Desire: Ten sizzling, romantic tales for Valentine’s Day!

by Opal Carew

  Kiki, being curious, had granted them access to her room.

  It didn’t look good for Kiki.

  The wheels on the Boeing 767 went up, and they jetted down the runway. Squashed in economy, Taddy gazed out over the other people’s heads. She caught Manhattan’s skyline out the right window. Seeing the Empire State Building, which always gave her peace, she reflected on what had gone wrong.

  She reminded herself how impressionable Kiki was and, as her boss and friend, she’d failed her. Taddy wondered if this was karma biting her in the ass for blackmailing Monsieur Jérôme. Her intention was to see Kiki fall in love with DJ Dejon, but that had backfired.

  Why did women always go to the ends of the Earth for love?

  With 1.6 million residents on the island of Manhattan and a total of 8.2 million including the boroughs, why would someone as wonderful as Kiki have to go four thousand miles to find love? Or any woman for that matter?

  Part III

  French Riviera, Here Comes Taddy Brill

  “I knew I was in love when I couldn’t fall asleep because she was lying next to me.”

  —Warner Truman, CEO of Truman Enterprises

  Chapter 12

  Two Percent of the Women in the World

  May 19th

  Commissariat de Police, Cannes, France

  At the Cannes police station, Warner had declined all press interviews. This left the media anticipating a statement from him even more. The reporters waited outside.

  Inside, he stood holding his cell phone. A text message from Sheldon, who was partying in Ibiza, read, “Yo, bro, ur hotel is creamed on TV. Hook me up w/ Caramel.”

  Asshole. He typed back, “Fuck off, Shel.”

  Sheldon immediately texted back, “Rock-on w/ ur cock out, dude!”

  Thick in scandal, Warner had arrived in Cannes only twenty-four hours earlier, and Hôtel de France, his elite property, was the biggest news headline. Warner didn’t have a problem with porn, and this could’ve stayed under wraps with no one the wiser. What set him off? It had all been captured on the major TV stations around the world. His Hôtel de France’s sign and logo had been broadcast right behind the adult actors while they sucked, jacked, screwed, and came all over the spectators below. The news that morning had coined the property “Hôtel du Anal,” with the catchphrase “You’ll get a load full at Hôtel de France.” He’d placed Kip Von Scott on an unpaid leave and had stepped in as acting general manager until his relief arrived from Marseille. He’d have to sell Hôtel de France at the end of the season or rebrand the property under a new name. The hotel video, combined with the fact that he hosted Prix du Cinéma Pour Adultes, had nailed his grave shut. Any hopes for his luxury hotel to be taken as a five-star property on the French Riviera had just died.

  He’d filed papers against the person who’d started the drama, the American. “Here’s my signature for the trespassing charge.” Warner stood at the counter, returning the documents.

  “Monsieur Truman, your signature confirms Hôtel de France will file charges against Mademoiselle Izatt.” The officer stamped the papers and placed them atop a large claim file. Warner had worked too hard to build his empire to have it ruined over something so crass.

  “Oui, correct.” He smiled, confident that he’d made the right decision. Someone needed to be made an example of.

  “Take a seat in the waiting area. We’ll call you up once the paperwork has been processed.” The policeman pointed to an alcove area in the middle where he could sit.

  “Merci.” He walked over, poured himself a glass of water, and sat on the bench, closing his eyes to rest. I will never come back to Cannes as long as I live. We’re ruined.

  A racket at the front from someone struggling to get through the reporters and paparazzi, who’d tried to get Warner’s attention when he arrived, caused him to look over.

  “I’m here for Kiki.”

  That voice. Her voice! Red’s voice? Could it be?

  “Over there, mademoiselle,” an officer responded from the front reception area.

  A gorgeous redhead walked his way, and he did a double-take. No way. He squinted. Sure enough, Red had lived on.

  Red’s confidence and flare turned the police officers’ heads as she walked down the main hallway. The police station was filled with criminals who’d come to Cannes, perhaps to see a celebrity. They’d caught a glimpse of something much more fantastic.

