Passion's Mistral (8 page)

She wished she could tell him she needed to see only the penises of those men who were white and

thirty-seven years of age but then he would know she was there for a purpose other than what had been

put forth.

“I’ll leave that up to you,” she said, ducking her head and pretending to flick lint from her cotton skirt.

“Unless it is in the fantasy scenario, the helpers are not allowed to speak with the guests,” he said. “Since

you have opted not to participate in the pleasures offered at the Cay, the men will not answer any

questions you put to them so don’t bother trying.”

Silkie’s eyebrows shot up. “Not even Steve?” she inquired. “You know, the bellboy?”

Julian St. John’s eyes narrowed. “I know who the hell Steve is!”

“Since he and I have already spoken can’t I—?”

“Steven is not one of the helpers but if you would like to photograph his cock, feel free,” Julian snapped.

He got up from the chair. “If you want to question him about the size and shape and color of his prick, by

all means do so! I’m sure he’d love to tell you all about it!”

With that, the owner of Mistral Cay skirted the desk and strode angrily to the door, slamming the portal

shut behind him.

Silkie sat there for a moment, her head swiveled toward the closed door. She was stunned by both St.

John’s abrupt manner as well as the fury she had glimpsed in his molten glower. It was almost as though

he was exhibiting jealousy, male possessiveness, but since she did not know him, had never met him

before today, she knew that could not be the cause of his obvious anger. He certainly couldn’t be

enamored of her on such short acquaintance unless…

Unless Steve is his lover, she thought.

That notion didn’t set well with her and she slumped in the chair, considering it. There was far too much

maleness in Julian St. John to have it spoiled by learning he was gay.

Not that she had anything against gays, she thought. One of her best friends in college was gay and they

often met for lunch and a gab session when Paul was in town. Pondering her reaction to Julian’s possible

sexual orientation, she knew it was a purely female reaction not unlike the Father Whatashame ones of

her girlhood.

“Ohmygod!” she and the other girls at St. Ambrose College would say. “What a shame Fr. Bob is a

priest!”

What a shame she thought it would be if Julian St. John was gay.

“What a waste, too,” she muttered as she got to her feet.

“Give Steve Bertran a couple of weeks off,” Julian ordered Henri. “All expenses paid to Miami or L.A.

or wherever the fuck the little shit wants to go!”

Henri knew better than to ask why. He simply made a notation in the book he was never seen without.

“When would you like me to start sending helpers to Ms. Trevor?”

“You’ve picked a spot?” Julian snapped.

“As you suggested, it is within full view of the cabanas. I have provided a small tent and have had her

equipment set up.”

“Equipment never used before now,” Julian said with a snort.

“The price tags were still on two of the lenses.”

Another vicious snort came from Julian. “Did you place the call as I asked?” he demanded.

Henri sighed heavily. “Julian, don’t I always do as you ask?”

Julian ignored the question. “Have the helpers meet with me in about twenty minutes. If you need to pull

them from a scenario, do it.”

Such an order was outside the norm and Henri winced. “Julian, won’t that be impinging on the ladies’

entertainment? I mean—”

“Don’t argue with me, Bouvier! Just do it!”

Henri stiffened his posture. “As you wish.” He clicked his heels together, turned with military precision

and marched off, his back ramrod straight.

Julian ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the thick mane. He hated speaking to his best friend in

such a manner but his nerves were beginning to get the best of him.

As was an acute jealousy he had—until that day—never experienced.

“Steve Bertran won’t be showing you his wares, sweetness,” he swore as he shoved his hands into the

pockets of his black jeans.

It wasn’t as bad as she thought it was going to be. The first two sessions were clumsy attempts on her

part to be in charge of the situation. No doubt sensing her nervousness and embarrassment, the first two

young men came to stand before her in their youthful, nude glory and displayed their penises in a

matter-of-fact manner. They held their members this way and that as she stammered her directions, lifted

the shaft upward so she could photograph the scrotum and at her expulsion of breath, lowered it for

another photo or two before silently going on their way.

She began to relax after the third young man winked at her behind his mask as he strolled nonchalantly

away, flexing his ass muscles for her benefit. Silkie laughed and wagged her finger at him when he

glanced around at her. She heard his low chuckle as he trudged through the sand and went down to the

water for a brief swim.

“I wonder who he really is,” she mused to herself. “If he’s someone I might know.” Dr. Carstairs had

told her some of the men who wore masks at the cay were more than likely movie or television stars,

even politicians biding their time at the Cay on a lark. Some even took a salary for their time spent there

simply for the humor in it and certainly not because they needed it.

“Some of the women wear masks, too,” Dr. Carstairs had commented. “They’re well-respected

matrons—many of them—and can’t afford to have their identities known. Like people wouldn’t

recognize most of them the moment they open their mouths!” She put a finger to her eye and pulled down

the lower lid in a conspiratorial wink. “Of course, hiding behind a mask gives one the illusion of danger

too, don’t you think?”

It was the fourth specimen who ruined Silkie’s complacent attitude.

From the moment she saw him striding toward her, she knew he was the man who had brought her

supper the evening before. It would have been hard to forget those wide shoulders and narrow hips, the

man’s imposing height and masculine presence. Just watching him heading for her made her pulse

quicken. She licked her lips, anxious to have him strip before her. Her gaze met his through his black silk

mask and she thought she saw a gleam centered in his dark depths.

But then another man came into her line of vision and she flinched, looking up into the red leather-masked

face with a frown. She was about to tell him to wait his turn but he stepped forward, his cock held like a

weapon toward her.

Silkie recoiled, moving back. She glanced at the man from the night before and saw he had stopped

twenty feet away and was just standing there, hands on his hips, feet apart, the black silk britches

straining with the obvious bulge of his erection.

