Tailored for Trouble

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  A man, standing in the small crowd awaiting their loved ones just outside the cramped but sterile customs room, held up a sign with “Reed” written on it. He wore a long green skirt and a red and white linen shirt.

  “Hello. That’s me,” Taylor said, pointing to the sign.

  He tilted his body, peering behind her. “No luggage, ma’am?”

  “Uh, no. I’m traveling light.”

  “Very good. Right this way.”

  She followed him through the doors to a square-ish minivan waiting at the curb. It was pitch-black outside, and a gentle tropical breeze wafted over her warm face.

  “He will take you to Mr. Wade,” the man said to Taylor, gesturing to the driver.

  Taylor thanked him and slipped inside the car. She didn’t know where she’d be staying, but she’d expected them to head south—that’s where the luxury resorts were located according to the map she’d studied on the plane. But instead, they headed north, up the eastern coast. Trust Bennett to catch her off guard again.

  “Excuse me, but where are we going?” She leaned forward between the front seats.

  “Mr. Wade has a room for you at the Pacific Palace, ma’am. Near the golf course. But his family estate, where he grew up, is another few hours beyond that. He said he did not want to make you drive so far this late at night.”

  Bennett grew up here? Did that have something to do with his project? In any case, she couldn’t at all picture him growing up in such a laid-back vacation destination. Everything about him screamed city boy and structured, sophisticated and disciplined. Even when he doesn’t wear a suit, he still wears a suit. Which made her start to wonder…was it just a façade?

  That was what his mother had said. He had a big heart and tried to hide it.

  Will the real Bennett Wade please stand up?

  “Thank you.” Taylor looked out the windows as they drove through town. Despite being well past midnight, hordes of small mopeds zoomed by. The urban sprawl reminded her of the many tourist towns she’d seen all over South America when she’d gone backpacking in college. Lots of small, cement block homes, and mom-and-pop stores that sold either fruits and vegetables or local cuisine.

  Without warning, rain began coming down in big sloppy drops, pelting the windshield.

  “I thought this was the dry season,” she commented. Yeah, she’d had a lot of time to kill on the plane so she’d done the requisite Internet surfing on her laptop using the plane’s WiFi. Honestly, she’d never thought much about going to Indonesia, but now she wondered what had kept her away. The country seemed to have every activity known to man—river rafting, hiking, sailboating; lovely ancient temples and stone monasteries; and then there were the beaches, with water ranging from dreamy deep blues, perfect for surfing, to the clear turquoise found in the quiet glassy bays. All of it skirting deep lush jungle and steep mountain terrain.

  “Yes, this is the dry season,” said the driver. “But we still get the occasional storm—like the one coming in tonight. Should be gone by the end of the week.”

  End of the week? There go my beach excursions. Not that she was there for vacation. Unless one counted marathon sex with Bennett Wade?

  An hour later, they pulled up to the sprawling, open-aired lobby area of what looked to be a very upscale resort, complete with marble floors and elegant furniture made of dark wood with white upholstery.

  She thanked the driver and tried to give him a twenty, but he refused, telling her everything had been taken care of by Mr. Wade.

  Taylor’s heart fluttered like crazy the moment the man said Bennett’s name. She didn’t know what she’d say when she saw him. Hi, ready to have your mind completely blown with some very mediocre sex?

  “Good evening, ma’am. How was your flight in from Paris?” said the young woman behind the reception counter. Her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun and she wore a cream-colored linen tunic.

  “You know who I am?” Taylor asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. The owner left very specific instructions.” She raised her hand into the air and a young man wearing a khaki linen uniform appeared.

  Owner? “Do you mean…Bennett Wade owns this hotel?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said demurely.

  Okay, yet another surprise. So this had to be his project. He was expanding his company into hotels and resorts in addition to the fragrances business. She supposed that was nice, but was it really worth killing himself over?

  The attentive bellhop was standing next to her, looking confused.

  “I don’t have any luggage. It’s somewhere in Paris,” Taylor said, feeling a little embarrassed to be checking in to such an extravagant resort in the kind of clothes one might wear for a midnight run to 7-Eleven for a pint of ice cream or a bag of Cheetos.