  He noticed her legs first. Elegant high heels elevated her to a position taller than most men. Just below her waist, an off-white stretch miniskirt wrapped tight around her narrow hips. From where he stood, the fabric seemed sheer, revealing her peachy cream skin from her inner, ever-so-toned thighs when she walked. Must kiss.

  Her ‘just what the doctor ordered’ breasts were encased in a cream blouse and somewhat concealed by her crimson-hued, made-to-her-measurements blazer. Her cleavage had been fastened together by two exaggerated metallic sailor-type buttons. Their vivid sparkle resembled two gold bars. Must touch.

  His eyes fixated on his favorite Red asset, her signature wavy ginger spice hair. Oh, how he’d savored running his fingers through those locks at Privé Extreme. Must love.

  Warner had developed an obsession for red-haired women after he’d met her. He hadn’t come in contact with any woman since. To his surprise, he’d learned from a stylist at his Dublin hotel only two percent of people in the world had her natural hair color, making Red all the more special, and he’d found her.

  Red walked up with her oversized sunglasses on, and she didn’t see him as she passed. Two feet from where she stopped, he stood within earshot.

  Unnoticed, Warner stepped up behind her and inhaled her familiar scent. It’s Red! He’d found her. Not in Sydney, the Bay of Kotor in Montenegro, or the Xai-Xai Beach in Mozambique. It was the Cannes police station in the South of France.

  “Officer Gaston?” Red asked.

  “Oui.”

  “My name’s Taddy Brill. My lawyer Pierre de Vergès spoke with you on the phone. I’m here to pick up Kiki.” She gently placed her canvas tote on the floor.

  “Excusez-moi?” Gaston’s face went blank.

  “Tabitha Adelaide Brillford, for Kelly Ivy Kailyn Izatt. She’s the American you’re holding. Kiki was arrested along with her friend, Dejon something-or-another.” Her hand went to her hip, gold bangles jangling from her impatience.

  Brillford? Warner had heard her name before. He’d heard it in December. She’d come with the rock-n-roll star’s daughter and Farnworth Firewater heiress. It finally made sense to him.

  “Oui, mademoiselle, we’re processing Izatt’s paperwork.” His jaw tightened. “Monsieur Dejon was not charged. He left our station about an hour ago.”

  “Typical! I want to see her. Where is she?” Red grabbed her bag, ready to be led in the direction she’d intended, to her friend. It reminded Warner of her eagerness to move on the second he handed her the bronze purse in his driveway.

  “Your friend will remain here ’til charged. You may bail her out then.” The officer looked down as if to move on with his paperwork.

  Red released her belongings with a noisy thud, causing two police officers at neighboring cubicles to stand with their hands over their gun holsters. “Prostitution and pornography are not illegal in France, correct?” She leaned her weight on one foot, digging her heel into the floor. He admired her calf muscles as they flexed.

  “Izatt isn’t being charged with prostitution or pornography.” The officer took out a stack of paperwork, ready to move along with his own agenda.

  Red put her hand on top of the policeman’s. Warner noticed because the officer’s face flushed. “So then, what’s the charge?”

  “Trespassing.” Officer Gaston stared at Warner as if asking, ‘You wanna take this one?’

  With a head shake to hush the policeman, Warner remained behind her. Unaware of his presence, she tapped her nails on the wooden countertop. The wavy red curls bounced around her neck as she spo
ke. “Who’s pushing the trespassing charge?”

  He wished he could get a view of her face.

  “Kiki didn’t do anything wrong,” she continued, stomping her foot. For a second, Warner thought Red would jump across the counter and strangle the officer. He could see her struggle to stay calm.

  “Mademoiselle, the gentleman pressing charges is standing behind you.” The officer pointed over her shoulder at Warner, not wanting to deal with Red’s wrath.

  Warner leaned against the wall. This is going to be good.

  Red turned around, her jaw set. Snapping her sunglasses off, she shouted, “YOU.” Her pupils dilated. “If it isn’t the infamous Warner Truman.” She stepped forward, bringing her face close to his. He could smell her chewing gum.

  “Nice to see you, too, Mademoiselle.” Her beauty was more magnetic than he’d remembered. Warner extended a hand, in hopes she’d accept it. “And who are you pretending to be today?”

