As Hot As It Gets (9 page)

Mason looked at Claire when the coast was clear. “What, exactly, were you trying to do there? Test me?”

She smiled. “No, just issuing you a warning. Don't screw with me, and don't ever try to set me up to get freaky with a dominatrix. I can make life complicated for you.”

“Trust me. I figured that out the first time we met.”

“Apparently not.”

“You don't really think I expect you to act out an S and M show in front of me, do you?”

“How the hell should I know? You're the one hiring her.”

Mason glanced down at the bar and noticed that Mike D. had delivered their check inside a black leather bill folder. He opened it and found their bill along with a pen.

“You won't have to do a thing, I promise. That is, until after she leaves. And what's with calling me ‘Jakey,' by the way?”

“Oh,” she grinned. “It's just the first name that popped into my head.”

“Anyone I should know about?”

“I don't know a single guy named Jake. I promise.”

He withdrew the money from his wallet and tucked it into the leather folder, then took a drink napkin from the bar and wrote his new fake first name, Jake, along with his own last name, Walker, which was common enough not to matter. Then he wrote Claire's room number beneath it.

When Mike D. appeared again, he slid the leather folder across the bar to him.

The bartender opened it, eyed the money, and closed it again. “All right man, you're set. I can have your drink order to you by nine o'clock.”

Mason nodded, his gut a weird swirl of emotions. Fury that his own employees were conducting illegal activities on his resort. Excitement that he was finally going to get Claire alone again. And dread that once he had her alone, once he'd had his way with her, it still wouldn't be enough.

C
LAIRE DIDN'T KNOW
what to do with Mason alone inside her hotel room, with a dominatrix-for-hire possibly showing up at any moment. It was one of those awkward situations where conversation seemed inappropriate, but hopping into bed seemed premature for once in their bizarre little relationship.

Mason was lounging on her bed in his bad wig and his even-worse glasses, still managing to look damn sexy in spite of the disguise. He was thumbing through her copy of
Chloe
magazine, pausing to admire the scantily clad women and chuckling over the articles about sex and how to please men in bed.

“You actually read this?” he said.

“No, I just buy it for the pretty pictures. What do you think?”

“I think you don't need any of these lame sex tips. You're pretty far advanced past the it's-okay-to-make-sexy-sounds-in-bed stage.”

She couldn't help but smile. “I didn't realize anyone needed to be told to make sex noises.”

“According to the editors of
Chloe
magazine, you're wrong.”

She stretched out on the bed beside him and started reading over his shoulder. “Oh, and it's okay to touch myself?”

“Do you need my permission?”

“It says right there, ‘Guys like it when a woman takes the initiative to help work herself toward an orgasm. And the sight of you touching yourself will get him hotter than ever.'”

Mason gave her a speculative look. “I think you proved their theory today.”

“It's no theory,” she said, elbowing him. “There's not a straight guy on earth who doesn't love to see a woman masturbating.”

“I can't argue with that.”

“What other gems of advice do they have in there?” Claire tried to keep reading, but having Mason so close, so warm, so right-there-on-her-bed, was a bit of a distraction.

Even more distracting was the realization that she'd spent the entire afternoon with him and had thoroughly enjoyed herself. Aside from the janitor interruption and the incident with the big bald guy, she couldn't think of the last time she'd had so much fun out of bed.

And maybe she'd overreacted to the dominatrix thing a bit by flirting with the bald guy. Definitely a poor judgment call on her part, but Mason had be
haved admirably, and she'd loved that he hadn't been chomping at the bit to be a tough guy.

“So, um, were you worried about your wig falling off earlier?” she asked, barely able to keep from giggling.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, when that bald guy was harassing us.”

He was silent for a moment, and then she noticed his abdomen quaking with silent laughter. That sent her over the edge, and she erupted in a fit of giggles.

Her own wig was hot and itchy, and she couldn't wait to rip it off and hurl it across the room. As she laughed, it got knocked askew and half her platinum-blond hair hung in front of her face.

Mason got control of himself. “Here, let me fix that for you.” He reached for her wig, but she pulled away.

“Don't you know it's impolite to adjust a woman's wig?”

His own wig was sitting cockeyed on his head, giving him a vague resemblance to a Muppet—a sexy Muppet, but still a Muppet. Claire's laughter erupted all over again, and she fell back on the bed.

