|
An Excerpt From: PASSION’S MISTRAL
© Copyright
CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2005.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave, Inc.
Biting her lip, she was trying to decide if she wanted
to dress for supper or simply call room service for a light snack. The tub
was calling out to her and the thought of sinking beneath the swirling
waters was too tempting to pass up. She knew the next few days would be
embarrassing at the least, humiliating at the most and having the rest of
this evening to herself, to relax and drive all thoughts of her assignment
from her mind seemed too important to ignore.
Making up her mind, she reluctantly turned away from the
tub and headed for the parlor, but the bed snared her attention and she
made a detour. Kicking off her shoes, she heaved herself onto the higher
than normal mattress then gave a loud sigh of contentment as she sank into
the marshmallow feel of the viscose foam mattress. Without another thought,
she stretched out, allowing her body to become enveloped in the soft, but
firm surface.
“Oh, man,” she whispered, reveling in the sensation the
mattress was causing. It was almost like floating on air, no pressure
points to feel along her back and legs. “I’m gonna sleep good tonight!”
For ten minutes she lay there as relaxed as she could
ever remember being in her life. It demanded a great deal of willpower to
get up and go into the other room for the room-service menu. All she really
wanted to do was lie there until morning but her tummy was growling and she
knew she’d come down with a hunger headache if she didn’t eat.
The food sounded wonderful and made her choices
exceedingly hard and by the time she picked up the receiver and dialed room
service, her mouth was beginning to water.
“Yes, this is Miss Trevor in the Forest Suite. Could I
have you send up a proscuitto with provolone and watercress on rye with
dill mustard, a bowl of tomato bisque soup and a small Greek salad with
lots of feta, black olives and pepperoncinis? I’d also like a carafe of
white zinfandel—peach-flavored if you have it—and a small bowl of tropical
fruit slices for dessert.”
With her order made, Silkie reclined once more on the
soft, encompassing bed and closed her eyes. The sweet scene of gardenia
wafted under her nostrils and she sighed deeply.
When the discreet knock came at her door, she hated to
get up. Struggling to push her way from the seductive mattress, she padded
barefoot to the parlor door and opened it with a slight smile that froze in
place as she stared at the room-service attendant.
He was tall—well over six-foot—with a naked chest full
of curling black hair that accentuated six-pack abs and chiseled pecs. His
bulging biceps flexed, as he stood there with her tray in his
strong-looking hands. The black silk britches covering his long legs and
narrow hips, molded to him like a second skin. Barefoot, he was standing
with those long legs spread in a posture that was sensuous and threatening
at the same time.
“Ah, would you put the tray on the table?” Silkie asked,
stepping back. Her gaze was locked on the silk mask tied around the top
part of his face, hiding his hair and nose yet calling attention to
piercing eyes that seemed to look straight into her soul.
His derriere was curved nicely high and looked rock-hard
as he walked past her. Broad shoulders enveloped in a golden tan tapered
down to a slim waist, hugged lovingly by the elastic band holding up the
britches. The pull of the silk britches against his taut thighs and hips
made her want to run her hands down his legs. As he bent over to place the
tray on the table by the windows, she drew in a slow breath as the fabric
molded itself to his lean posterior. When he turned to face her, his hands
hanging loosely at his sides, the thick bulge at the juncture of his legs
drew her immediate attention. It was all she could do to drag her eyes from
that enticing sight. The only visible mark on that superb body had been a
long, upwardly slanting scar on his back just under his left rib cage.
Having seen a similar scar on a client, she wondered if this gorgeous
specimen had been the giver or recipient of a donated kidney.
“Thank you,” she said, wishing she had a name for this
delectable hunk.
A slight bow of his head was his acknowledgement of her
gratitude. He seemed to be waiting for any instructions she might have and
when she remained silent, he started toward her, his dark eyes glistening
behind the slits of the mask.