  Irked by his cool behavior, she brushed his hand away. “I should’ve figured. It’s your hotel. Only an asshole would press charges.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, possibly to calm her huff as she exhaled.

  Warner sidestepped her and faced the officer. “Do you have a private room we could use…to talk?” He eyed the detective, then directed his attention to Red.

  “Oui, follow me,” ordered the officer. He appeared relieved to be getting rid of them both.

  Hoping a little Red would ease his frustration over Hôtel de France, Warner inhaled her tuberose the second she walked past him. He followed, entering an interrogation room maybe eight-by-ten feet in size with no windows. It was dark, with a dim ceiling light. They’d have some privacy.

  “Your paperwork is going to take about an hour. I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”

  “Mr. Warner is going to drop these silly charges. You don’t have to file anything.” Red tried again to persuade Gaston, putting her hand on his shoulder. She stood taller than he did. Her confidence felt alluring and annoying at the same time.

  Officer Gaston smirked up at her, as if to say, ‘We’ll see’. He closed the door, leaving them alone.

  Warner pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, Mademoiselle Red.”

  She walked over to the chair and pushed it into the table’s edge leaving it unoccupied. “After flying for the last eight hours, I prefer to stand.”

  He sat opposite the empty chair. “Would you rather I call you Miss Brillford or Tabitha Adelaide?”

  “Neither. Taddy Brill is fine, thank you.” Smiling, serious, or aloof, her face disturbed him.

  “You came to St. Barth’s as a firestorm with your rock-n-roll and speed boat party friends. You ruined my New Year’s.” He’d given her too much credit. “Then you sic your Kiki minion on Hôtel de France during our busiest week of the year.”

  “Kiki is my executive assistant.” Her voice resonated. “And a damn good one. This is a mix-up.” The skin on her décolletage began to blush. He enjoyed watching her get hot. “She is impressionable and didn’t do anything wrong except be nice to a few endowed actors who paid her some attention.”

  He sat back, crossed his arms, kicked his feet up and mocked, “Now, now, Red. Let’s not get our vajazzled self in a glitter knot, shall we?”

  “Don’t speak to me that way.” Her lips pursed, but she was close to a giggle. He could tell ‘vajazzle’ had lightened her up a bit. Fighting the urge to laugh, she’d bitten her cheeks inside. Warner noticed because her cheekbones became more pronounced and her jaw tightened. It was the same restraint she’d used the night she’d stood motionless, clenching her fists in his driveway.

  “Do you have any idea the damage you’ve caused me and my hotel?”

  “Damage? On the plane ride over here, I caught Hôtel de France on the news.” She reached in her tote and pulled out the newspaper. “Your little motel’s logo is plastered globally. It’s massive exposure.”

  Motel, my ass. “What would you understand about publicity?” Probably nil. He couldn’t believe she’d upswing this. “Truman Enterprises is highbrow, not low, Miss Brill.

  “Meaning?”

  “You may work in a whorehouse, but I do not.”

  She moved closer to him, her head thrust forward. “You have no clue as to what my brows do for a living.” Reaching inside her tote, she withdrew two papers and flung them across the wooden table’s smooth surface.

  Catching the items as they zoomed toward him, he looked at the business flyer. It read, “Get fame, get glam, get Brill, Inc.” The other item was a brochure on her media services. Hmmm. “Appears we’re in a bind.” He folded the papers on the table then flung them back in her direction. “I’m not dropping the charges.” Confident in his decision, Warner smiled at her.

  “I’ll get the media to flip this in Hôtel de France’s favor,” she said, as if it was just another day at her office. Taddy held court well.

  “How long will your fame-glam-Brill strategy take?” He couldn’t imagine it was possible to rebrand or re-launch anything until at least a year down the road. The hotel would most likely be closed by then. Who would want to stay at a place reporters had coined ‘Hôtel du Anal’? He had to act fast.

  “Twenty-four hours.” She clamped her jaw tight and stared at him. “Drop the charges against Kiki this second, and we’ll get your little PR stunt crossed off my long to-do list.”