  It was also eighty-something degrees, and she was wearing sweatpants.

  “He will take you to your suite,” said the clerk. “What is your size, ma’am?”

  “Size?” Taylor asked.

  “Yes, of your clothing? We will have a selection of garments and sandals sent to your room.”

  “Oh. That’s not necessary,” Taylor said. “I’ll hit the gift shop in the morning.” The one in the lobby behind her was obviously closed.

  “Mr. Wade made it clear to see you were taken care of. It is no problem, ma’am.”

  Taylor wrestled with her conscience for a moment, but she really could use something clean to sleep in. “I’m a size eight. Or ten. Depending on the day. And don’t worry, my flip-flops are fine.” Taylor had on the horrible pink pair she’d also had stashed in her laptop case as part of her emergency comfort outfit.

  The woman raised her brow. “We will have the items sent to you within the hour, ma’am.” She looked at the patiently waiting bellhop. “Please take Ms. Reed to the presidential suite.”

  “Presidential suite? Are you sure?”

  “That is where Mr. Wade always stays, though it’s not often we see him.”

  “Is Bennett—I mean—is Mr. Wade staying, too?”

  “Yes. Mr. Wade said he’d be here shortly to join you for the evening.”

  Okay. We’re going to share a room. This is happening. Really happening. And I haven’t shaved anything. Ohmygod. I am a mess.

  “Um, are there bathroom supplies in the room?” Taylor asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Wade asked for everything to be fully stocked.”

  Oh, thank God. My underarms look like Teenage Ninja Tarantulas. Very hairy and mysterious. Taylor followed the bellhop outside where he popped open a jumbo-sized umbrella. Through the drizzle, they made their way past several lush gardens and a multitude of individual bungalows to a private gate. It was the middle of the night, so she couldn’t see much, but the place looked like a beach paradise.

  The man unlocked the gate, and they entered a dramatically lit garden leading to what looked like a private residence. Two stories. Dark wooden construction. Elegant yet rustic.

  They entered, and Taylor’s jaw nearly dropped. It was absolute heaven, furnished like a five-star hotel room with beautiful teak wood furniture and bright white upholstery, bamboo ceiling fans, a wet bar, flat screen TV, sprawling living room, and floor-to-ceiling shutter-style doors on half of the exterior wall. She guessed the living room opened up to an insanely gorgeous view of the beach.

  The bellhop showed her upstairs—another living room slash bedroom with a king-size bed surrounded by gauzy white mosquito netting, blonde bamboo flooring, and a big balcony. She couldn’t wait for the sun to come up so she could see it all properly. It was amazing.

  The moment the guy left, she sprinted into the bathroom and went through the supplies. “Yes!” She had never been so happy to see a razor in her life. Sadly, however, the toilet didn’t sing or talk or play music.

  She started the shower and jumped inside, quickly washing her hair before getting to work on the kitty, taking care not to get too crazy with the bikini line. She didn’t know what Bennett was into—bald eagle, landi
ng strip, sasquatch?—but shaving was not waxing and what man wanted to get a friction burn from vag stubble? Not good. She went with manicured and womanly. A safe bet for both.

  She brushed her teeth, wrapped her hair in a towel, and slipped on the complimentary terry cloth robe.

  A few minutes later there was light knock at the door. Taylor hurried to answer it, assuming it was the bellhop bringing the clothing delivery.

  Instead, Bennett stood there, looking rumpled, damp, and sexy in khaki linen pants and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscular forearms. His lightly tanned skin had a light sheen of sweat, and his hair was mussed in a hot bed-play kind of way.

  Her pulse slammed into overdrive.

  “Ms. Reed.” His lips twitched, and those intense blue eyes swept over her body. “I hope your flight was uneventful?”

  She blinked at him, feeling like she just might lose her nerve. It was one thing coming all the way to Bali, knowing that things were going to change between them, but it was another thing entirely staring at this big magnificent male with a profusely carnal gaze and sultry lips, knowing she was going to have him inside her body.