“What?” he said, feeling his wig and adjusting it back to its proper position. “Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to laugh at a man's hairpiece?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I know how sensitive you guys can be about that stuff.”

Mason stretched out beside her where she'd flopped back on the bed. “There's a quiz in here they
say you're supposed to share with the guy in your life. I guess that's me, at least for tonight, huh?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “I refuse to be rated by one of those quizzes. I don't care what the subject is.”

He read the title, “‘What's your Sex-Q?' I guess that's like your IQ, but for—”

“I got it.”

“You don't want to know what your Sex-Q is? Or what mine is?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea already.”

He tossed the magazine aside and smiled. “You've got a great laugh,” he said. “Very girlish. Sexy.”

“Oh yeah?”

He was looking at her mouth, and Claire realized then how badly she was aching for him, how badly she wanted him to cover her body with his and kiss her senseless.

“Yeah,” he said, about to kiss her.

There was a knock at the door, and they looked at each other at the same time as if to silently say “Uh-oh.”

“The dominatrix,” Claire whispered. “We didn't even talk about how to handle her!”

“I'll just tell her we changed our minds—or better yet, that you got pissed at me for wanting to join in on the action and now you're refusing to go through with the threesome,” he whispered.

“Oh sure, pin the blame on me.”

Mason stood up from the bed and checked his
wig and glasses in the mirror, then made adjustments before going to the door.

When he opened it, there was a woman in a black coat standing there holding a black duffel bag. Claire was pretty sure she didn't want to know what was in the bag.

“Hi, Mike D. told me to come.”

“Oh, right,” Mason said, affecting a sort of “dude” accent that Claire struggled not to giggle at. “We got a problem here with my woman.”

“I need to come inside. I can't just be standing around out here looking conspicuous.”

“Oh, right.” Mason stepped aside. “Come on in.”

He tossed what Claire supposed was meant to be a reassuring look at her, but she was still not keen on having this situation in her hotel room.

“The thing is,” he said after closing the door, “My girlfriend doesn't want to do what we hired you for.”

Claire studied the woman's features in case she needed to recall them later. She was thin, probably pretty under her heavy makeup, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. Her nose had a little bump from a previous break, and she looked more like a woman playing dress-up as a dominatrix than an actual whip-wielding pro. Claire supposed it would be pretty difficult to get top-of-the-line dominatrix services on a remote private island in the middle of the Caribbean.

The woman looked dumbfounded. “Um, I can still do it with you.”

“Sorry, babe. I'm pretty sure she'll have me swimming with the sharks if I do that,” he said as he jerked his thumb toward Claire on the bed.

She did her best to look pissed off and pouty. “You better freakin' believe I will.”

“You know, there are no refunds,” the woman said.

“No big deal. I'll just take it out of her allowance. She'll have to stop shopping for a few weeks to pay for not doing girl-sex for me.”

Claire picked up a pillow and threw it at him, hoping she was doing a convincing job of being the jealous girlfriend. “Screw you!”

“Whatever. I'm out of here then.”

“Hey, um, I didn't catch your name.”

The dominatrix offered a little smile. “I'm Madame Giselle.”

“Oh,” Mason said in his dude accent. “Is that like, your stage name or something?”

“Something like that,” she said.

“Well, can I just call you Giselle?”

“Sure.”

Claire crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them. “And how about I call
you
my
ex
-boyfriend?”

“Hey, what's with the attitude? I'm just talkin' to the lady, okay? Can't I treat her like a human being?”

Claire grabbed the magazine from the bed and pretended to flip through it. “Whatever!”

Mason turned back to Madame Giselle. “Hey, since she's bein' such a bitch, and I've already paid
for your time, you mind just hanging out and talking for a little while?”

“Um, I don't think your girlfriend's gonna like that,” she said, glancing nervously over at Claire, who was peering at her out of the corner of her eye.

“Ignore her. She's got her panties in a wad or something. I'm thinking she ought to go play in the storm tonight.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “I can stick around. It's your money.”

Mason motioned to the dinette and chairs near the window, and Giselle sat down there with him. Claire wasn't sure exactly what she was supposed to do now in this weird little tableau, but she knew Mason had seen his chance to grill the dominatrix for information. Claire was torn—should she storm out, lock herself in the bathroom like a jealous girlfriend, or stick around to help remember details of their conversation?

