Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
I turn to Whit as the door to the room closes, not quite believing what I’m seeing. It’s beautiful, and though quite spacious for a city hotel, there’s something cocoon-like about the whole suite. Dark silk in a beautiful shade of blue I can’t even name covers the walls. The bed is huge and ornate, the four posts drawing up toward the ceiling like an Arabian-style tent. A velvet chaise in front of a working fireplace, ornate gilt mirrors, and sensual artwork adorn the walls. Heavily fringed lamps provide the suite with a sultry glow and vases of orchids its heady scent. There’s a small lounge where I can totally see a courtesan serving her gentleman champagne before bringing him into the bedroom for a small slide of heaven.
In short, it looks like a suite built for the purpose of pleasure.
“It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?” Whit murmurs as I make my way to the French windows. French windows in France. Fancy that.
“Not if you were planning on seducing me.” I turn my head over my shoulder in some semblance of the painting in the stairwell. “Oh, monsieur,” I say, fluttering my lashes. “’Av brought me ’ere to have your wicked way wiz me?”
“Who seduces who in a brothel, do you think?”
“You want me to work for it?” I ask, pulling back the heavy voiles. I gasp. Beyond the doors is a tiny terrace with views all the way to the Eiffel Tower. “Come look at the view.”
“Do you like it?” His question is a purr in my ears, his broad palms sliding around my waist, pulling me against his chest.
“It’s so perfect.”
“Next time, we’ll come for longer.” My heart gives a little pang. I could almost kid myself that we have a future when he says things like this. “I’m sorry this visit has to be so short.”
“Perfect doesn’t have a timeframe,” I whisper, dropping the voile curtain and turning in his arms. It doesn’t have to last a lifetime. “No need to ask what our plans are for this evening.” I keep my lashes lowered, not wanting to reveal my pained thoughts as I slowly walk my fingers up his right bicep.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Good. I wouldn’t like to lose my air of mystery.”
My chuckle sounds kind of dirty because there really is no mystery about the thing growing hard against my stomach. But before I can make a smart reply, a rap of knuckles sounds against the door.
“Best answer that.”
“Or we could just ignore it.”
“But it’s for you.”
“How can you tell?” I ask, pulling slightly away.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Go open the door,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my head. And then a smack to my butt as I slide around him.
“Hey, watch the merchandise.”
“Don’t worry, darling.” His words stroke like a caress. “I’ve paid madame extra for my unnatural tastes.”
“Unnatural?” I reply, matching his tone.
“She said you were the best. I can’t wait to discover that for myself.”
My sultry laughter sounds all the way to the door.
“Mademoiselle Valente?” a chicly dressed woman of indeterminable age asks from the hallway. Her stature is small, her features bird-like, but there’s something masculine and strong about her.
“Yes,” I answer hesitantly.
“Bon.” One word and her attention swings away, her hands a flutter of movement.
“Can I help you?” She shakes her head, and I find myself stepping back from the door as she ushers a pair of girls about my age ahead, girls laden with all manner of garment bags and each pulling behind them a suitcase. “What is this all about?” I’m unsure if my question is meant for her or Whit, who, when I turn, is lowering himself into a chair. I also notice he is doing a pretty good impersonation of the Cheshire cat. No so much in the grinning sense but the knowing.
“We have come to dress you,” the tiny woman states imperiously, shooing me farther into the room. “Vite!”
It turns out Whit has no plans to give up his air of mystery this evening as he lounges in the armchair with a crystal flute of champagne dangling from between his fingers. I have a glass, too, but I’ve barely managed a mouthful of it thanks to Madame—no other name given—having the command of a drill sergeant.
“I like this one,” Whit says as Madame instructs her assistant to straighten the hem on the third dress I’ve tried on this evening. It’s cuts across my arms and chest, Bardot style, the fabric pink and diaphanous. And the label Chanel. There’s no price tag, and for that I’m grateful because I also love this dress, and I really don’t want to take it off.
I also really don’t want to try another on.
“You have a good eye, Monsieur.” Madame’s tone is approving. “This dress complements Mademoiselle’s skin tone perfectly.”