The nudge was there now, more insistent than ever, prodding him into action. But for the first time in his life, for reasons that escaped him, he found himself resisting the urge to pick up the scent and track down the story.
Knox chalked up his misgivings to inconvenience. Naturally, in the course of his work, he’d been mightily inconvenienced and had never minded the hassle. It was all part and parcel of his chosen career path, the one he’d taken despite howling protests from his more professionally minded parents. His mother and father considered Knox’s career choice beneath him and were still clinging to the hope that he’d eventually come to his senses and use his Ivy League education for a more distinguished career.
They’d have a long wait.
Knox was determined to make his mark in the competitive world of investigative journalism, no matter the inconveniences. This wasn’t just a career; it was his identity, who he was. He was a show-and-tell journalist—he unearthed facts, then he showed them to the American public, told them in his own outspoken way and encouraged them to draw their own conclusions.
He’d hidden in small dark places and he’d assumed countless disguises, some of which were completely emasculating, Knox thought, shuddering as he recalled the transvestite debacle. He’d made it a point to befriend a scope of unwitting informants, from assistants to top city officials to the occasional pimp and small-time thug, and all species in between, creating a network of eyes much like the Argus of Greek mythology.
The idea of being inconvenienced didn’t disturb Knox—it was the form of inconvenience he was concerned about. Knox preferred to work solo, but for this particular story, that simply wasn’t an option.
He’d have to have a partner, and a female partner at that. A wry smile turned his lips. After all, he couldn’t very well attend a tantric sex workshop with a man.
Knox studied the glossy tantric sex pamphlet once more. This clinic—Total Tantra Edification—in particular was his target. While some workshops were probably on the up-and-up, something about this one didn’t feel quite right. Hadn’t from the beginning when this idea had first taken hold. The little brochure was chock-full of glowing testimonials from happy couples who had sworn that the workshop had saved their marriages, had brought their flat-lined sex lives from the brink of death via the energized, intimate therapy. Women, in particular, seemed to be thrilled with the results, citing multiple orgasms and even female ejaculation.
And why not? Knox wondered with a crooked grin. The whole technique seemed geared toward female gratification—a new twist in and of itself. According to his research, men avoided physical ejaculation completely, thereby prolonging their erections, and instead strove for full-body inner orgasms. The blast without the shower, so to speak, Knox thought.
Expensive tantric weekend workshops were becoming almost as common on the West Coast as surfers at the beach. While they hadn’t gained as much popularity on the East Coast, interest in the subject was nonetheless increasing. A popular cable music program recently polled eighteen-to twenty-four-year-olds, and when asked what sexual subject they’d most like to learn about, tantric sex topped the list.
No doubt about it, it was a timely story. The nudge tingled behind his navel once more.
In this case, it was also a load of New Age baloney taught by aging hippies in unbleached hemp togas bent on feathering their retirement nests. Knox was sure of it. He glanced at the so-called instructors featured on the inside page. Drs. Edgar and Rupali Shea smiled back at him, the picture of glowing serenity and marital bliss.
Knox didn’t buy it for a moment.
Honestly? What self-respecting man would purposely deprive himself of an orgasm during sex and claim inner enlightenment was better? Knox snorted, knocked back the dregs of his Scotch. Not a real man. Not a man’s man, anyway. Sex with no orgasm? It was like a hot-fudge sundae minus the hot fudge. Hell, what would be the point?
Certainly, without ejaculation a man could keep an erection longer. But as long as one didn’t detonate upon entry, what difference did it make? As long as you didn’t leave your partner in the lurch—unforgivably lazy in his opinion—what was the problem with racing toward release? With grabbing the brass ring?
Absolutely nothing. While the concept of tantric sex had originated in India around 3000 B.C. and might have been genuinely used with a noble goal in mind, in today’s time the technique had simply become a new twist on an old game designed to milk desperate couples out of their hard-earned money. Greedy, marketing-savvy businessmen had taken the concept and bastardized it into a hedonistic, spiritual fix-all.
Knox firmly intended to prove it and he couldn’t do it alone. He’d have to have a partner.
Several possible candidates came to mind, but he systematically ruled them out. He didn’t have a single female acquaintance who wouldn’t expect his undivided attention, and this would be a business trip, not a weekend tryst celebrated with fine food and recreational sex. Complete focus would be mandatory in order to preserve the integrity of the story.
Knox liked sex as much as the next guy—he was a man, after all. It was his nature. And while the entire workshop would be centered around the technique of tantric sex, Knox knew better than to think he’d be able to do his job with any objectivity and be testing the theories at the same time. He’d have to have complete focus. So he’d have to take along a female who could appreciate the job he’d come there to do, and he could not—absolutely could not—be attracted to her.
Three beats passed before he knew the perfect woman for the job, and when the name surfaced, he involuntarily winced with dread—Savannah Reeves, his archenemy at the Phoenix.
The idea of having to share his byline with the infuriating know-it-all—honestly, the woman could strip bark off a tree with that tongue of hers—was almost enough to make Knox abandon the whole scenario, but he knew he couldn’t.
He had to do this story.
This story would change his life. He could feel it. Couldn’t explain it, but intuitively knew it all the same.
And if that meant spending a weekend with a woman whose seemingly sole goal in life was to annoy him, then so be it. Knox could handle it. All modesty aside, he could handle just about any woman. A quick smile, a clever compliment and—voilà!—she was his.
But not Savannah. Never Savannah.
She seemed charm-proof. Knox frowned, studied the empty cut-glass tumbler he held loosely in his hand. The one and only time he’d attempted the old routine on Savannah, she’d given him a blast of sleet with those icy blue eyes of hers and laughed in his face. His cheeks burned with remembered humiliation. He’d never repeated the mistake. It had been a lesson well learned and, while he didn’t outright avoid her—he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction—he’d made a conscious effort to steer clear of her path. She…unnerved him.
Nevertheless, he seriously doubted that she’d let her personal dislike of him keep her from jumping at the chance of a great story. Since she’d joined the staff a little over a year ago, she’d made it a point to usurp prime articles from him, to try to keep one step ahead of him. He’d never had any real competition at the Phoenix until her arrival. Though she irritated the hell out of him with her knowing little smiles and acid comments, the rivalry nonetheless kept him sharp, kept him on his toes.
Knox thoughtfully tapped the brochure against his thigh and once more reflected on his options…and realized he really only had one—Savannah. She was the only woman who
