Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  Or so I tried to tell myself.

  Because if I really didn’t care a straw for Rodney Doyle, I wouldn’t have been standing naked and alone in my hotel suite, wiping tears from my eyes because I missed him so much.

  Chapter 16

  After a long and embarrassing fit of crying, I finally managed to pull myself together enough to freshen up for an evening around the resort. After showering, I donned a simple black cocktail dress that clung to my ample curves just enough to suggest a womanly shape, yet still leave quite a few things to the imagination. I paired the dress with a set of strappy black-patent sandals with tiny kitten heels that I’d had for years but seldom had occasion to wear in my dreary, button-down life as a Washington PR staffer. A long silver pendant chain that hung down nearly to my waist and matching dangly earrings completed the ensemble. I kept my makeup muted, but went for a dramatic hairstyle—a high French twist with a long tendril of curled hair hanging down by my left temple.

  I took a step back and admired myself in the mirror. If I squinted my eyes and cocked my head just right, I looked like a much plumper version of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. All I needed was the long cigarette holder, and I could have been her much fatter, much older twin.

  I grabbed my purse and headed for the resort front desk to check my messages. I stopped by the bell desk on my way, hoping to see Reginald, but the bellboy on duty told me he’d gone home for the night. I had to work hard to hide my disappointment at this news. I figured that like the States, prostitution of any kind was probably illegal here on St. Lucia, and I didn’t want to risk getting Reginald—or myself—into any kind of trouble.

  Of course, Reginald hadn’t prostituted himself to me—I’d enjoyed his favors free of charge. But I couldn’t risk any details of his secret livelihood getting into the wrong hands. His whole future depended on it.

  Assuming it was even a secret, of course. I supposed sex-for-hire was common enough in a secluded luxury resort like Silken Sands—common enough that the staff knew enough to look the other way. Still, I was taking no chances. I had to be discreet for the remainder of my stay.

  To that end, I tiptoed up to the front desk, taking care that my kitten heels didn’t clank on the travertine tile floor. “Excuse me,” I whispered to the pleasant-faced young woman behind the desk. “I’m Jasmine Rand in Suite Eighteen. Are there any messages for me?”

  The woman pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. “Yes,” she chirped. “Several, in fact.” Her tone didn’t exactly signal approval. She bent down and flipped through a small filebox, then retrieved a stack of pink message slips. “Here,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me. “You might want to tell all your—ahem—friends that they can also leave a voicemail for you on your suite phone. We simply don’t have enough staff here at the desk to take thirty messages in a single day for a single guest.”

  I was stunned. “Thirty messages?” So much for being discreet.

  “Yes, thirty messages,” the desk clerk sniffed.“I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay here at Silken Sands, Ms. Rand.” With that, she turned on her heel and busied herself sorting a stack of check-out statements for the next morning.

  I found an easy chair in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby and sorted through the huge stack of messages. Five of them were from Rebecca back at the office, all marked “Urgent.” Since I’d told no one in Senator Grayle’s office about my Caribbean plans, I had no idea how she’d found me. My stomach lurched at the thought of how what I planned to do down here might seriously affect her and her career if word got out back home.

  I soon began having second thoughts. Should I abandon my plan for sex-based career enhancement altogether, and just spend the remainder of my days here at Silken Sands lounging anonymously on the beach reading magazines and speaking to no one? Or did I go a step further and catch the next flight back to Washington on standby? Or even worse, did I abandon everything I’d spent the past fifteen years working towards in Washington and just slink back to North Dakota in defeat?

  I didn’t even read the rest of the messages, which I suspected were from the various and sundry Washington powerbrokers Dexter had drummed up for me to seduce. Before I did anything else—before I dug myself into an even deeper hole—I had to call Rebecca.

  I ducked into the lobby ladies’ lounge and was relieved to find it empty. I dug out my cell phone and found Rebecca’s cell phone number on my speed-dial directory. I dialed the number, hoping that my cheap, outdated mobile phone would find enough signal on this remote island to put the call through.

