Temptation Island Page 5

  Nodding, I glanced back at the limo, where Icarus was removing my luggage.

  Icarus handed my bags to one of the bellmen, and then without as much as a nod, smile, tip of the hat, or any other acknowledgment to me, he got back into the limo. As he drove off, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was heading off to play the sexy chauffeur in some other woman’s fantasy, and I felt a weird spark of jealousy. Quickly, I squashed the envy and reminded myself that this experience was supposed to be a fantasy.

  As such, I was supposed to enjoy the fantasy, not wrestle with bizarre feelings about a man I’d just met and didn’t even know.

  Leaving the foyer, I was shepherded down a wide hallway, featuring lots of marble and soaring ceilings, and into a large office, furnished in French Rococo style.

  Liberada sat behind the large desk and indicated I should take the chair opposite her.

  After explaining a bit about the town, and confirming the length of my stay in paradise, she explained that the history of the hotel’s origins was cloaked in secrecy and mystery, obviously.

  “The hotel’s founder is not widely known, outside of the current owners; however, there are rumors that the hotel was once the private estate of a wealthy French baroness who fell on hard times after the death of her wealthy husband, who left her in debt. To satisfy her creditors, she began offering them certain favors, if you will.”

  Smiling naughtily, Liberada went on. “Upon her death, it is believed her daughter decided to turn the estate into a hotel. She apparently belonged to a secret society of young noble women, including some members of royalty, who were dedicated to exploring their sexuality in the most decadent ways possible. They were supposedly devoted to debauchery, but due to their positions in society, they had to perform these bacchanal activities in secret. So the baroness’s daughter made the hotel available as a place where they could indulge in their wanton desires.”

  “I see,” I said, the throbbing between my legs increasing as I recalled my own wanton debauchery.

  “But that’s all conjecture and rumor,” Liberada said with a saucy wink. “Most likely, this place is owned by rich Arabs.”

  “Probably so,” I said, not sure I really agreed.

  “Nevertheless, this is a place of impeccable discretion,” she said, the sassiness replaced by stone-cold seriousness. “We take privacy very seriously, and if you feel your privacy has been violated, in any way, you are to please contact me immediately to handle the situation. Sounds good?”

  I nodded, thinking that it sounded like she would cut the violator’s tongue out to keep him from spilling secrets, but I supposed I was reassured.

  “After you decided to stay with us,” Liberada said, “you should have received a letter thanking you for choosing to vacation at the Heliconia.”

  I nodded, remembering the letter I’d received from the hotel after Lisa had booked the trip to St. Mateo.

  “Obviously, there were some details about the hotel that had to be omitted, for discretion.”

  After clearing my throat, I agreed. “Obviously.”

  “Considering the nature and objectives of the hotel,” she began, the naughty gleam in her gaze again, “I must explain that the experiences we offer are categorized according to three different levels. Sensual, sexual, and salacious.”

  “I see,” I said, not sure I really did.

  “This is a hotel where you can experience your fantasies,” she said. “And we try not to be blunt, but to explain the categories, I find it best not to employ euphemisms.”

  Worried, I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Sensual is no penetration, but you will have orgasms, mainly manual and oral stimulation,” she said, as though listing the ingredients of some processed snack food. “Sexual, there will be penetration, and if you want to be tied up or whipped or play sex games, you may request that. Finally, salacious is really any perversion you can think of. For example, if you want to screw a goat, we can get you a goat. Sounds good?”

  Flabbergasted, and appalled, I gaped at her. “Are you serious?”

  “We don’t judge,” she explained, then shrugged, and said, “So, were you satisfied with Icarus?”

  “What?” Thrown by her abrupt question, I felt heat spreading across my face and was terrified that somehow, someway, she knew what Icarus and I had done in the bungalow. And, if so, was it because she had orchestrated it? As my personal assistant, was she responsible for creating my fantasies and making sure they all came true?