She opted for staying in the room and eavesdropping. After all, if Mason really had been her boyfriend, she supposed one sensible reaction would be to want to stick around and make sure nothing went on between her guy and the hired help.

“So,” Mason said. “How'd you end up in this line of work?”

Madame Giselle gave him an odd look. “I majored in sexual domination in college—what do you think?”

“Come on now, seriously. How do you end up
doing this kind of work, and all the way out here on some tiny island?”

She shrugged. “I've got a day job here, too. Trust me, this doesn't pay the bills.”

“Huh. That surprises me. You have to give a big cut of the money to that Mike guy at the bar?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. “I really can't discuss details with you—sorry.”

“Hey, babe. No biggy. I'm just curious.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose, and Claire almost lost her composure. She stared hard at the What's Your Sex-Q? article to keep from laughing.

“It's okay.”

“It must suck having to pay some guy when you do all the work, huh?”

She tossed him a suspicious look. “What are you? Some kind of undercover cop or something? I'm out of here,” she said and rose from the table.

“Wait! I'm not a cop.” Mason followed her across the room to the door.

“You got a problem, you take it up with Mike D.” She opened the door and stalked out, not even bothering to say goodbye.

Mason closed the door and exhaled. “Guess I blew that one, huh?”

“I thought you did pretty well, considering.” She tossed the magazine aside and went to him.

“I didn't even find out her real name or where she works at the resort.”

“Don't you have photos on file of all your employees?”

“Yeah, but it'll take a while to sort through them just to find one person.”

“We can also keep an eye out for her when we're out and about.”

“Right.” He pulled her to him and locked his hands around her hips. “The important thing is, we're alone again.”

“Hmm, I thought the important thing was saving your resort from crazed dominatrixes.”

“Not a chance.”

“So what makes you think I don't still have my panties in a wad?”

Mason smiled down at her. “In a couple of minutes you won't be wearing your panties, so it doesn't matter if they are or not.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

“A guy with my looks and charm,” he said, then paused to comb back his shaggy wig hair with his fingers. “I can't be anything
but
confident.”

“Does this mean we can take off our disguises?”

Mason reached for Claire's wig and pulled it off, much to her relief. She fluffed her hair and scratched at her scalp.

“Say goodbye to Ginger,” she said.

“And let's don't forget our farewell to Jake.” He took off the glasses and wig, and Claire rose up on tiptoes to give him a kiss.

She brushed his lips with hers, then said, “I'd rather say hello to you.”

“Thank you for helping me out today,” he said.

Claire smiled, not willing to take any of this too seriously. “Hey, you know the price for my help.”

“Let's see… What was it you wanted? A rowboat to get off the island?”

Claire gave him a playful smack on the chest. “Sex, babe. I want your sex.”

“Oh yeah, it's all coming back to me now.”

“So are you going to give me what I want, or will I have to take it?”

Mason slid his hands up her torso, grazing her breasts through the slinky fabric of the silver dress. “I think I can accommodate you,” he said as he teased her nipples.

That's all she was asking for—a little accommodation. And maybe tonight would be the night she got enough of him. Maybe she'd wake up in the morning ready to leave, rid herself of Mason, walk away and never see him again.

But with his hands dipping inside her dress, caressing the bare flesh of her breasts, she had to admit it didn't seem very likely at the moment.

 

M
ASON CARRIED HER
to the bed and freed her of the trashy little silver dress. Their mouths collided then, an edge of desperation hurrying them forward as she helped him out of his own clothes.

All the tension that had built up inside him since they'd been interrupted by the janitor threatened to come bursting forth, and Mason couldn't remember ever having felt so desperate for release. He ached for Claire right down to his bones.

He tumbled onto the bed with her and kissed wherever his mouth met flesh, tasted, felt, explored…

Claire wound up on top of him, her soft naked body molding to him, driving him to the brink of insanity. She pushed herself up, straddling him, her hot, wet center molding to his cock.

Mason sighed. Closed his eyes. Savored the sweet agony.

“I just realized, I don't have any condoms here.”

His eyes shot open. “I used the one in my wallet earlier.”

Her stricken expression must have matched his own.

“Damn it.”

“You have some in your suite?”

“Let's go.” He shot up, pulled her off the bed, and they fumbled with their clothes, dressing haphazardly without bothering to worry about underwear or straight buttoning jobs.