  Rebecca picked up on the first ring, but I could barely hear her through all the static. “Rebecca? Rebecca, can you hear me?” I shouted into the phone. “It’s Jasmine!”

  “Who?” Rebecca’s voice was crackled and sounded a million miles away.

  “It’s Jasmine! Jasmine Rand. You called me down in St. Lucia.”

  “What?” Rebecca’s voice trailed off. By then I’d lost the signal and the line went dead.

  I was dancing frantically around the room trying to pick up a signal again when the phone buzzed in my hand. The caller ID screen said “REBECCA’S CELL.” I picked up, but this time the connection was even worse. I couldn’t understand a thing Rebecca was saying, so I just shouted into the phone. “This isn’t working! We need a land line! Call me back in five minutes in my room at the resort! I’m in Suite Eighteen!”

  I dashed back to my suite just in time to hear the old-fashioned telephone ringing. (It had been so long since I’d heard an old-style telephone bell instead of modern electronic ringtones I almost thought it was the fire alarm.) I picked up on the fourth ring, just before it rolled to voicemail. “Rebecca?” I asked, breathless. “Is that you?”

  “Who the hell is Rebecca?” an angry male voice boomed on the other end.

  It was Rodney Doyle.

  Christ with a crutch. He’d found me. What was this guy, a one-man CIA?

  “What the hell are you doing calling me here?” I screeched.“Get off this line. I’m expecting an important call.”

  “I think my call is pretty damn important,” he shot back. “Considering the fact you cut me off in the middle of a sentence the last time I tried to talk to you.”

  “And I’ll be cutting you off this time, too!” I growled, my finger poised on the receiver button, itching to terminate the call. But an invisible force seemed to be preventing me from pressing it. An invisible force that was also making my crotch itch.

  “Fine,” Rodney seethed. “So cut me off then.”

  “All right, I will!” And I wanted to. I really, really did. But I just couldn’t get my finger to press the hang-up button or my hand to lower the receiver. It was as if the mere sound of Rodney’s voice over a thousand miles of fiber-optic telephone cable was enough to paralyze me from the waist up.

  I definitely wasn’t paralyzed from the waist down, however. Even if my top half seemed frozen inside a block of ice, my lower half was on fire.

  “Look Jasmine, you’re obviously very upset with me,” he said. “And given what happened over the past couple days, that’s perfectly understandable. But I told you before and I’m telling you again. I had nothing to do with those stories being published about you. Not in my paper, and not in anybody else’s paper. I know it might be hard for you to believe—“

  “You’re right,” I said, nonchalant. “It is pretty hard to believe. Frankly, I’d believe that a large flock of monkeys could fly out of my rear end before I’d believe any word you said.” Strengthened by my own assertiveness, I finally managed to unlock my frozen limbs and slammed down the phone.

  Almost as soon as the receiver hit the cradle, it rang again.

  It was Rebecca this time. “Jasmine? Are you there? I’ve been trying to get through for five minutes—”

  “I know, I know, I’m sorry. Rodney Doyle was tying up the line. God only knows how he tracked me all the way down here.”

  Rebecca coughed. “Umm, well, there’s
kind of a thing about that,” she stammered.

  “What do you mean?”

  Rebecca coughed again. “I umm, sort of told him where you were,” she said.

  My jaw hit the receiver with a thud. “What?”

  “Well, he showed up at Senator Grayle’s office demanding to know where you were. And he refused to leave unless somebody told him. He made quite a scene, in fact. So I told him.”

  Now I was confused. “All right, fine. But how did you know where I was?”

  Rebecca paused and cleared her throat. “That’s kind of a long story.”

  I sank backwards into a chair. I thought I had done everything possible to keep my little Caribbean excursion—and its purpose—secret. I could only imagine how my whereabouts could have gotten back to Rebecca—or anyone else—back in Washington. Someone had betrayed me. And that someone looked increasingly like Dexter.

  “Jasmine? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here,” I said in a small voice. “So, how did you find out?”

