“You’re most welcome, Jasmine. Any time.” She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I hope I was able to help you and your career in some small way. And if you ever need anything else—anything at all—you know where to find me. I’m here from nine until four-thirty, Monday through Friday.”
With that, I was off to the shoe department, in search of some fuck-me red stilettos to match my fuck-me red dress.
Today was ending up a very interesting day indeed.
Chapter 4
I arrived at the super-posh Mandarin Oriental Hotel at eight sharp. After finishing things up at Nordstrom I’d treated myself to a facial and new hairstyle at my favorite salon, then made it home with just enough time to freshen up and pour myself into my brand-new fuck-me red dress and matching stilettos. I decided to take full advantage of the dewy, musky condition Rhonda had left my body in after her extra-special clit treatment by not showering.
I turned heads left and right as soon as I stepped past the hotel doorman. I didn’t know if it was the fuck-me dress and heels, or the fact that a veritable cloud of musky sex-scent hung over me like a thick London fog. It was probably a combination of both. At any rate, I was right and ready to launch my seduction project.
I paused for a moment in the ladies’ room to check my makeup and hair. While I reapplied lip gloss and mascara, I thought over the day’s events. Just this morning, I was a strait-laced, frumpy, all-business (and successful) Washington PR staffer working for a popular senator. A mere eight hours later, I was a desperate, dressed-to-kill sexpot with a train wreck of a PR career planning to seduce the most powerful press editor in Washington. I could hardly believe it.
What a difference a day makes.
I snapped my compact shut and stepped back out into the hotel lobby. CityZen Restaurant was just a few steps away, but I took my time getting there. I didn’t want to risk being the first to arrive. Keeping Rodney Doyle waiting would just make my plan for seduction that much easier. It would give me the opportunity to make a grand entrance, to milk my brand-new, red-hot fuck-me look for everything that it was worth.
It would also give me some time to figure out what the hell I was supposed to be doing, because I honestly had no idea.
My encounter with Rhonda back at Nordstrom’s had done quite a bit to open me up, but even the sweet juices that Rhonda had gotten flowing with her expert fingers were a drop in the bucket compared to the gallons and gallons of nectar my pussy had failed to secrete during my two years-plus of total celibacy. It had been so long since I’d done the horizontal bop that I could hardly remember what having sex with penises felt like. Hell, I barely remembered what penises looked like. If it hadn’t been for Rhonda’s little introduction to lesbianism earlier in the day, I’d have practically qualified for Born-Again Virgin status.
Given all that, how could I possibly seduce the sexiest man in Washington? The very notion of me—the least sexually-adept, unmarried PR staffer on the Hill—using sex to pull off a reversal of fortune in the midst of the worst Congressional scandal of the past twenty years was ridiculous.
I was doomed to failure before I’d even begun.
Still, it wasn’t as if I had anything to lose at that point. My boss was still languishing in jail, the press was moving in for the kill, and I was about three seconds away from total career destruction. It was either this, or pack up my bags and head back to my parents’ wheat farm in North Dakota.
I decided then and there to give it my best shot.
I strutted over to the CityZen entrance, doing my best to ooze sensuality from every pore.The imposing, impeccably uniformed maître’d blocked the entrance.
“Do you have a reservation?” he barked.
“Hello. I’m Jasmine Rand. I’m here to meet Rodney Doyle at eight.”
The snooty maître’d scanned his register. “Hmm. I don’t see either name here.”
I tried not to panic. “What about The Beltway Times? Is there a reservation under that?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I bit my lip, smearing my cherry-flavor lip gloss. “Ummm, okay—what about Senator Grayle? Any listing under that?”
The maître’d clucked. “I certainly hope not. CityZen is a respectable restaurant, and as such, we don’t allow anyone accused of sex crimes inside.”
Okay, so maybe mentioning my boss was a bad move. In desperation, I made one last attempt to save face. “Would it be all right if I just took a quick peek inside the dining room to see if my dinner partner is here?”