  Warner noted how positive Taddy was of her PR capabilities. But he wasn’t convinced. “And what’s the contingency plan if your publicity mastery backfires?”

  “I don’t have one.” Her voice raised a pitch. “Brill, Inc. won’t need one.”

  “If you fail…” He imagined the possibilities. She’d have to do whatever he wanted. “We finish what we started at Privé Extreme…Red and her Big Daddy.”

  Her perfect eyebrows furrowed. “I would never sleep with a married man.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How’s Rielle?” Taddy blurted his ex-fiancée’s name as if calling ‘sooey’ to a pig. He thought, for a second, she might add an oink, but she didn’t.

  “You honestly don’t think I’d marry her.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Upright in the chair, he held his left hand out and illustrated no wedding band. “Not married. Rielle’s insane, and was arrested after you left. Had you not run away so fast—” He cut himself off and swallowed a deep breath. “If you’d given me the benefit of the doubt after I held you in my arms, you would know this already.”

  “I thought…” Red’s features clouded with unease. “Sorry.” She reached for the chair and rested her tall body against the backrest. He hoped she’d sit down with him. “You’re single?”

  “Yes. Do you honestly think I would’ve kissed you if I was getting married?” He looked her over seductively. With any luck, it would remind her of what they’d shared.

  “Totally.”

  “Touched you?” He focused his attention on the exact spot his hands had been.

  “Maybe.”

  “Invited you back to my place?” He had her there.

  “No, I suppose not.” Taddy shrugged it off. “Our night was a misunderstanding, and so is this week’s fiasco.”

  “I’ll drop the charges if you hold your press conference tomorrow morning. Work on your strategy today.” He paused. “Tonight, you can show me what you’ve come up with over dinner.”

  “Sounds fair enough,” she confirmed.

  “If your press conference fails, we finish what we started at Privé Extreme.” Warner hoped they’d succeed at both. He could always get another hotel, but he could never find another Red.

  “Deal.” She extended a firm handshake and relaxed her face into a slight grin. Finally, he saw the whites of her teeth. Straight and perfect, they matched the rest of her features.

  All this arguing made him ravenous. “Can I take you to lunch? We could eat at La Palme d’Or over on Boulevard de la Croisette and discuss your media approach fur
ther.” He loved their tables on the terrace. They overlooked the Bay of Cannes.

  Suddenly, Red straddled the back of the chair. She dropped her shoulders and teased him with her breasts. Warner remembered stroking her sensitive nipples in his hands. He’d enjoyed seeing her face blush in pleasure as his fingers slid into her weeping hole. When his eyes met hers, she spoke. “Do you have any clue how much work is ahead of us to pull off this conference?” Turning for the door, she whispered over her shoulder. “See you tonight, Mr. Truman.”

  I haven’t seen you since December. It took me five months, but I got you, Red!

  Outside, Taddy spoke to the journalists who’d gathered on the street. They’d clamored for a response from Hôtel de France. She hosted a short two-minute pre-press media alert and told the world to tune in tomorrow for bigger news with their CEO, Mr. Warner Truman.

  Kiki was ready to go home. Not back to Manhattan, but Utah. She’d called her family from jail, and they agreed some time in Provo would be good for her.

  DJ Dejon had been waiting at a nearby café until Kiki was released. He wasn’t being charged with anything. When Taddy first met Dejon, she’d grilled him on his intentions with Kiki. Taddy concluded he was a great match for her assistant. He seemed like an upstanding guy, especially when she’d learned Dejon had advised Kiki against inviting the adult actors to their room. When he and Kiki had first arrived in Cannes, he’d tried to score his own private melonlicious time with her.

  Afraid to be alone with Dejon, Kiki had hung out with Manuel and Caramel as a distraction. “Better Manuel and Caramel having sex than me with Dejon,” Kiki had revealed to Taddy when she was packing up her things that Dejon had put butterflies in her stomach and while she couldn’t imagine losing her virginity before marriage, she’d desperately wanted to. “Please, thank Mr. Truman for dropping the charges.” Her assistant opened the door to Taddy’s rental car and climbed in with her bags.