  “Well, it’s sort of complicated,” Rebecca replied. “I’m not sure I can explain it over the phone.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How else can you possibly explain it? You’re a thousand miles away.”

  Rebecca laughed. “Actually, no I’m not,” she said. “I’m at the St. Lucia Airport. My flight just touched down half an hour ago. I was trying to book a taxi out to the resort when you called my cell.”

  Now I was totally baffled. “Rebecca, you aren’t making any sense.”

  “I know,” she said. “Like I said, it’s sort of complicated. I’ll explain everything when we get there. Bye.”

  “Wait a sec—we? Who’s we?”

  But it was too late; Rebecca had already hung up the phone.

  Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at my suite door. I opened it, and was stunned to find Rebecca standing next to Jacob Raleigh—a dapper, young, and single two-term Congressman from Rhode Island, who I knew from my habit of watching late-night C-SPAN had served on the House Economics Committee for the past three years. There was no mistaking that uber-handsome face and body of his anywhere—in addition to making frequent appearances on C-SPAN, Jacob Raleigh had recently graced the cover of Washington Singles when he was named “The Hill’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”

  “Hi, Jasmine,” Rebecca said in an unusually assertive voice. “I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Jacob.”

  I looked from Rebecca to Jacob, then back to Rebecca. “You never told me you were dating a Congressman.”

  Rebecca blushed. “Jacob and I prefer to keep our relationship private,” she said. “For the time being, at least.” Jacob—or rather, Congressman Raleigh—nodded in agreement.

  “But why?” I asked. “I’d think your relationship would be good for both your careers.”

  Rebecca’s cheeks went an even deeper red. “Jacob and I have some very unusual tastes in the bedroom department,” she said. “We think it’s best to keep quiet about our relationship, at least until all the hullabaloo in the press over you and Senator Grayle quiets down. I’m sure you understand.”

  Now I was really baffled. “No, I’m afraid I don’t understand at all.”

  Jacob and Rebecca exchanged looks. “Can we speak in private?” Jacob asked. I nodded, and ushered them both through the suite’s foyer and into the sitting room proper. I double-locked the door behind them and turned up the air conditioning to muffle our voices to anyone who might be listening at the door—given how hot the press scrutiny had gotten back in Washington, one could never be too careful.

  Jacob sat down in one of the suite’s overstuffed easy chairs. “I’m acquainted with your friend Dexter,” he said. “Many members of Congress are, in fact, as are any number of high-level bureaucrats. He’s quite the man about town.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  Jacob nodded. “Yes, that’s so. You might be surprised to hear this, but Dexter wasn’t always a cab driver. Once upon a time, Dexter worked as an undercover officer for the FBI. On the international vice squad.”

  My stomach did a flip-flop. “Oh, great. I guess that means I’m going to be arrested.”

  Jacob laughed. “On the contrary. Dexter left the FBI years ago to strike out on his own. He’s what you might call an independent contractor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dexter got fed up with FBI corruption some years back, and decided to take all the knowledge and contacts he’d built up in his career there out on the road,” Jacob said. “What Dexter does is mostly illegal or borderline illegal, but it’s harmless enough that most of the powers that be look the other way. And the reason the powers that be do that is because they’re mostly Dexter’s customers.”

  “I figured as much when I hired him to help me, Congressman,” I said. “But what has all of this got to do with you and Rebecca?”

  “Rebecca and I are some of Dexter’s most loyal customers,” Jacob replied. “So when we heard about your little planned shindig here on St. Lucia, we of course arranged to be among the first to arrive. We hope you don’t mind.”

  I glanced from Rebecca—who was beaming—back to Jacob, then back to Rebecca again. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Rebecca had never struck me as the type who was into weird and wild nooky-for-hire. “This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?”

  “No joke, Jasmine,” Rebecca said. “We’re here to get in on some of the fun. Jacob and I love nothing more than a good ménage. Unless, of course, you’d rather not—ahem—work with us. . .”