  “Yep.” She gulped, unable to find anything remotely casual to say.

  “Are you going to ask me in?” He rubbed his jaw, which had passed out of the stubble-zone and was now officially covered in a very short, thick dark beard. He looked hotter than hell.

  “Oh, of course.” She stepped aside, and when he passed by, she smelled that addictive concoction of his light sweat and expensive cologne—a sort of fresh, clean, citrus mixed with raw man. “This place is incredible. Do you sex here a lot?”

  He lifted a brow. “Uh. No. Not really. I prefer to sex at my estate in the comfort of my own bed.”

  She looked at him, scrunching her brows together.

  “You asked if I ‘sexed’ here a lot,” he said.

  She cupped her hands over her mouth. “I did?” she mumbled through her fingers.

  He smiled and then reached out, pulling her hands away and stroking the corner of her lip. She began shaking, and he must’ve noticed because he dropped his hand.

  “You look like you could use a drink.” He glided that tall, broad-shouldered body of his over to the wet bar.

  “You read my mind. I’ll have penis.”

  “Will you now?” He laughed and gave her a look. “I’m not sure I know that drink, but I think I can come up with something.”

  “You don’t know wine? It’s that stuff that comes from grapes.”

  “You said ‘penis.’ ”

  No I didn’t. Oh my God. What’s the matter with me? “I did?” This X-rated tongue-tying had never happened to her before. Of course, she’d never been with a man like him.

  “I thought I was nervous about tonight,” he mumbled under his breath while pouring the drinks.

  He was nervous, too? Bennett Wade? That man had everything going on. Everything. How could he be nervous?

  She tightened the cloth belt around her waist and sat on the overstuffed white couch facing the gas indoor-outdoor fireplace. It likely connected to the world’s nicest porch with a view of the Indian Ocean. She’d go check it out, but she was too busy worrying about what to say. How did a woman like her even begin a night like this with a man like that who probably had very high expectations about sex?

  If he’s lucky, he’ll get “really good” out of me.

  Honestly, she’d never experienced anything above mediocre, so she wasn’t sure how to deliver “really good” let alone unforgettable or mind-blowing, both being the next levels up on the sex-awesomeness scale, only superseded by “Holy shit, kill me now because my life just peaked, and it’s all downhill from here unless he can do it again, in which case, I need some Gatorade and an energy bar.” Of course, her sights were set infinitely lower, toward just the really-good bar. Maybe he’d find some novelty in it? Just like he might in seeing a nonsurgically enhanced body?

  Oh no. Should I prepare him? She didn’t have fake boobs, and she certainly didn’t have a perfect body. Hers could be described as Rubenesque, sort of round and squishy with small, half-grapefruits for breasts topped with soft little nipples that perked up only when cold or touched in the right way. No sexy perma-erasers here.

  As for her ass, well, it was an ass. Not too tight, but round and soft and great for sitting on things. That was good, right? Of course, her thighs could use a little toning. They’re flabby, okay? Flabby!

  Shit. He’s going to barf on my thighs. He’s been dating movie stars and models. He’s probably never even seen a normal woman with natural boobs. She might need to show him some 70s porn to acclimate him first.

  Bennett sat next to her on the couch—not too close, not too far away—holding two glasses of ice-cold white wine. Despite the late hour and gently circulating air from the ceiling fan, the humidity felt extreme. Great. Now my sweat is sweating.

  “Your glass of penis, Ms. Reed.” He handed her the drink, and two little dimples puckered beneath the thick black whiskerage coating his angular jaw.

  She gave a little half-laugh, half-huff. “Thanks.”

  “So,” he said.

  She sipped her wine. It tasted like a Sauvignon Blanc with grapefruit undertones. Which only reminded her of her boobs. Her nonsurgically enhanced boobs.

  “So.” She bobbed her head awkwardly.

  “I’m glad you decided to come.”

  “Well,” she sipped her wine again. “I think—I mean—I know if you asked me here, it’s because you really wanted me to be here.” Wow. Can a grown woman possibly be any more awkward?

