DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense (3 page)

Camille

The distant click of my
apartment door signals
Araminta’s
return for the
evening. I click my pen and shut my journal after having spent the better part
of the last hour chronicling last night’s evening with my mystery John.

Everything I do, every detail,
every rendezvous, is logged in my books. I consider them an insurance policy in
case any of my clients were to ever do anything extreme, and if something
morbid were ever to happen to me, I imagine the police would search my place,
find my journals, and narrow down their suspects based on the information they
might find.

I’m not naïve enough to think that
the very same men who adorn me in diamonds and lingerie wouldn’t put a hit on
me if it meant keeping their names clean. It’s happened to women like me before,
and it’ll happen again.

None of them want to be caught
screwing women who look young enough to be their daughters or, in the regrettable
case of Senator Bancroft, women who aren’t their wives.

In a locked suitcase under my
bed rest dozens of filled journals, some of which date back to the beginning. If
anyone knew these existed, I’d be a walking dead woman. Not even
Araminta
knows about them. It’s safer that way–for both
of us.

I shove my most recent journal
between my mattress and box spring and head out to the living room where
Araminta
steps out of the sexiest pair of patent leather
Louboutins
I’ve ever seen.

“Those are new.” I smirk, arms
folded.

“You like?” She hands one to me
for careful inspection, and I run a finger down the spiked metal heel. It’s
heart-
stoppingly
lavish and carelessly extravagant.
“They were a gift.”

“Clearly.”

Her blonde waves bounce as she
carefully peels away her cashmere jacket in the most appropriate shade of
autumnal plum and hangs it in our coat closet.

“I’m dying to hear about
your
night,” she says with a mischievous
glint in her baby blue eyes. “But let me change first. I’m dying to get this
thing off.”

She unzips the back of her sheath
dress and exhales, hurrying to her room, and I take a moment to appreciate her
bombshell beauty as one woman to another. Her hourglass curves are equal parts
genetic lottery and hundreds of hours spent in waist trainers. I couldn’t look
like
Araminta
no matter how hard I tried.

I find a spot on our linen sofa
and grab a Vogue to pass the time. Flipping to a spread in the middle, an
up-and-coming actress models a gold Tom Ford dress covered in Swarovski
crystals: the very same one hanging in my closet right now. Growing up in
Oakdale, Tennessee, I never dreamt that one day I’d be wearing these lovelies.
I can only hope that someday I’ll be gracing these pages as well, forever
immortalized.

Returning in head to toe
designer gym clothes,
Araminta
saunters my way and
sinks into the club chair in front of our fireplace.

“Okay,”
Araminta
says. “So how was it?”

Butterflies ignite in my belly
as sensory memories of last night’s romp return. My mouth curls. For a second,
I can’t find my words, and I need a moment.

“Whoa.” She leans forward, her ovular
face scrunched. “We’re smiling. Why are we smiling?”

Her piqued interest is fully
warranted. None of my other clients have sent me home wearing a satisfied smile
that lasts well into the next day.

I lift a shoulder, burying my
grin behind it as best I can. “I don’t know, Minty. It was just . . . different.”

“What’d he look like?”

I shake my head. “I never saw
his face.”

“What?”

“He made me put on a blindfold
the second I stepped in.”

Her brows meet. “That’s really
weird. I mean, I knew it was going to be super-secret, and my contact mentioned
the room being dark, but that’s just taking it to a whole level beyond.”

My heart flutters, remembering
the way it felt to see nothing while the rest of my senses were heightened.

“Weren’t you scared?” she asks.

“It didn’t feel scary after a
while,” I say. “I didn’t have that twisted feeling I get sometimes, you know?”

The two of us have learned over
the years to pay attention to our intuition. That inner voice we hear when
something doesn’t feel right is seldom ever wrong, and it has saved us both on
separate occasions.

“Still.” Her head tilts, and
she hasn’t taken her round baby blues off me for two seconds. “I can’t imagine
having sex with a complete stranger and not knowing what he looked like.”

“I knew what he sounded like,”
I say. “And what he felt like. I think he’s younger. He sounded handsome.”

“
Psh
,”
she huffs. “I can make myself sound like an old lady. Doesn’t mean anything.
People can change their voices.”

“He had a nice body,” I add.
“He was in shape. His hands were soft. He smelled good.”