  “In the past, some of our guests have complained that he’s standoffish and not very friendly,” Liberada said. “He has been making an effort to be more congenial, and I just wanted to make sure that he was accommodating and that his behavior was to your satisfaction.”

  Worried by her seemingly coded speech, I stared at her, searching her delicate features for signs that she was well aware of just how accommodating Icarus had been. She gave me a polite, blank “customer service” gaze.

  “He was nice,” I decided to say, wondering if the hotel had some kind of unofficial rule that fantasies should be experienced but never really acknowledged, and as such, everyone had to be vague and evasive.

  “That’s good to know,” Liberada said. “So, we’ll meet the rest of your staff, and they will help you get settled in your room. Sounds good?”

  Chapter Four

  Standing in the living room of the luxury suite, I looked around, admiring the Baroque and Rococo furnishings, high tray ceilings, triple crown molding, and rows of French doors which opened to a private terrace surrounded by a tropical jungle.

  Feeling giddy and decadent, I walked to one of the four couches, grouped in a square with a low coffee table in the center.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

  I’d met the staff, a deferential group who assured me of their desire to fulfill my every wish during my time in St. Mateo. I was thankful and appreciative, but, since the Heliconia was a fantasy hotel, I couldn’t help but wonder if all their talk about vowing to go out of their way to make my stay as enjoyable as possible was just pretense.

  However, to their credit, they sought to prove their promises by unpacking my luggage and hanging my clothes in the closet, placing my undergarments in the dresser and arranging my toiletries in neat rows on several built-in shelves in the bathroom.

  Walking into the sleeping salon, I figured I probably needed a shower. I could smell Icarus’s heady scent on my skin. Maybe some tropical-scented bath gel would help wash away the memories of his kisses, and I might be able to forget the feeling of his lips on my flesh.

  As I reached for a bath towel, I thought about the levels of fantasy you could indulge in at the Heliconia.

  I’d forgotten to ask Liberada how my fantasy experiences would be categorized, though after my encounter with Icarus, I was sure they would be more than sensual. Anyway, I’d come for sexual experiences, pun intended. Anything salacious would not be tolerated, however.

  The hotel’s definition of salacious had really thrown me. Did they really offer experiences in bestiality? Was there really some woman out there who actually fantasized about doing it with a barnyard animal? Again, I questioned my rationale for coming to this place.

  After my shower, I stepped back into the bedroom. As I was putting on a robe, there was a knock at the door. It was one of the housekeepers. She reached into the pocket on the front of the apron tied around her black dress and pulled out another aqua envelope. “For you.”

  “Thank you.” I took the envelope from her, closed the door, and headed to the couch.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the letter, pulled out the piece of lambskin, and unfolded it, reading:

  Evening experience: Terrace Dinner

  Focusing on the word experience, I felt a jolt pass through me, knowing what it meant. Dinner on the terrace would be much more than five courses and a bottle of expensive wine. Another sexy guy would be joining me, I figured.

  I wasn’t sure if I wante
d another fantasy experience.

  Correction: I wasn’t sure if I wanted another fantasy experience with anyone except Icarus. The thought shamed and sobered me. The point of coming to the Heliconia was to live out lots of fantasies with lots of different guys. I wasn’t supposed to get hung up on the first guy who made love to me like both our lives depended on it.

  Maybe I was overthinking things. Maybe the sex hadn’t been that great. After all, what the hell did I know about great sex? As soon as I’d walked through the doors of Ellison, Zupancic, and Cox, LLC, my sole focus had been my career. I was too busy to indulge in scorching hot sex. Sure, I’d had a few dalliances, but nothing truly mind-blowing, nothing to distract me from my goal of making partner. Maybe what I’d thought was great sex in the middle of the rainforest with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life was really just sex that was a bit better than what I had experienced.

  Nevertheless, in the interest of not wasting the money I’d shelled out to stay at the Heliconia, I decided to soldier on and see what the hotel had in store for me.

