Show & Tell

by Rhonda Nelson

  She had to kiss Knox? In front of all these people?

  “Quit looking like the instructor just issued a death sentence,” he whispered through a brittle smile. “We’re supposed to be married, remember?”

  “Right,” she said breathlessly.

  “It’s just a kiss,” Knox said unsteadily. “We can handle it.”

  With anticipation and anxiety, Savannah’s eyes fluttered shut as Knox’s warm lips descended to hers. How many times had she dreamed of this? With a groan of pure delight she pressed herself against him. Their tongues played a game of hide-and-seek, and with every movement, Savannah grew more agitated, more needy. Knox tightened his hold on her, and she felt his hand slide from the small of her back to cup her bottom. She groaned in delight.

  From the dimmest recesses of her mind Savannah realized that the room had grown ominously quiet. She reluctantly dragged her lips away from Knox’s and saw the instructor grinning broadly at them.

  “It looks like Knox and his wife have passed our little test with flying colors,” the woman announced, her eyes twinkling knowingly. “No further instruction on this subject seems to be necessary.”

  Dear Reader,

  While cruising the Internet looking at sex toys-—research for my first Blaze novel, Just Toying Around…I swear!—the same word kept popping up. Tantra, or Tantric. Intrigued, I decided to do a little investigating and discovered that Tantric sex, though I’d never heard of it, had been around since 3000 B.C. and despite its dusty spiritual heritage, was swiftly gaining new popularity. It didn’t take long to imagine a hero and heroine getting caught up in the mystical world of Tantra, and thus Knox and Savannah’s story was born.

  Journalist Knox Webber needs a weekend lover with one special requirement—he can’t be attracted to her. Knox is on the scent of a great story, but in order to prove the touted Tantric way, which promises heightened awareness, spiritual gratification and hourlong full-body orgasms, is nothing but a farce, Knox needs to attend one of the popular Tantric Sex Clinics on the West Coast…and he needs a partner who won’t distract him from his main goal—getting the story.

  Savannah Reeves-—his archenemy-—fits the bill perfectly. But as the weekend progresses, sexual tension between them explodes and the resulting heat soon burns up all preconceived notions about the ancient art of lovemaking. Chemistry or Tantra, they wonder…and will it last once the weekend is over?

  I hope you enjoy Knox and Savannah’s sexy romantic romp.

  Enjoy!

  Rhonda Nelson

  Books by Rhonda Nelson

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  75—JUST TOYING AROUND…

  SHOW & TELL

  Rhonda Nelson

  Once upon a time there was a towheaded, chubby-cheeked, demonic little prankster who grew into one of the best-looking, most hardworking, kindhearted and admirable men I have ever known—my brother, Greg Moore.

  Being smarter than 98 percent of the population

  called for a great dedication, eh, Bubba?

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  1

  KNOX WEBBER ABSENTLY SWIRLED the liquor around his glass as he watched the naked couple displayed on his television screen gyrate in sexual ecstasy. They sat in a pool of fuzzy golden light, face to face, palm to palm, the woman’s hips anchored around the man’s waist. Her long blond hair shimmered over her bare shoulders. She threw her head back and her mouth formed a perfect O of orgasmic wonder. The video’s hypnotic narrator droned from the hi-fi speakers placed strategically around Knox’s plush glass-and-chrome apartment.

  “Let the tantric energy flow. You’ll feel the power wash over you, through you and around you as your male and female energies merge. This wave of utter bliss will transport you and your partner to a new plane in sexual rapture, a new plane of enlightenment and awareness, where you’ll flow in harmony with your lover and the rest of the world. Synchronized, controlled breathing is essential…”

  Sheesh.

  Knox snorted and hit the stop button on his remote control. He’d seen enough. He’d watched the how-to video on one of the best home-theater systems money could buy—a fifty-five-inch digitally mastered screen with superior resolution, picture in picture, and quality sound—and he still thought the entire concept of tantric sex was a load of crap.

  Regrettably, it was becoming an increasingly popular load of crap and it just might be the one story he’d been looking for, the one pivotal article that would give him an edge over his competitors. Knox currently enjoyed a top spot in the Chicago scene of investigative journalism, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted a Pulitzer. A wry smile twisted his lips. Granted, this story most likely wouldn’t win him the coveted award, but it could put him that much closer to his goal. The thought sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through his blood.

  Call it journalistic intuition, all he knew was each time Knox caught the scent of a good story, he’d get a curious feeling in his gut, an insistent nudge behind his naval that, so far, had never steered him wrong. This sixth sense had propelled him into his current comfortable position with the Chicago Phoenix, had earned him a reputation for staying on the cutting edge of journalism and keeping his finger on the fickle pulse of American society.