The maître’d looked down his aquiline nose at me. “I’m afraid that’s against our policy. But I can let you sit at the bar if you like. This way, please.”
The maître’d escorted me to the bar. I noticed he took care to keep his distance. I didn’t know if that was in deference to the cloud of sex musk that surrounded me, or just snobbery. “Wait here,” he sneered, pointing to an empty barstool. “I’ll see if anyone in the dining room is waiting for a guest.”
I had just enough time to order a Cosmopolitan (the sexiest-looking drink I knew of) before the maître’d reappeared. “Apparently there is someone waiting for you,” he said, obviously disappointed. “Right this way.”
I followed the uniformed snob into the dining room, where Rodney Doyle was seated at a secluded table for two in the farthest corner of the dining room. He was dressed in a different custom-tailored suit than he’d had on that afternoon, and he’d loosened his collar and removed his tie. But he looked just as gorgeous, if not more so. He was nursing a highball of what I figured was probably the most expensive scotch the restaurant had to offer.
“Your dinner partner, sir,” the maître’d chirped. He gave me yet another look of disapproval and disappeared.
“Ah. I see you finally made it,” Rodney said, checking his watch. I was fifteen minutes late for our appointment, no thanks to him. “I’m sorry if the maître’d gave you any trouble.”
I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “He didn’t seem to like me very much.”
“He doesn’t seem to like anybody. Don’t take it personally.” Rodney finished his drink and motioned to the chair across from him, but not before he made a point to give me a self-satisfied smirk. “Please, sit, Ms. Rand.”
I did. And try as I might to remain civil, it was getting hard for me to ignore the fact that I’d been deliberately set up. “You kept our names off the register on purpose to embarrass me, didn’t you?”
Rodney chuckled. “I did keep our names off the register, but not to embarrass you per se. I did it to keep from embarrassing myself. I can hardly make it known publicly that I’m having a romantic dinner alone with Senator Grayle’s PR staffer. If word got out, it would be all over the tabloids tomorrow. The tabloids that I don’t edit, that is. There are still a few of them left.”
“So you find me embarrassing,” I seethed. “Well, that’s even better.”
Rodney held up his hand. “Don’t take things the wrong way. Truth be told, I prefer to remain incognito whenever and wherever possible, so I always use an alias when I’m dining in restaurants or staying in hotels. I tend to use the names of my favorite literary characters when I’m out and about.”
“I see,” I said, gingerly sipping my Cosmo. “And who, pray tell, are you today?”
“Today, I’m David Copperfield,” Rodney replied. “Tomorrow, I plan to be Nicholas Nickleby.”
“So you’re a Dickens fan.”
“I’m a fan of all good books,” Rodney said. “I know it might be hard for you to believe since I’m a sleazy tabloid proprietor, but I am an ardent admirer of excellent literature.”
My eyebrows raised slightly. “I suppose everyone needs a hobby.”
“You’re not a fan of books yourself, I take it?” Rodney seemed disappointed.
“It’s not that,” I said, trying to recover. “I like to read. That is, I used to. I just don’t have time for it anymore, with my career and whatnot.”
Rodney flagged the wa
iter for another round of drinks and our dinner menus. “It seems to me that if things don’t change for you career-wise very soon, you’ll have plenty of time to read all the books you want.”
I didn’t answer. I just drained my Cosmo and hoped the waiter hurried up with another.
“You know Ms. Rand—pardon me, Jasmine—sometimes what we think of in the short term as a horrible crisis turns out to be a welcome opportunity,” Rodney said, his tone softening quite a bit. I didn’t know if his relaxed demeanor was from the liquor or out of genuine concern for me, but somehow I doubted the latter was possible—at least this early in the game. “You could always look at what’s happened with Grayle that way. It would probably be healthiest for all involved if you did.”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. “I thought the purpose of this dinner meeting was for you and I to discuss how you and your paper could help repair the damage to Grayle’s public image, not give me personal career advice.”
“I’m just looking out for you, Jasmine.”
I scoffed. “Somehow I find that hard to believe. You don’t do anything unless there’s something in it for you. You said so yourself. After all, this is Washington, not the Peace Corps.”