  “My name is Joshua,” said what the hotel had in store for me.

  Standing just outside the doorway of my suite, the star of my current fantasy wore a custom-tailored suit that appeared to have been molded to his lean, athletic frame. He reminded me of an international soccer star. He was good-looking, in a pretty, male model way, with a sculptured face, full lips a bit on the pouty side, and piercing blue eyes incongruous with his golden tan complexion.

  Joshua gave me a smoldering gaze as he announced his intentions, which were to be my dinner companion and late-night entertainment, but I wasn’t convinced by his fake desire. Maybe I was still drunk from Icarus’s sizzling, whiskey-colored stares.

  I decided to go with the flow and see how the fantasy would end.

  After the polite introductions, Joshua and I walked out onto the terrace. A nice, balmy breeze carried the scent of the tropical flowers surrounding us. The sun had set, but the sky had a coppery glaze, and it spilled onto our setting, casting a golden tint over the outdoor furnishings and the travertine tile and the white hibiscus bushes.

  A mixologist showed up a few minutes later to make cocktails for us, and then she made herself scarce, leaving Joshua and me alone to engage in awkward chitchat. Mostly, the conversation consisted of him telling me how good I looked in my dress—one of those bandage numbers that accentuated curves and cleavage—and me being demure.

  “So, how do you like St. Mateo so far?”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said, taking another sip of my mojito. “Breathtakingly beautiful.”

  “Have you been to St. Mateo before?”

  “No, this is my first time.”

  “You’ve never been to any other Palmchat Island?”

  “No,” I said. “Actually, I hate to say this, but before I came here, I hadn’t even heard of the Palmchat Islands.”

  “A lot of people haven’t,” he said, taking a modest sip of his drink. “We get overshadowed by the U.S. Virgin Islands, but once people discover our islands, they always come back.”

  “Well, I can see why,” I said. “It is a beautiful place.”

  “So, how did you eventually find out about St. Mateo?”

  “A friend told me,” I said and took a more generous sip of the mojito.

  I had the sinking suspicion this particular fantasy was not going as the hotel had designed it and the ending would be vastly different from what had been intended. The basic story line made sense. Beautiful hotel guest has dinner with handsome, dashing man who charms her right out of her panties and finds his way into her bed where they make love, passionately and vigorously, all night long.

  The problem was, Joshua was all wrong for the part. Well, not completely wrong, I supposed. He was certainly handsome, so he fit the bill for that part of the description. But he wasn’t dashing. His conversational skills were sorely lacking. Not to be blunt, but I found him boring. Talking to him was a chore, and as he continued to pepper me with banal questions about my travel experiences, I racked my brain, searching for some sort of exit out of the stilted banter between us.

  I was just about to feign a headache and tell him I wanted to cut the evening short when dinner arrived. Three servers rolled two carts out onto the terrace and began the task of preparing our table. A sommelier followed and educated us on the evening’s wine selection. Ecstatic about the intrusion, I struck up a conversation with the sommelier about the wine. I wasn’t really a connoisseur, but I was able to ask the sommelier about the composition of the wine he’d selected, how it had been made, and why he thought it would pair well with our menu.

  Joshua didn’t seem to mind my interest in the sommelier. Maybe because he knew he was the most handsome guy in the room. The servers were decent-looking, but they were average guys with average builds, and I couldn’t imagine the hotel casting them in any fantasies.

  The servers finished setting the table and then stepped back. Joshua held out a chair for me, and I sat, thanking him. Joshua took his seat, and then the sommelier went through the pretense of presenting the wine selection to Joshua.

  After opening the wine, he offered Joshua the cork, which Joshua took from him and then sniffed a few times, furrowing his brow and looking contemplative, as though he actually had a nose to discern whether or not the wine was acceptable.