The man in front of her waggled his penis at her as though to gain her attention. It was an angry little thing

with that one red-shot eye staring at her. If a penis could glare, this one was doing so for all it was worth.

As short and stumpy as the pitiful little thing was, Silkie doubted it was worth much. When the man

waggled it again, Silkie lost her temper.

“All right, already!” she snapped. “Hold your horses, buster!” She reached for her camera, hoping this

wasn’t the man for whom she was searching.

As she took her pictures, the man pulled his cock left to right and down, stretching the tiny thing as far as

it would go—and that wasn’t far. His shriveled balls were like withered prunes and then he lifted his penis

upward.

“Thank God!” Silkie said, spying no birthmark on the man’s scrotal sac. She clicked one last picture she

was sure was cockeyed and waved the man away.

There was a distinct snort from the young man as he hurried off.

“Bastard,” Silkie pronounced and turned to the man from the night before.

He had not moved. He was standing in the exact same position, staring at her through the narrow slits of

his mask. His chest was peppered with sweat for the hot sun was beating down on him though he didn’t

seem to care. As tan as his flesh was, he obviously was accustomed to the rays.

Silkie crooked her finger at him but he didn’t move. Instead, he turned his head toward another young

man coming toward the tent under which Silkie was sitting in her low-slung canvas chair.

“Oh, shit,” Silkie said as the next man approached.

Though this man was built as beautifully as any naked man could be, he seemed to be deliberately hiding

his scrotum from Silkie’s view. When he lifted his penis upward, the bottom of his fist obscured the area

she needed to see. When he shifted the penis from side to side, he once more covered the spot. After

several attempts to get him to allow her full view of his scrotum, she finally had to say the words, “I need

to see the scrotal sac, sir!” Her face turning bright red as he looked down at her, amusement glittering in

his gaze.

Very slowly, he cupped his member with his fingers, closing each one like an accordion over the swelling

shaft. Even more slowly, he lifted his cock straight out and upward, arching his hips toward her so she

could get a good look at his balls.

Silkie was only a foot away from the young man’s family jewels and though they sparkled brightly, they

were not the gems for which she was searching. She looked up and shook her head.

He stepped back as though stung by her reaction.

“Oh, no!” she said, unthinkingly reaching out to grab his naked hips. “I just meant you weren’t…I mean

you aren’t…” She felt the heat flowing down her neck. “You’re quite nice but—”

He jerked out of her grip, lifted his head in the air and stomped off.

“Damn it!” Silkie groaned. She hadn’t meant to hurt the young man’s feelings. She knew all too well how

fragile was a man’s ego when it came to his penis. She looked helplessly toward the man who was still

watching her. He had not moved.

“I didn’t mean to suggest he wasn’t sexy,” she called out. “He is way more man than I’ve seen in a long

time but—”

The man from the night before stiffened, lowered his arms and turned his back to her. He, too, walked

off as though she had insulted him. The white of the scar on his back was in livid contrast to the bronze of

his tan.

“What the hell did I say?” she yelled and remembered Julian St. John telling her not to speak to the

helpers except to tell them what to do.

Hot, angry, thirsty despite the bottles of spring water Henri Bouvier had provided for her in ice-filled

tubs, Silkie threw her hands up and decided to call it quits. Five penises was enough work for one day!

“There are thirty helpers at the Cay,” Dr. Carstairs had informed her.

“At this rate, it’ll take me all week to inspect every cock here!” Silkie mumbled to herself as she stomped

through the hot sand. She was longing for that wonderful spa tub and a few Bloody Marias to make her

forget all the sausages she’d been forced to stare at.

Julian slammed his fist against the doorframe hard enough to splinter the wood. Shaking his hand at the

pain, cursing beneath his breath, he flopped down in his chair and thrust his long legs out in front of him.

“Devlin Parks is way more man than you’ve ever seen, eh?” he sneered, cradling his injured hand against

his chest. “Well, baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”

“Steve is on vacation,” the young man who served her supper informed her.

Silkie was disappointed. Not wanting to encounter Mr. Suppertime—as she had labeled him—she had

decided against room service although she would have preferred to eat alone in her room. She handed

the menu back to the waiter. “I’ll have the lobster Florentine.”

“Excellent choice, Miss. And what kind of dressing for your salad?”

“Blue cheese and a carafe of white zinfandel with the meal.”

“Certainly. I’ll be right back with your wine.”

Silkie smiled and looked around her. There were several other women dining in the Sea Crest Room that

evening but none she had met, although one she thought looked vaguely familiar. Since their arrival she

had not seen Dr. Carstairs at all.

The waiter—his name was Trent—brought her wine and placed it before her, he spoke to her in a low

voice.

“One of the helpers would like to join you for supper, Miss Trevor.”

Silkie stared up at him. “One of the helpers?”

“He won’t be eating with you but he has asked if he could sit with you while you ate.”

“I don’t know,” Silkie said, surprised by the request. “I—”

She felt firm, gentle hands on her shoulders. The weight was heavy enough to be friendly but not

possessive. The quick tensing of strong fingers, a gentle little pat, gave her the impression the man was

greeting her in a lighthearted way.

Even before he came from behind her, softly dragging his fingertips across her upper back from shoulder

to shoulder, she knew it would be him. She looked up and melted at the sight of him.

The silk mask was in place, hiding the color of his hair, but from the flesh tones of his hands and neck,

she knew his hair would be very dark, though perhaps not as dark as the black silk pirate shirt that fitted

snuggly into the waistband of his black leather britches. The wiry hair revealed in the opening of the shirt

and along the backs of his very capable-looking hands was dark brown.

“Do you always sit with the Cay’s guests?” she asked as he took a seat beside her.

A careless shrug was his answer and she sighed, remembering the helpers were not allowed to speak to