Rodney fiddled with his napkin. “Normally, that would be true. But I like you, Jasmine. I like you a lot. I don’t usually take to people—especially women—right off the cuff the way I’ve taken to you. I can’t quite explain why, but it seems I’m smitten with you.”
Smitten? Now that was a word I hadn’t heard in a long time. And I’d hardly expected to hear it from the likes of a womanizing barracuda like Rodney Doyle. “If this is your idea of a cheap pickup line, I’m not biting.”
“Funny, I thought you and I had already agreed to engage in a little amorous favor-exchange this afternoon. This dinner was merely a formality.”
I felt bile rise in the back of my throat. “Now you’re just toying with me.” I was furious. How could I allow this man to bat me around with coy words like a plaything? I was better than that. Here I was, dressed to kill, trying to seduce the sexiest man in Washington—making my best effort to bend him to my own whim and will—and instead, Rodney was playing me like an eight-track tape. He was calling all the shots, and I was failing miserably.
Still, I couldn’t help but be intrigued. Just feeling Rodney’s gaze upon my body was enough to get my crotch buzzing. “All right,” I said, delicately licking the tip of my finger and running it along the top of my empty martini glass. “Let’s just say, theoretically, that you and I decide to become—ahem—intimately involved, preferably this evening. What would you do for me in return?”
Rodney smiled. “Nothing.”
I choked. “What do you mean, nothing?”
Rodney reached across the table and took my hand in his. “Jasmine, I already tried to tell you. My feelings for you aren’t driven by mere lust. I’m quite taken with you. More so than I’ve been towards any woman in a long time—perhaps ever. And as such, it’s my plan to behave like a gentleman towards you, not as a sleazy cad. And only a sleazy, slippery cad would use sex as a tool in exchange for political favors.”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I’d been all set to engage in red-hot meaningless sex for the sole purpose of saving my own and my boss’ career, and the slick, slimy bastard who was supposed to help me accomplish that feat had just up and decided to become a lovey-dovey gentleman.
Today wasn’t shaping up to be my day.
I was speechless. The waiter arrived with our drinks; I guzzled my second Cosmo in five seconds flat and then stared dumbly into space when the waiter asked to take our dinner order. I was so flustered by that point I couldn’t even read the menu.
In fact, I spaced out completely. Guzzling two Cosmos in less than five minutes was a bad idea, considering I’d barely had more than two drinks over the past two years—one of them yesterday in Rodney Doyle’s office. The liquor had gone straight to my head.
And my head went straight for the floor.
I only came to after Rodney shook me, slapped me twice, and dashed a glass of cold water in my face.
“Jasmine?” I heard his booming voice through a fog. “Jasmine, are you all right?”
“Mrrrrrgh?” I said. “Mmmph?? Whhhhaaa—whhaaat haaappppennned?”
“You fainted. Here, let me help you up.” Rodney picked me up bride-style then set me upright on my chair. Once my vision cleared, I could see that everyone in the fancy restaurant had turned to stare at us. Several young women were even headed our way, all of them waving autograph books. “Look!” one of them shouted. “It’s Rodney Doyle! Rodney Doyle is here!”
Before I knew it, a slew of well-dressed women—young, old, and middle-aged—were all swarming our table.
“Rodney! Rodney! Can I have your autograph?” A blue-haired lady in peach chiffon shoved an old-style green autograph book in Rodney’s face.
“Rodney, I loved your commentary on MSNBC this afternoon,” gushed an attractive thirtysomething wearing a black Armani suit and Senate floor badge. “What are your thoughts on the latest nominee to head the CIA?”
A good half-dozen more women seemed to emerge from the very walls, all of them waving slips of paper for Rodney to sign and peppering him with questions ranging from politics to what he liked to do in the bedroom.
