The Wedded Whore (Completed)

Chapter One

                                                           

Adamma strode purposefully towards the hotel manager of the Palace Hotel, the venue where she was going to perform for the hotel's rich, glamorous patrons and patronesses. The frown marring her stunning features, and the fire in her eyes were enough evidence of the fiery outrage and blazing anger she felt towards the simpering man who'd dared to publicize the performance without first seeking her consent. Now, the throng of screaming fans in the hotel lobby that had been demanding for autographs was more than enough for her to manage.

'You stupid sod!' she exploded at him, indignation flaring through her the moment she was standing before the pot-bellied man. 'How dare you announce everything to everybody? You even had to involve the press! Now, the massive turnout of people is more than enough for my peace of mind. It was supposed to be a private concert!'

'Calm down, madam,' Mr. Adebayo tried to pacify her, smiling with reassurance. 'It's nobody's fault that it leaked out. I tried to stop it from leaking out, but somehow, it did manage to slip through. And even at that, you're supposed to be happy about it because it somehow serves as free publicity for you.'

Looking at the face that was smiling at her with such charmed arrogance and smug pleasure at her discomfort, Adamma lost her temper which she'd firmly clamped down. Her mind awhirl with sheer anger, her senses burning with venomous fury, she exploded and aimed a stinging slap at the smiling face. But in the back of her mind, she knew that she would stop before her hand got to his face or she would face the full fury of the press.

However, the thought never formed fully and her hand never found its mark. Her soft hand was imprisoned in mid-air in an iron grip that made her gasp, and then drawn down to her side.

'I am so deeply sorry, my dear girl, but I will not allow you to slap my manager in full glare of the public. That would undoubtedly make me lose face in this Lagos, yes?'

Her body rigid with shock, Adamma whirled around and faced her unwelcome assailant. It was a totally unexpected shock that she would hear that voice again. It had been so long but yet . . . it was a totally unexpected shock that she would hear that low, drawling voice again. Even after more than a decade, her mind had frog-jumped with dizziness at the prospect of seeing him again. This man, here, right before her vision . . . Her thoughts had flowed across her face, a clear procession from initial bewilderment, through dawning realization, to scandalized horror. Jesus, it was him.

Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest, but, recalling her scattered wits, she let a mask of impassivity mask her face as she asked, in the sweetest tones she could muster, 'Oh, does this hotel belong to you? Or do you work here?'

'It is mine, my dear girl; it most certainly belongs to me,' the lean man replied, his eyes glued to hers in challenge. At thirty-four years of age, Obi Obiekwe was a highly successful businessman who was constantly hailed as the youngest, most eligible businessman in the Lagos fashionable society. He was stinking wealthy, a ruthless man who cut down whatever adversaries that dared to stand in his way. That he was looking into the eyes of this woman, the one who had occupied his nightly fantasies for well over a decade, was impossible. He had searched for her unendingly but had always met with a brick wall of failure that promised no success.

Recognition flared in her luminous eyes which widened dramatically, but she immediately extinguished it. Her face became an inscrutable mask. 'And to think that I've been reading about you for all these years and yet never knew that I was in a place that bore the stamp of your credentials! It was nice meeting you, but you must excuse me; I've got an appointment with my manicurist and my hairdresser. But before that, I have an audience waiting for me. So, if you'll excuse me. . .'