Passion's Mistral (7 page)

region.

He was on fire with a need he had not felt in many years. It wasn’t just the relief he knew he had needed

for so long but the sensual woman pleasuring herself in the room beyond that made his blood sing and his

cock throb with a life of its own. He stared at her half-closed eyes—memorizing her beautiful face, letting

his fevered gaze slide over her luxurious breasts. He ached to touch them, to suckle them, to draw the

rosy tips deep into his mouth, to scrape his teeth lightly across them until she was writhing beneath him in

complete abandonment, her body his to enjoy, to pleasure, to possess.

“Silkie,” he whispered and the rhythm of his hand increased in direct proportion to the rubbing of the

loofah between her thighs. He could not take his eyes from her dewy face and as he did, he saw the

exact moment her passion became full blown. He was but a step behind her, his own face mirroring the

depth of the pleasure that came roaring up to claim him.

Their orgasms came at the same instant, stunning Julian as he stood there quivering from head to toe, his

knees so weak he had to lean against the wall to steady himself. His breathing was as ragged as hers,

their hands trembling as they reached in tandem to push away a stray lock of sweat-dampened hair from

their foreheads.

Those dual actions were like a sign to Julian St. John. He took them for the omens he had long sought.

“You will be mine, sweetness,” Julian vowed, his eyes locked on hers as though she could see through

the hidden camera lens into his secret place. “No matter what else I do to you, you will be mine!”

Long into the night he watched her from the mini-cam hidden in a branch of the headboard. He kept vigil

over her supple body as she lay naked on the floral coverlet. He watched the delicate rise and fall of her

chest, smiled at the movement of her eyes as she dreamt, ached as he stared at the glistening pelt over

her womanhood. By the time he tore himself away and staggered lust-drunk from his observation space,

he was once more a lonely man sorely in need of a mate.

As he climbed into bed, he looked at the bedside clock, and without giving himself time to back out,

grabbed the phone and dialed a number he hadn’t called in eighteen years. Never once doubting the

number would have changed, he held the receiver tightly to his ear as the transatlantic call went through.

“Bellington residence,” a stiff voice with a very proper English accent announced.

“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Bellington,” Julian said, his jaw clenched.

“May I ask who is calling?”

“It’s me, Guildford. It’s Anthony.”

“Oh,” the voice on the other end said, dropping the word like a hot brick. “One moment, sir.”

Guildford had been with the family for as long as he could remember. A prim and proper gentleman who

wore his rank with impeccable stiffness, Guildford was incapable of smiling—or so it had seemed to

Julian as he was growing up.

“Anthony? Oh, my dear boy!” his mother shrieked. “Where are you? How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mother,” he replied. “How are you?”

“Oh, Anthony!” He heard her crying, sniffling, and knew she would be carrying a delicate lace

handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “Why haven’t you called? I have been so worried. I—”

“Mother, do you remember the words to the Connemara Cradle Song?” Julian interrupted. He held his

breath, waiting for her answer.

There was a long pause. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“The lullaby, Mother. Do you remember singing it to me when I was a child?”

“Anthony, my word!” she said. “I couldn’t carry a tune in a hand basket. Why are you asking me such a

thing?”

“Did Margaret sing it to me?”

“I suppose she might have. I don’t recall. What do you—?”

“Is she there?”

“Heavens, no!” his mother stated. “She’s been dead ten years or so. There was an accident with a lorry.

Very horrible affair as it were. Why on earth would you want to talk to a servant? You haven’t called

your own mother in all these years and now you—”

“I have to go, Mother,” Julian said. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Anthony? You wait just a minute! Your Uncle Clive wants to speak with you. He—”

The unmistakable sound of the phone being grabbed away from his mother made Julian lower the

receiver.

“Anthony! Anthony, answer me!” His uncle’s voice was strident, as hateful as he remembered the man

being.