  “May I ask you something?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Why are you so nervous?”

  Oh, hell. Let me count the ways, starting at the top. You have thick dark, wavy hair that is perfect for finger play. You have these really nicely shaped dark brows that make me question my sanity with just one little flick. There’s your face—chiseled jaw. Lips that might’ve actually been stolen from an angel—or devil—of seduction. You have this little scar that runs from your lower lip to your chin, insinuating that you’re not afraid to fuck shit up when the moment calls for it, and your body is six feet and three (or four—haven’t measured) inches of hard, manly ripples—oh yes, it is. Because I’ve seen you half naked and have felt your hard shaft pressing against both sides of my body. Then…well, there’s your enormous, thick cock and when you walk, I just know your arrogant swagger is really the result of you lugging around your huge fucking manhood. There’s your damaged hero complex, the fact you kiss like a champ and…when you look at me with those ridiculously crystalline blue eyes, I feel like you’re staring right into my soul and that you totally get me. And despite totally getting me, you still maybe want me, which blows my fucking mind. Need I go the fuck on?

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You do realize how hard it is, don’t you?”

  Her eyes involuntarily moved to his groin, but she caught herself and quickly put them back where they belonged: on his face. “Sure. Yeah. I guess it should be hard. Given what’s coming. R-r-right?”

  “It certainly is a lot to fit into one evening.” He nodded and then sipped his wine. “It’s a lot. I mean…a lot.”

  It certainly was “a lot.” She’d felt it rub between her ass cheeks, and she’d seen the outline of his erection in his pants. In comparison, the men she’s been with were cocktail wieners or dainty carrots at best.

  Yeah. This might hurt. But I so, so want him.

  She chugged down her wine and placed the glass on the coffee table. “I’m ready. No matter how big it is, I really want this to happen.”

  “Good.” He swallowed down his wine and set the empty glass next to hers. “Because it’s pretty painful.”

  She cringed. “Really? I mean, I know it’s big, but I think I can handle it if you’re gentle and move slow. I mean,” she laughed nervously, “don’t come at me all
at once. Just ease it in and—”

  “Ms. Reed?” He straightened his spine and stared at her with an intensely worried look. “I’m wondering—and please don’t be offended by what I’m about to say—but do you think I invited you here to fuck?”

  Uh, yeah! Her eyes went wide. Uh, nooo? She covered the exposed skin on her chest with the lapel of her bathrobe. “Are you saying you didn’t?”

  He looked at her and shook his head stiffly from side to side. “No.”

  She felt her face turning tomato red. “You mean that—when you said that—you wanted me to come and see and…Oh God. What have we been talking about?”

  “Me. The real me. Why I’m here in Bali, and why I’m…” His voice trailed off as she covered her face. She then felt his hand squeeze her arm. “Taylor?”

  “I’m so humiliated. I thought that you—never mind.” Hadn’t he asked if she wanted to see what was beneath the suit?

  Yeah, bonehead! Metaphorically speaking! Like Superman would ask Lois. She took a breath, lifted her chin, and stood.

  He stared up at her from the couch, sort of smiling, but not. “Where are you going?”

  She turned slowly, fearing with every step she might disintegrate into a giant poof of utter humiliation. “I think I need a moment,” she whispered and then went up the stairs to hide inside the giant bathroom. Perhaps she could live there forever until everyone she knew grew old and died.

  At the exact moment she entered the bathroom, there was a loud knock at the front door. She heard the rumble of Bennett’s voice and then the click of the front door.

  Heavy footsteps grew closer up the stairs. She prayed she might evaporate. She’d traveled all this way and hemmed and hawed, ultimately deciding that she would give her body to him only to discover he didn’t want her.

  But then, what did he want? Duh, you idiot. For you to see the real him. Yaaay, let’s be friends!

  “Taylor?” Bennett lightly knocked on the door. “Why are you hiding in the bathroom?”

  “This is where women go when they need to feel humiliated and rejected in private. Or to pee.”

  He laughed. “And which of those would you like me to assume you’re doing?”