I’m listing off all the reasons
I’m convinced the man who fucked me under the shield of blackness was some kind
of Adonis.

“Oh, my God.” Her face falls.
“What if it was really Trey?”

My heart drops.

And then she laughs.

“Don’t do that to me, Minty.
God, you almost made me have a heart attack.” I grab a throw pillow and chuck
it at her. “I trust you, and I know you trust your contact. For one million
dollars and three months of my time, I’ll screw pretty much anyone.”

Except Trey. Naturally.

She rises, trekking to the
kitchen on her tiptoes, a subtle homage to the decade of ballet lessons under
her belt at her mother’s insistence.

“That’s why you’re my best
friend and partner in crime,” she says, grabbing a bottle of artisanal water
from the refrigerator.

“Literally.”

“You’re the only girl I know
who’s not afraid of the hustle.” She takes a sip and glances out the picture
window on the far wall, toward the cityscape beyond. “We’re special, Camille.
You know that, right? No one else can do what we do as good as we do it.”

Araminta
rests
her elbows against the kitchen island. She looks tired, and I’m sure it’s
because her current client has the sex drive of an insatiable sheikh. Part of
me can’t help but wonder how much longer this can last for her. How much more
of herself can she give away before it’s all gone?

Me? I have dreams that go well
beyond the short-term accumulation of wealth and fancy clothes. This is nothing
but a stepping-stone for me. Minty, on the other hand, lives and breathes for
this life, living it one glamorous day at a time.

“Are you really leaving in
three months?” Her gaze is fixed outside. “I just don’t understand how anyone
could walk away from all
this
and
dive headfirst into
that
. You know
you have greater odds of winning the lottery than becoming some famous movie
star?”

“We’re not going to be young
and beautiful forever,” I say. “And the way I see it, we have two choices. We
can stick around here, spending our nights with older men and living as human
sex toys until we’re inevitably replaced by a younger, hotter generation of
girls just like us . . . or we can get the hell off this crazy little
rollercoaster and pursue our passions while the world is still kind to us.”

“A million dollars won’t go far
out there,” she says. “You know that, right?”

“Maybe. But it’s enough to get
me started.”

“Hollywood is just as corrupt
as DC.” She takes another sip of her water before smiling. “But I guess at
least the men are better looking.”

Araminta
doesn’t want me to leave. It’s been the two of us since the day we hatched out
our five-year plan on the floor of our dorm room as we took shots of cheap
vodka and listened to cheesy pop music designed to make young women like us
feel invincible. I’d just returned from a life-changing drama class, and
feeling dangerously inspired, I proposed my master plan.

We’ve come a long ways since
then. And I’d like to believe that if two young women, who knew nothing about
anything, could design a life like this out of thin air, my ambitions of making
a name for myself aren’t that out of touch with reality.

Plus I’m too damn stubborn to
ever give up on my aspirations. I dare someone to try and stop me.

Mark my words: I’m going to be
unforgettable someday.

“John”

The lock on the hotel room door
beeps as I wait in the dark for Camille, and I watch from the shadows as she immediately
grabs a blindfold from the console table and slips it over her face.

My heart races the way it did the
first time I ever saw her.

“Good evening.” I rise,
stepping toward her as soon as her vision is obscured.

“Hello, John.” Her pink lips
spread wide, revealing a dazzling, perfect smile that lights up the dark. “And
how are we doing on this lovely Saturday evening?”

“Better now that you’re here.”
I keep my voice low and steady, as generic as possible.

It takes every ounce of
strength I have to contain myself, to enjoy this and not spoil it like an
impatient child on Christmas morning, ripping into their gifts in five minutes
flat.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted
me to wear.” She spins slowly, showing off the curve-hugging dress she wore
tonight. It hangs off her shoulders, showing off her delicate décolletage. “What
do you think?”

“It’s better suited for a night
on the town rather than an evening in a dark hotel room, don’t you think?” My
hands circle her waist, and I pull her into me, letting her sweet perfume intoxicate
my senses. Lifting my hand to the spot beneath her chin, I guide her mouth
toward mine. Our lips graze, and I revel in their softness before crushing
them.

“Mm.” She moans into my mouth
when our tongues meet.

My fingers find her zipper in
the dark, and I waste little time getting her out of that dress and onto the
bed.