Replacing the receiver, cutting off the detested voice, Julian turned over in the bed and pulled his pillow

to him. The scar on his back began to burn and he reached behind him to massage the puckered flesh.

When he had fled the English estate on which he had grown up, he had tried to shed the painful memories

as easily as he had shed the name Anthony Lanier James Bellington. The memories, however, could not

be dismissed as easily as he had hoped though he had spent half a lifetime trying to forget his childhood.

He loved his mother as much as he had hated his father and feared his uncle. Not seeing her, not talking

to her had been very difficult but that was the only way he could stay safe and out of the clutches of a

family that had nearly destroyed him.

“But I won’t be participating in the programs offered here at the resort,” Silkie protested to Henri

Bouvier. “Why do I need to be interviewed by Mr. St. John?”

“You may not wish to indulge in the pleasures offered here, Ms. Trevor,” Bouvier replied, “but you will

be utilizing resort personnel. Mr. St. John wants to make sure your presence here is…shall we say?

Kosher?”

Silkie frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be kosher, Mr. Bouvier? I am here as Dr. Carstairs’ assistant and—”

“If you wish to stay at the Cay and perform your duties as the good doctor’s assistant, then you must

meet with Mr. St. John and acquire his approval,” Henri interrupted in a firm, no-argument tone.

Letting out an annoyed breath, Silkie put her hands on her hips, lowered her head in defeat and sighed

again. “All right,” she said, looking up. “But I don’t see the need.”

Henri shrugged. “It isn’t up to us to question his orders, Ms. Trevor. I learned long ago not to do that.”

Irritated even more by Bouvier’s subservient attitude, Silkie pursed her lips. The more she heard about

St. John, the less inclined she was to meet with him. That his manner was that of a despot, a dictator of

this tropical paradise did not set well with her. Added to that impression of him, his method of carving out

an empire for himself by selling male flesh to wealthy, bored women made him little more than an

expensive pimp to her way of thinking.

“All right,” she said again. “Let’s get it over with then.”

Henri frowned. It was rare to have a woman unwilling to meet with Julian—rarer still was it to find one

whose distaste at such a meeting was so obvious. Normally the women fell all over themselves to be

ushered into the presence of the infamous lord of Mistral Cay.

“Please follow me,” Henri said, his scowl deepening as he heard Ms. Trevor’s exaggerated sigh of

displeasure.

Silkie barely glanced at the luxurious accoutrements they passed on the way to St. John’s office. The

investigator part of her nature noted the beautifully carved panels of teak, the heavy gold damask drapes,

the very expensive paintings gracing the walls and the exquisite fabrics on the seating arrangements. She

took in the thick carpet underfoot, the pleasant smell of wisteria hanging on the air, the coolness of the

wide hallway down which they moved, the lambent light that cast lush shadows from the tall potted palms

they passed. While such trappings impressed her on some deep, unconscious level, on the surface she

seemed unaffected by the vast wealth and discriminating tastes of Julian St. John.

Henri stopped before a wide double door, the surface of which was carved with a scene similar to that in

the murals in Silkie’s bedroom. He reached up to straighten his tie and Silkie wondered why a man

would dress so formally at a resort for nudists. Though she had yet to move beyond the four-story

building that housed the Cay’s guests, she had seen several guests and their helpers frolicking naked at

the beach that morning. Held captive by the sight of deeply tanned and very masculine male bodies, she

had foregone breakfast to watch the revelers.

Bouvier’s staccato knock on the door brought Silkie out of her revelry.

“Come,” a very masculine voice called out from beyond the door.

Bouvier reached for the brass handle and swung the door open, stepping aside to allow Silkie to enter.

She glanced up at him, realizing he was not going to accompany her, and squared her shoulders.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she mumbled to herself and entered St. John’s lair.

At first she thought she was in the room alone. It was a beautifully designed office with a huge mahogany

desk behind which stood a wide burgundy leather chair, its rounded back to her. Behind the desk was a

sweeping bank of windows that looked out over the ocean. In front of the desk was a very comfortable

looking club chair done in a lovely jacquard pattern in colors of rose, teal and pale yellow.

