in
English. “Don’t you think it’s a little dangerous to go wandering
around alone at this time of night?”
She stood in front of him, met his eyes
defiantly and shrugged. “I do it all the time.”
He recognized her accent. A Hollander. He was
immediately struck by the appealing combination of toughness and
vulnerability in her demeanor.
“All the time?” He couldn’t help smiling.
“Yes. I have been traveling for five weeks,
alone. I travel a lot.”
“And does someone always step in to save you
when you get in trouble?” he teased.
“I didn’t need saving,” she said, lifting her
chin. “They would have calmed down.”
“Oh, you think so?” He was amused. “So why
did you let me lead you all the way back to my room if you didn’t
need saving?”
She paused, bit her lip into a slight smile,
and ran her eyes
resulting in Luc having to change his email addresses and contact
numbers. Then he had his name placed on a list that prevented
public access to his personal information. On paper, and in
cyberspace, he was invisible to anyone searching for him without
his permission.
Hilda was a different story. She seemed the
epitome of self-assurance and control. From Delft, she was tall and
beautiful, as Dutch women often were. She had a slim, athletic
body, a pretty oval face, and bright yellow pigtails that hung
halfway down her back. With her khaki-colored clothes and backpack,
she looked like a sexy adventurer, Luc thought.
The problem was, the Moroccans thought so,
too.
When he arrived in Tangiers, he checked into
a riad, or guesthouse, inside the casbah walls. After
washing off the road grime, he indulged in a long nap on the sunny
rooftop garden overlooking the Atlantic. As he dozed he listened to
the adhan, or call to prayer, snake across the city. He’d
always loved the sound, each man’s voice slightly different, but
all evocative and moving.
Now the sound made him think of Joanna—that
first time they were together in her stifling room in Rocamadour.
How the church bells rang out the first few notes of Ave
Maria four times each hour . How he’d fucked her so hard
she could barely walk the next day.
His body missed her. It was a strange
feeling—this visceral longing for a woman he’d known only a
week.
He groaned in frustration and longing,
catching the attention of his hostess, Sophia, a young Moroccan
woman who ran the riad with her husband.
“Is there a problem Monsieur LaPlante ? You are unwell? ”
“ Non. Non, merci. There’s nothing
wrong with me. I’m just hungry. Can you tell me where I can get
some dinner?”
“ Oui. It is very late but you can go
out the door to the left, and…”
It was just getting dark and he had some
trouble finding the restaurant. But the lamb tagine was very
good and he enjoyed his meal for the first time in weeks. He washed
it down with many cups of mint tea before deciding to walk the long
way back through the steep streets of the old town. When a ruckus
caught his attention, he approached and saw a young foreign woman
standing tall in the centre of a leering group of teenaged boys.
They were growing increasingly aggressive as they taunted her.
But she didn’t crumble. Holding her head
high, she let their cries bounce off her like hailstones, which
only incensed the boys further. Just as one or two of them began to
pull at her pigtails Luc saw something like fear creep into her
posture. He stormed through the circle and grabbed her by the hand,
shouting in French at the boys, who scattered like gulls. He pulled
her along the dark, narrow passageways of the souk, and she
followed without a word. He was a little unsure where he was headed
until he found himself at the door of his riad .
He brought her up to his room, closed the
door behind him and turned to look at her. She wasn’t crying but he
knew she’d been badly frightened.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said in
English. “Don’t you think it’s a little dangerous to go wandering
around alone at this time of night?”
She stood in front of him, met his eyes
defiantly and shrugged. “I do it all the time.”
He recognized her accent. A Hollander. He was
immediately struck by the appealing combination of toughness and
vulnerability in her demeanor.
“All the time?” He couldn’t help smiling.
“Yes. I have been traveling for five weeks,
alone. I travel a lot.”
“And does someone always step in to save you
when you get in trouble?” he teased.
“I didn’t need saving,” she said, lifting her
chin. “They would have calmed down.”
“Oh, you think so?” He was amused. “So why
did you let me lead you all the way back to my room if you didn’t
need saving?”
She paused, bit her lip into a slight smile,
and ran her eyes
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