I saw her in Georgetown last
January, walking along a snowy sidewalk all alone. It was two weeks after the
masquerade ball, and she was leaving the W Hotel where congressmen are
notorious for hosting their trysts.

Her face was fresh and clean,
her dark hair draping down her shoulders from beneath a knitted beret. Jeans
hugged her shapely legs, and she strutted along the sidewalk in heeled boots as
if it were her own personal runway.

The moment ended as soon as it
had begun, and my driver gunned the Town Car the moment the stoplight turned
green.

But the thing I noticed most
about that moment was that Camille wasn’t smiling.

That split second encounter reinforced
my decision to take her away from Senator Bancroft and make her mine. A man who
doesn’t make a woman like her smile doesn’t deserve her.

She lies back on the bed, her
perfect teardrop breasts on full display as she struggles not to smile.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“I just wish I could see your
face right now.” She finger combs a section of dark hair down her bare
shoulder. “I feel kind of silly like this, is all.”

I dip my hand into my pocket
and grab a condom, tossing it on the bedspread before unzipping my pants.

“Will I ever get to see your
face?” she asks.

“No.” I don’t hesitate.

Her bottom lip pouts, and she
runs a dainty fingertip down the top of a smooth thigh. “Well that’s a shame.
Can you at least tell me what color your hair is? Or your eyes? Do you have
dimples?”

“Although this adorable little
act of yours makes it extremely tempting to answer your questions,” I say,
“it’s in your best interest to know nothing about who I am or what I look
like.”

Her knees lock together, as if
that statement scares her.

“I’m not trying to worry you,”
I say. “Quite the contrary. The less you know about me, the better you’ll be able
to enjoy this for what it is.”

She’s quiet. And then she sits
up, reaching for me and grabbing my tie instead. Taking a handful of the
delicate fabric, she pulls me over top of her.

“Will you at least tell me one
thing?” Her breathy words send a pulse to my already throbbing cock. “I’m dying
to know.”

It’s hard to say no to her,
especially when I’m hard as a fucking rock and her tongue skims along her
flirty pout.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Do you have dimples?”

She giggles, but it’s not the
annoying titter of a childish girl. It’s the sweet, endearing chuckle of a
playfully sexy woman.

My mouth dips to the pointed
tips of her breasts, taking one budded nipple between my teeth and circling it
with my tongue. She sighs, anchoring her thighs outside my hips. Grabbing the
condom, I rip the packet and sheath myself.

“Dimples, John.” She bites away
a teasing grin, her body squirming beneath me as she waits. “Do you have them?”

God, I love her voice.
Breathless. Effervescent. Sexy.

I trail my fingers along the
length of her arm until I find her hand and lift it to my face. In the dark of
the hotel room, I smile, pressing her fingertips into the deep indentation that
centers my left cheek.

Camille sucks in a surprised
breath and traces her finger along my cheek as she smiles. Her other hand finds
my face and her fingertips study the bends, curves and ridges she’ll never see.

“Strong jaw,” she whispers.
“Perfect nose. Nice lips.”

Her hands fall to her chest and
then she fans herself.

“My heart is beating so hard
right now.” She takes my hand and places my palm across the left side of her
chest. Sure enough, it’s thrumming away.

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re beautiful,” she says.
“That’s all. It’s exciting.”

“How can you know that when you
haven’t seen me?”

“I don’t have to see you, John.
I
feel
you.” She bites her lip,
though I can’t help but wonder if this is all a part of what she does. Makes her
client feel like the King of the World, like she’s completely smitten.

“Don’t lie to me,
Ca
—” I stop before I say her name. My fingers travel
between her thighs, slipping between her folds and circling her clit. “You know
how I feel about flattery.”

I decide I don’t want to know
if she’s lying or not. It doesn’t matter.

All we’ll ever have will be
right here, in this hotel room.

Our own little dark paradise.

“Enough talk.” I smash her lips
with a game-changing kiss before gripping the base of my cock and plunging
myself inside her. She sighs into my mouth as I fill her, a pulse-raising sound
I never want to forget as long as I live, and her arms snake around my sides as
I find my rhythm.

Her wetness is abundant, and
her hips circle and meet mine thrust-for-thrust. In this moment, I’m lost in a
sea of exhilaration, disconnected from reality and happily so. I glance down at
her beautiful face, masked by a satin blindfold.

For a brief moment, I consider tugging
it off just so I can stare into those gorgeous doe eyes and see that fuck-me
gaze of hers all over again. But I can’t, no matter how much I want to.