Exasperated, Rodney gulped his second scotch-on-the-rocks in less than ten minutes and stood up. “I’m sorry, ladies, but you have me mistaken for someone else. Excuse me.” Rodney grabbed me, dragged me forcibly from my seat, and used his considerable biceps to shove a path through the throng of his delirious female admirers, like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Rodney gripped my left wrist and pulled me along through the restaurant so quickly I could barely stay upright. My fuck-me stilettos scraped red tracks along the floor when I nearly wiped out on a dessert cart. We finally made it out to the hotel lobby, but not before a stop at the snooty maître’d’s podium.
“Tell our waiter to send our meals up to David Copperfield’s room, please,” Rodney barked at him.
And before I knew what happened, I was in an elevator heading up to Rodney Doyle’s private hotel suite.
Chapter 5
Rodney Doyle was so rich, so famous, so powerful, that he had his very own private suite at the Mandarin Oriental available for his exclusive use whenever he wanted. So exclusive, in fact, that he only used it under fake names drawn from classical literature. It was clear that the hotel respected Rodney’s preference for literary character aliases, since there was a hand-lettered parchment placard on the room door reading “Mr.Copperfield: PRIVATE” and the suite’s sitting room had rows of bookshelves featuring leather-bound copies of the complete works of Dickens, Austen, and Melville, among others—I suppose so Rodney would never have a problem looking up who his next alias should be. The suite was decorated in rich red satin and brocade in a Chinese style, along with a plethora of Asian antiques and art. There was a huge plasma-screen TV, a state-of-the-art Bose stereo system, a full bar, and what looked to be a massive Jacuzzi suite.
Not to mention a king-sized bed. A round king-sized bed.
It was quite a lot to take in. My head was still buzzing from the booze, and soon the room started to spin. The round bed looked like a giant red flying saucer that was headed straight for me. I ducked, and then toppled over, very nearly whacking my temple on a giant Chinese porcelain vase.
Rodney caught me just in time. “Jasmine, why don’t you sit down?” He guided me over to a red velvet settee. “I think you had a bit too much to drink downstairs.”
“Really?” I slurred. “Ya think?” The room started spinning again.
Rodney went to the bar, poured me a glass of ice water, then dropped in two Alka-Seltzer. “Here, drink this,” he said. “It’ll clear your head a bit. When was the last time you ate something?”
I thought back for a moment, then realized I hadn’t eaten anything except for the stale raisin
bagel I’d gulped down back at Senator Grayle’s office at ten that morning. No wonder I was so drunk.
“Is there anything to eat?” I slurred. I needed something in my stomach to soak up some of the booze.
“Our CityZen meals should be up in a few minutes,” Rodney said. “All I have in the meantime are the contents of the minibar, which isn’t much food-wise unless you’re into Ritz crackers and M&Ms.”
Chocolate sounded good. I figured sharing some chocolate with Rodney might even help get him in the mood for love—or lust, rather—thanks to that chemical in chocolate that supposedly stimulates sex urges. “M&Ms,” I said. “You can have all the green ones, though. I hate the green ones.” A lie, but I wanted to ensure that Rodney ate at least a few of them.
“Whatever you want,” Rodney said, and pulled two bags of plain M&Ms from the minibar. He tossed one in my lap, and to my delight, kept the other. “To tide you over until our meals get here. I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered you the steak teriyaki while you were out cold. Medium rare. I trust you aren’t a vegetarian?”
I laughed. “Nobody from North Dakota is a vegetarian. Trust me.”
“Don’t cattle outnumber people there?” Rodney asked with a chuckle.
“Yes, they do,” I said. “And the cattle would take over everything if we didn’t eat them. I should know. My parents raise some cattle on our farm outside Bismarck, though our farm’s main crop is wheat.”
Rodney settled back into the settee opposite me and dove into his bag of M&Ms. “So I see Senator Grayle still prefers to hire staffers from his home state.”
“Yes, all the people who work for him are originally from North Dakota,” I said, swallowing a bunch of M&Ms whole. I felt the rush of sugar and chocolate almost immediately, which helped to balance out the booze a bit. “Which believe me, isn’t easy to do in Washington. There aren’t too many of us Roughriders around here.”
Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set Page 4