“Please have a seat, Ms. Trevor.”

Silkie was further bothered by the man’s lack of manners. That he was sitting with his back to her, staring

out the windows was an indication he cared nothing for her feelings. She clasped her hands in her lap and

decided she would be just as blasé about this so-called interview as was he.

“Tell me,” he said, still not turning around, “what do you call the midline seam that runs on the underside

of a man’s shaft, Ms. Trevor.”

Silkie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is it the frenulum?” he queried. “The seminal vesicles?”

He swung his chair around. “Or is it the jaculum?”

Silkie found herself staring into a face that was by far the most handsome she had ever seen. It was a

purely masculine face with bold eyebrows that arched over eyes the color of dark topaz. Sensuous

lips—the bottom fuller than the top—were perfectly framed beneath high cheekbones and a nose that

would be a plastic surgeon’s dream. Strong, even white teeth—ears that were positioned perfectly

against St. John’s head over which a thick mane of sleek black hair curled in careless abandon and an

athletic neck that suggested a youthful regimen of bridging exercises cast an undeniable picture of health,

vitality and male supremacy. Only his jaw line hinted at a nature that could be rife with danger.

“Well?” he prodded. “Which is it?”

Silkie cleared her throat. “I don’t have a clue what a jaculum is but the midline seam that runs on the

underside of your penis, Mr. St. John, is called the raphe.”

St. John smiled and that smile sent a tremor down Silkie’s spine.

“And the seminal vesicles?” he asked.

Glad for the crash course in penal anatomy Dr. Carstairs had given her on the plane trip to the Cay,

Silkie relaxed in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“They are on the sides of the scrotal sac. They feel like little twigs.” She arched a brow. “And what, pray

tell, is a jaculum?”

St. John’s smile widened. “Perhaps I meant ejaculum,” he responded.

“Well, if that’s what you meant, that’s just another word for cum, Mr. St. John. Cum is—”

“I know what it is, Ms. Trevor,” he said, cutting her off.

Silkie lifted her chin. “I’m sure you do,” she said.

He made a steeple with his fingers and rested the tips beneath his chin as he braced his elbows on the

chair arms. “How many—would you estimate—cocks have you photographed for Dr. Carstairs?”

She could feel the blush creeping into her cheeks and from the knowing look in his stare, she knew he

could see the telltale color. Realizing he was watching her intently, ready to pounce on a lie, she

shrugged. “None as of yet.”

“Really?” he asked. “But you do know what you’re looking for?”

There was no mistaking the twinkle in his eye and although she wasn’t sure if he was teasing or goading

her, she cocked her head to one side.

“Well, let’s see—hopefully a long, fleshy piece of cartilage with a bush of crinkly pubic hair on top and a

heavy scrotum hanging beneath. Some will be circumcised and some won’t. If they are, the head of the

shaft will be very apparent. If not, it will be necessary to have the subject pull—”

“I believe you know what you’re looking for,” he said, amusement turning his eyes a lighter shade of

gold.

“Yeppers, I do,” she said brightly. “Cocks of all different sizes and shapes and colors and—”

“When would you like to start?” he interrupted harshly.

She was taken aback by his strident tone and slightly unnerved by the sudden hardening of his features.

“Will I have access to the resort grounds or will you send the men to me for me to photograph?” she

asked.

His gaze narrowed. “Which do you prefer?”

Though it was a lie, she said she had to admit she would like to see what the resort was like. In truth, she

didn’t want to be alone in a room with a man whose penis was only inches from her face. Out in the

open, with others around, seemed a bit less intimidating although she feared it would be more

embarrassing.

He stared at her for a long moment then leaned back in his chair. “I will have Henri find a spot for you on

the beach. At any given time there are always helpers around. Do you have a preference of what size or

shape or color you’d like to start with?”