Instead, I pull out and flip
her over, propping her perfect, cherry ass in the air and spreading her knees apart.
Her pussy clenches and quivers when I reenter, and then it draws me in. Heat
rushes to my cock, bringing with it an aching throb.

Her hands grip the bedspread,
her cheek pressed into a cool, white pillow. My hands straddle her hips,
pulling her against me with each plunge. Reaching around, I tease her clit with
my fingers, matching each merge and lock.

Time stands still. Or, rather,
it doesn’t exist.

I fill her tight pussy over and
over, fighting off the urge to empty myself because I’m not ready for it to end
yet.

Jagged breaths and faint sighs
fall from her pretty mouth. “I’m getting close, John.”

I pump harder, faster. My
fingers against her clit coax her to a climax, and I study the way her lips purse
and relax as she rides the high. The moment she’s done, I piston inside her
until I give her everything I have.

Drained and spent, I cradle her
full breasts in my palms and collapse on top of her before rolling over. I’m
drowning in the scent of us, and already I long for another touch.

My hand slips between her
thighs, running the length of her silken seam, and she quivers when I stroke
her sensitive clit.

Camille’s hand rests on mine.
“My God.”

She rolls to her side to face
me, and I pull her into the crook of my arm. I watch her chest rise and fall as
we bask in a silent euphoria.

“I want to tell you something,”
she says, hesitating. “But I don’t want you to think I’m just trying to flatter
you.”

“Fine.”

“You’re the only man who’s ever
given me an orgasm during sex,” she says, lifting her fingers to the corner of
her mouth. “I . . . I didn’t think it was physically possible for me. Turns out
I just needed a man who knew what he was doing.”

“It helps when you’re turned
on,” I say.

“That’s true. And the dimples
helped, so thank you for that. Dimples are my ultimate weakness,” she says with
a contented sigh that makes me want to believe every word that comes out of
that lush mouth of hers. “I appreciate the foreplay. Most men don’t have that
kind of patience.”

Her nails carve a light path
down the center of my abs that sends
goosebumps
across my flesh.

“Self-control,” I say. “Not
patience.”

“Do you have to control
yourself around me?”

I pause. “Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re more than welcome to
go for the gold
,” she says. “It’s what
you’re paying me for. I’m yours. In this room, you own me.”

Her hand takes mine, bringing
it to the dampness between her thighs. Camille’s belly tenses and caves in as
she presses my fingers against her velvet warmth.

“Anything you want me to do,”
she whispers. “All you have to do is ask.”

“The only thing I need from
you, Camille, is for you to be one hundred percent honest with me at all
times.”

She gasps, drawing away from me
and reaching for her blindfold. I take her hand, preventing her from an
untimely unmasking.

“How do you know my name?” Her
soft, pliable body grows rigid. “Have you known it all along? Before you met
me?”

“You have to understand,” I
say. “Things, for me, are different. I can’t sleep with just anyone. And the
number of people I can trust, I can count on one hand. I have to be selective.”

Her jaw softens as she swallows.
She’s coming back around.

“I chose you, Camille,” I say.
“I saw you, and I chose you.”

“You
saw
me?” She moves closer. “When? Where? Have we met?”

“Now, you know I can’t tell you
any of that.”

It’s a shame she sleeps with
men for money. Slap a pedigree on her and a last name like
Lindhurst
or
Rockmund
or
Harringwood
,
and my mother would foam at the mouth for a chance to get her into the White
House.

She presents with regal
elegance, but she lives to serve.

I need to leave before this
conversation takes a dangerous detour. The last thing I need to worry about is
accidentally letting my guard down around her. She makes me comfortable, her
tranquil beauty instantly putting me at ease.

“Camille, I’m going now.” I
rise from the bed, turning to cup her face in my hands. I taste her lips one
more time. A sweet farewell. “Thank you for a magnificent evening, and I’ll be
in touch with you soon.”

She gifts me with a dispirited
half-smile, and I assume her mind is preoccupied with solving the puzzle I’ve
just presented.

A woman like Camille Buchanan
has surely encountered an abundance of men vying for an ounce of her attention.
I’m just a man whose hidden gaze she dared to meet at a masquerade ball once
upon a time. She can rack that beautiful mind of hers all she wants, but she’ll
never figure it out.