  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 fro
m 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 fit the bill. Though he thoroughly dreaded it, he’d have to ask her to accompany him on the trip to California, to play the part of his devoted sex partner. A bark of dry laughter erupted from his throat. Oh, she’d love that, he thought with a grim smile.

  Generally speaking, Knox was attracted to just about every woman of the right age with a halfway decent rack. Shallow, yes, but, again, his nature. He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t always act on the attraction—in fact, he was quite selective with his lovers—but it was always there, hovering just beneath the surface.

  Regardless of his hyperlibido, Knox didn’t doubt for one minute that one icy look, one chilly smile from the admittedly gorgeous Savannah Reeves would wilt even his staunchest erection. Savannah was petite and curvy with short jet-black hair that always looked delightfully rumpled. Like she’d just rolled out of bed. She wore little makeup, but with a smooth, creamy complexion and that pair of ice-blue eyes heavily fringed with long curling lashes, she hardly needed the artifice. No doubt about it, she was definitely gorgeous, Knox admitted as he forced away her distracting image.

  But looks weren’t everything.

  Regrettably, Savannah Reeves had the personality of a constipated toad and never missed her daily ration of Bitch Flakes. Knox suppressed a shudder.

  He definitely wouldn’t have to worry about being attracted to her. He simply wouldn’t allow it. And she certainly wasn’t attracted to him—she’d gone out of her way to make that abundantly clear. Also she’d likely appreciate being in on the job.

  In short, she’d be his perfect partner for this assignment. And she was too glory hungry to let a little thing like personal dislike get in the way of a fantastic byline. If he really wanted to, Knox thought consideringly, he could make her wriggle like a worm on a hook.

  The idea held immense appeal.

  “NOT NO, BUT HELL NO,” Savannah Reeves said flatly as she wound her way through the busy newsroom to her little cubicle.

  Knox, damn him, dogged her every step.

  “But why not? It’s a plum assignment, a great story and a wonderful opportunity. What possible reason could you have for saying no?”

  Because I don’t like you, Savannah thought uncharitably. She drew up short beside her desk and paused to look at him. She fought the immediate impulse to categorize his finer physical features, but, as usual, failed miserably.

  Knox Webber had wavy rich brown hair cut in a negligent style that implied little maintenance but undoubtedly took several time-consuming steps to achieve. His eyes were a dark, verdant green, heavy-lidded, and twinkled with mischief and the promise of wicked pleasures. His lips, which seemed perpetually curled into an inviting come-hither grin, were
surprisingly full for a man, but masculine enough to make a woman fantasize about their talent.

  Even her, dammit, though she should know better.

  If that weren’t enough, he had the absolute best ass she’d ever seen—tight and curved just so and…Savannah resisted the urge to shiver. In addition to that amazing ass, he was tall, athletically built and carried himself with a mesmerizing long-limbed, loose-hipped gait that drew the eye and screamed confidence. He’d been born into a family of wealth and privilege and the very essence of that breeding hovered like an aura about him.

  Though she knew it was unreasonable, Savannah immediately felt her defenses go up. She’d been orphaned at six when her parents had been killed in a car accident. With no other family, she’d spent her childhood in the foster-care system, passed from family to family like a yard-sale castoff. Did Knox know how lucky he’d been? Did he have any idea at all? She didn’t think so. From what she’d observed, he seemed content to play the black sheep of the family—to play at being a journalist—until his father turned the screws and capped his sizable trust fund. And the hell of it was, Knox made it all look so damned easy. He was a talented bastard, she’d give him that. It was enough to make her retch.

  “Come on, Vannah,” Knox cajoled, using the nickname that never failed to set her teeth on edge. He was the only person at the Phoenix who dared call her that and the implied intimacy of the nickname drove her mad. “This is going to be a helluva story.”

  She didn’t doubt that for one minute. Knox Webber didn’t waste his time on anything that didn’t promise a front page. And he had to be desperate to ask her for help, because she knew he’d rather slide buck naked down a razor blade into a pool of alcohol than ask her for a favor.

  Still, there was no way in hell she wanted any part of a story with him, phenomenal byline or no. She didn’t have to possess any psychic ability to know that the outcome could be nothing short of disastrous. An extended weekend at a sex workshop with Knox? The one and only man she didn’t have a prayer of resisting? The one she continually fantasized about? A vision of her and Knox naked and sweaty loomed instantly in her mind’s eye, making her tummy quiver with perpetually repressed longing.