  Then the wine steward offered Joshua a small tasting sample, and Joshua looked at the wine and took a quick sniff before he tasted it. Joshua gave the sommelier a dismissive nod, which I assumed meant the wine was fine to pour, because the sommelier returned the nod and filled our glasses.

  The entire scene was so ridiculous to me I almost laughed out loud.

  But then I cautioned myself not to throw stones. The fancy dinner fantasy might have been enjoyable to some other woman, and maybe I would have been more enthusiastic if not for my encounter with Icarus in the bungalow.

  I couldn’t get the torrid lovemaking out of my head. Couldn’t get Icarus out of my head either, and I wondered if the hotel would be able to cast another fantasy guy capable of making me forget about the dreamboat with the whiskey-colored eyes.

  The servers remained with us during the entire dinner service and were attentive and yet unobtrusive, doing their best to blend into the shadows. As Joshua bored me with more tedious conversation, I felt slightly paranoid, assuming the servers knew what this dinner on the terrace was all about.

  The servers and the sommelier were well aware that dessert would not be some fancy confection but instead would be Joshua giving me something better than the famous “Better than Sex” cake. I wondered what they thought, if anything. I wondered if they saw me as some depraved bitch who, for whatever reason, couldn’t get a decent lay so she had to sneak off to some island to pay for it. I wondered if they cared at all and decided they probably didn’t. Maybe I was hoping they didn’t. The idea of them judging me made me angry.

  They didn’t know a damn thing about me or how I’d sabotaged my own career with bad decisions and faulty strategy, which had been the motivating factor behind my decision to come to the Heliconia Hotel. They had no right to declare me depraved and desperate or think of me as some horny, sex-starved, neglected woman.

  Of course, I didn’t know what they were thinking, so there was no need to give them the evil eye. Most likely, I was projecting my own feelings onto a group of guys who were probably thinking about getting off work and going home to their own families.

  After dinner, the servers and the sommelier got lost in a hurry, leaving me alone with Joshua.

  Instead of more small talk, he asked me if I wanted to dance. Confused, I said, “But, there’s no music.”

  Smiling, he said, “Well, I can fix that.”

  Puzzled, but curious, I watched him walk through the French doors into my suite. A moment later, he returned and soon the melodious strains of a string quartet filled the air.

  “Well, that’s a neat trick,” I said, resolved to be
more involved in the fantasy, as he pulled me into his arms.

  “I have a lot of neat tricks,” he said, voice low, gaze intent on me.

  I was sure he did, but I still wasn’t interested, and so as not to encourage any more double entendre, I put my head on his shoulder, hoping he would get on with twirling me around the terrace.

  We swayed slowly for a few moments to what sounded like Bach. Our movements awkward, we struggled to find a rhythm, but eventually, I relaxed enough to let him lead, though I felt as though I was at a high school prom. We weren’t exactly cheek to cheek, but we had our arms wrapped around each other, and there was a bit of space between us, which I was thankful for. I didn’t want him pressed close, grinding his erection against me. Especially since he didn’t exactly have an erection.

  He stared at me with those blue eyes that I should have been more entranced by than I was, and then his head dipped toward mine. His kiss was reluctant and then bold and daring. When he slipped his tongue into my mouth, it didn’t feel right. The tip darted in and out, and when I tried to pull away, he became more aggressive, wrapping his muscular arms around me, and plunged his tongue deep into my mouth, nearly gagging me.

  Twisting my mouth from his, I pushed away. “Wait a minute, please.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” I lied, extricating myself from his embrace, which had slackened. “Just need some water.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  I went back to the table and grabbed a glass of lukewarm water. “My throat is a bit dry.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay,” he said, “I’m new …”

  “You’re new?”

  “This is only my second week working fantasies,” he said, sheepish and apologetic. “I guess I, um …”

  “Forgot your lines?” I suggested, stepping away from him and walking back to the table to take my seat again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, joining me at the table.

  “It’s okay,” I said, relieved he hadn’t tried to waltz me into the bedroom to do the horizontal tango.