Silkie had the urge to place her hands against that
hairy chest and waylay this mysterious man. Her palms actually itched from
the mental push to do just that and she had to rub them down her slacks to
wipe away the moisture gathering there. Unconsciously, she licked her upper
lip as he passed. At the door, he turned, his head cocked to one side as
though in question.
“Ah, no,” she whispered then had to clear her throat and
speak louder. “No, that will be all.”
He seemed to sigh, his wide chest rising and falling in a
brief movement that set Silkie’s breasts to tingling. With one final bow of
his head, he left the room, leaving behind an aura that brought a flush to
the young woman’s face and set her juices to flowing between her legs.
“Damn,” she whispered. She had a feeling she was going
to be sorry she’d chosen not to participate in the pleasures of Mistral
Cay.
* * * * *
Julian peeled the mask from his face as he positioned
himself behind the middle panel of the two-way mirror that looked into the
bedroom of the Forest Suite. He took up a state of the art headphone and
positioned it over his head, adjusting the sound on a dial just over his
left ear. The space in which he stood was little more than three feet in
width, the walls covered with soundproof panels, the ceiling and floor
padded, and situated between the suite’s bathing area and walk-in closet.
The only light in the space came from a nineteen-inch flat screen monitor
showing a view from the parlor. Below the monitor was a built-in shelf that
held a keyboard and mouse. With a click, he zoomed in on the occupant of
the suite as she took a seat at the table and began eating the supper he
had brought her.
He studied her every movement as she brought spoon or
fork to her lips, wiped delicately at her mouth with the linen napkin from
the tray or nibbled at her sandwich. His amber gaze narrowed as she sipped
the peach wine, his groin tightening when she put out her tongue to lick
her upper lip.
She was beautiful with shoulder-length blond tresses
drawn back in a no-nonsense ponytail. Though she wore no makeup, her face
required none for the color of her green eyes framed in long dark lashes,
ripe coral lips and sun-kissed cheeks drew the eye better than any
artificial enhancement ever could. Her beauty was natural, unpolished like
an uncut gem waiting for the right hand to touch it.
“Julian?”
The sound from the tiny microphone startled the owner of
Mistral Cay and he frowned, annoyed with the intrusion. “Yes,” he snapped
softly into the foam-covered mouthpiece arched in front of his lips.
“I’m sorry to bother you but I knew you would be
interested in the news from Des Moines,” Henri Bouvier told him.
“Tell me.”
“As you suspected, the lady in question is not the good
doctor’s assistant nor is she a graduate of Northwestern. She is, in fact,
a private investigator hired to locate a client’s son here on the Cay.”
Julian caught his breath but before he could ask, Henri
set his mind at ease.
“It’s not your mother, Julian. The client is a woman
named Fay Lynden.”
Letting out a long breath, Julian closed his eyes. “Who
is the man she’s looking for?”
“That name is not yet known, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?”
“Mrs. Lynden was sent to prison when the boy was a
toddler. He was adopted and she does not know by whom. We are tracing that
now.”
“And this Sara Trevor was hired to find the woman’s
son,” Julian stated.
“Actually, Ms. Trevor’s real name is Silkie,” Henri
said, amusement rife in his New Orleans accent.
Watching the woman get up from the table and come into
the bedroom, Julian thought the name appropriate for a female who moved so
sensually.
“Is there a Xander?” he asked. His memory of the cat
Sara Trevor supposedly owned eliciting a chuckle from Henri.
“Yes, there is a Xander. He’s an orange and white Maine
Coon. I believe her neighbor is quoted as saying the cat is the love of her
life.”
“A silky feline for a silky female,” Julian quipped.
“Boyfriend? Husband?”
“Neither.”
“Seeing anyone on a regular basis?”
“Not for several years.”
“Why’s she wanting to look at strange men’s pricks,
then?”
“You’re going to like this—she’s looking for a
birthmark.”
There was a short pause then Julian whispered, “Say
again.”
“The man she’s looking for has a birthmark on his
balls.”
|
CLICK COVER