on the other hand, had unabashedly created an opulent adult oasis of decadence. A very private resort catering to very private desires, tucked away at the edge of the desert.
“I’m sure he won’t lack for takers,” Tucker murmured with a slight shake of his head. Mr. Blackstone would probably do very well with his posh playground, but he’d have to do it without Tucker Greywolf.
Tucker preferred to fulfill his fantasies on his own…and he didn’t require any high-priced assistance to do so. He tossed the paper away when it was his turn to step to the desk for registration. For now, his fantasies had more to do with solving the mysteries of cold flesh than delving into the pleasures of the more heated variety.
AMETHYST FORTUNA SMYTHE-DAVIES, aka Misty Fortune, as she was known to her legion of fans, peered through the tinted windows of her limo as it wound its way along the serpentine drive leading to the entrance of Blackstone’s. “What in God’s name have I bloody gone and done?” she murmured beneath her breath.
Of course, she knew exactly what she’d gone and done. She’d sold her soul, and probably a goodly part of her dignity, for the sake of a few screaming orgasms. It had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.
The long black sedan slid to the curb, the engine purring quietly as the driver got out and came around to open her door. Her blue-blooded ancestral lineage notwithstanding, Misty didn’t usually indulge in what she termed Spoiled Silver Spooners behavior. Normally, she’d have hopped in a cab. However, Blackstone’s prided itself on providing privacy along with pleasure, which included a personal escort from the airport in the manner of a sleek black sedan complete with a quietly efficient chauffeur. Considering that her five-day stay here would cost the lion’s share of her biannual royalty check, she figured she’d let them pamper her however they saw fit.
She waited for the driver to open her door, but not wanting to betray how shaky she was, even to him, she politely refused his offer of a hand. Once out of her plush cocoon, her nerves jangled even more. You’re a butterfly emerging from your chrysalis, she told herself. A lovely, bold monarch seeking pleasure wherever it may be and claiming it for her own.
God’s balls, but her editor would turn as purple as that prose if she ever wrote anything like that in one of her books. Besides, if her prose had a color at all, it would undoubtedly be a throbbing, molten red. Sometimes the words pulsed through her like that, an oozing lava flow, as if she were channeling them from some secret inner source. Very secret, she thought with a private smirk, as her actual knowledge was somewhat limited. Thank heaven for vivid imaginations. She’d banked an entire career on her rather active one.
Misty pushed a hand through the mess of brown curls that hadn’t stood up well to a cross-country flight. Glancing down she noticed her long, slim cotton skirt and sleeveless knit pullover hadn’t fared any better. Oh so glamorous as always, Misty, she thought with a wry smile. Nothing to do about it now, so she turned toward the sleek, black marble of the walls, the carved archway, the etched-glass entrance, and tried to swallow her trepidation.
She had to, because, as she’d recently been forced to admit, vivid imaginations only went so far. Which was why Misty Fortune, author of a string of red-hot erotic bestsellers, had done what any of her forthright and confident heroines would have done when faced with a similar predicament. “Grabbed the problem by the balls and dealt with it,” she muttered with gritted determination.
“I beg your pardon, miss?”
She glanced at the driver, privately amused at her unseemly comment, even as her cheeks pinked a bit. The downside to her fair English complexion. Her skin reflected every emotion. “The marble walls really grab your attention, don’t they?” she parried, thinking fast. Unseemly language was fine when she was alone, but never in public. Her accent, one that living close to a decade in New York City had barely muted, grew more pronounced, as it always did in moments of stress. “The whole thing is quite lovely, really,” she said, offering a smile.
Charmed, the driver smiled and nodded. “To be certain, miss. I’ll get your bags.”
Misty nodded, then quietly let out a breath when he turned away. She might not be one to tout the silver spoon that had been lodged in her throat at birth—gads, it had taken twenty long years to yank the bloody thing out and toss it back—but she wasn’t above occasionally using the years of painful etiquette classes to which she’d been subjected to smooth over a momentary lapse in decorum. Miss Pottingham would be ever so delighted to know her fervor hadn’t been entirely for naught.
Misty smiled to herself. Lapses in decorum indeed. To be expected, she supposed, as she’d become a combination of the button-down British city of her birth…and the raucous American one she’d adopted on her twenty-first birthday. To the outward eye, she was a young woman, ever so evenly mannered, suitably dressed and coiffed and well-schooled in how to handle most any social occasion with quiet dignity and panache. On the inside, however, she was nothing like that.
In her mind’s eye, she was a Misty Fortune heroine. Bold, daring; an aggressive wanton who saw the world as a ripening piece of fruit, begging her to sink her teeth into its juicy flesh and savor every last decadent drop.
Lapses in decorum, oh she’d had many. Dozens. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Yet, all but the most minor had been enacted exclusively in the privacy of her imagination…and carefully recorded with pen and paper for the delight and stimulation of her readers.
Until now.
Now she was going to finally experience for real what she’d only ever allowed her heroines to enjoy. Now she was finally going to move beyond her limited personal experiences and indulge in the type of sexual fantasies most women—herself included—only dreamt about. She’d always counted herself lucky that she’d turned those hot, feverish dreams into an annual income that allowed her to live rather well, even by New York City standards.
But, to be honest, it was a little difficult to demand things of your lover that you weren’t quite certain you could do yourself. And exactly how did a person go about requesting such things, really? Her characters always met in wildly interesting, larger than life ways, leading them quickly down a carnal path that would never happen in real life. At least not her real life anyway. Leading her to believe that she needed to project a certain confidence in that area to attract a lover with similar preferences. But for that she needed a little help.
Which was exactly why she’d chosen the Continental Concubine package from the very select and amazingly creative menu provided to her in the sleek Blackstone brochure. Apparently her literary successes had drawn the attention of Mr. Blackstone himself, who’d personally invited her to be one of the resort’s first guests. It was an invitation she’d initially politely refused.
But the glossy brochure had lain there, silently daring her, taunting her, beckoning her. And her latest story seemed twice-told. Thrice-told. Her last lover even more so. She needed to do something…
Several glasses of champagne, sipped alone on New Year’s Eve, had found her perusing the detailed menu once again. She’d told herself it was simply research. She was merely scanning the brochure in hopes something would spark a new light in her gradually dimming imaginary world.
Which didn’t explain why she picked up the phone and actually made a reservation. It had taken another couple of glasses to come up with the rationalization for that. And she still wasn’t entirely sure she bought it. But here she was, and dammit, she was going to learn how to be a seductive, confident courtesan, skilled in pleasuring any man…therefore able to demand the same for herself. Even if it killed her. Or worse, completely mortified her.
“You’re thirty