  I felt my nether regions getting warm. “No! I mean, yes! I mean—“ I rubbed my sweaty palms on my thighs. “I’m not sure if this is exactly what I had in mind when I set this whole thing up,” I said. “My goal was to try to advance my own career and make some new connections, not sleep with my boss’ secretary and her powerful Congressman boyfriend. No offense intended, of course.”

  “None taken,” Jacob said. “If it makes a difference, I’m looking for a new publicist. Rebecca tells me you’re very good. Maybe we could talk about the possibility of a job in my Congressional office after we’ve—ahem—traded favors, so to speak. Or not. It’s your call.”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Jasmine,” Rebecca added. “I know this all must seem very strange, given how long you’ve known me and all.”

  By now, my crotch was broiling. It was strange, the prospect of hopping in bed with my secretary and co-worker of the past two years, and her very hot young Congressman boyfriend. But that’s exactly what made it so appealing. It made me feel just a bit dirty—in a good way—to hop between the sheets with Rebecca, someone who’d sat across from me in an office cubicle typing memos and answering phones for two years, all the while playing the part of the quiet, sweet, and innocent North Dakota girl—even more so than I had. Who knew she was a connoisseur of the wilder things in life? Engaging in illicit group sex with a hot young Congressman was probably one of the wildest—not to mention the riskiest, given what the media would do with such a scoop if they were ever found out—forms of sexual entertainment known to womanhood.

  And Rebecca had been up to her neck (and who knew what other body parts) in just that for God knew how long.

  It was enough to make a girl get all hot and bothered.

  I dabbed at my dampening forehead with my sleeve. “You know, I think we could give it a try,” I said.

  Rebecca jumped up, giggled, and clapped her hands. “Yay! Jasmine, you don’t know how much this means to me.”

  I chuckled. “You’re right, I don’t.”

  Rebecca came to embrace me, and then gave me a wet kiss on the cheek. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve always had a bit of a crush on you. I don’t normally go for girls unless it’s part of a ménage, but you’re probably the only woman I know who I’d even consider going to bed with alone. I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

  I hugged her back. “I’ll take it as a compliment,” I s
aid. “But I’d rather we did it as a ménage. I’ve never done that before, and I’ve always wanted to try it.” Which was true—even if I hadn’t realized it until just that moment.

  “Of course,” Rebecca said, unbuttoning her blouse. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  Jacob followed suit and began loosening his tie. “How about we order in some room service before we launch the festivities? I’m starving, and we can always make the food part of the fun.”

  I smiled at this, remembering the very sexy experience I’d had with food recently at the hands of Rodney Doyle—then I forced the image from my mind. I wasn’t going to let my anger with Rodney spoil the evening’s fun. No way. “I’ve never mixed food and sex before, either,” I lied. “Sounds like a good time.”

  I scanned the room-service menu and placed orders for jerk chicken, fried plantains, conch fritters, and coconut-and-saffron rice, along with plenty of frozen tropical cocktails. Rebecca ordered something called callaloo, and promised it would be the best of all—from both a taste and sensual perspective.

  While we were waiting for the room service to arrive, we all decided to do slow stripteases for each other. Rebecca went first, as she finished unbuttoning her white silk blouse and slid the slippery fabric off her torso like melted butter. Once the garment was off, she twirled it round and round her index finger, then waved it back and forth over her head like a battle flag. Next came her flirty little black skirt, which had a set of six delicate fabric-covered buttons at the back. She reached around behind her and expertly unfastened each one, making a show of every tiny motion of her fingers and emphasizing each step of the process with a swing of her hips. Once she’d loosened the waistline, Rebecca did a miniature belly dance, sending the skirt sliding down her hips in a sultry display that I couldn’t help finding insanely erotic.

  Rebecca stepped out of the skirt, leaving on her shoes and stockings—which were held up by snowy-white lace garters that matched her lace demi-cup bra exactly. As a bonus, she wore no panties. Her pubis had been waxed satin-smooth, making her wide-open, already sweating cleft the feature attraction. She slipped off her bra one cup at a time, then clasped her pearl-tipped globes in each hand, giving them both a pert little squeeze.