Passion's Mistral (18 page)

“Fuck me,” she said.

“Fuck me,” he returned, putting his hand to the zipper of his pants.

The plane was steeply angled, going in for its landing.

She watched him unbutton his fly, drag the zipper down and pull his cock out. He held it—fully erect.

She moistened her lips, feeling the heaviness of arousal pulling at her loins.

“Or would you rather I just jerk off?” he inquired.

She unbuckled her seat belt and managed to stagger her way to his seat. Holding his gaze with hers, she

dropped to her knees.

“And make it good,” he said.

His staff was huge and it hurt her jaws to take it into her mouth. It had been a long time since she’d

sucked a man’s cock. Though once she had been very good at it, she had nearly forgotten the rhythm,

the finesse that had made her the most sought after lady of pleasure in the French Quarter. As Pierce’s

fingers dragged through her hair, positioning her above his throbbing member, the old routine came

slowly back—go all the way to the base, draw hard on the shaft as you come back up. Cup the balls,

lightly squeeze. Circle the head in a rotating motion with your lips puckered tightly. Use the tongue to

delve into the oozing slit, draw the essence forth as a hummingbird does a flower.

Pierce laid his head back as she worked his rigid cock. The suction of her lips on his flesh made his head

pound as the blood rushed. The subservient position of her on her knees before him was a heady

sensation he had not experienced since junior high school and the senior girl who could be had for the

price of a reefer.

“Suck me,” he ordered, his hips unconsciously lifting and lowering to her rhythm. “Take it all.”

Celeste put her mind to the job at hand, forgetting all about Julian St. John.

Clive Bellington detested public restrooms. He never felt them clean enough for his personal hygienic

tastes. Neither did he like sharing a restroom—even one in the VIP lounge—with strangers. Habitually,

after a long flight as well as too much alcohol, his first stop upon arriving on American soil was to make a

beeline to the facilities.

“Check the room.”

Hansen entered the restroom, was relieved to find it empty then came out to tell his employer he would

have the facility to himself.

“Stand here and discourage anyone else from entering,” Clive ordered Hansen.

Having had the same command thrown at him prior to that day, Hansen merely nodded and took up a

position in front of the door to the men’s restroom. As planned, the VIP lounge was empty save for him

and Bellington. When the door opened and three janitorial staff men walked in, Hansen relaxed and

moved away from the door.

“Have a safe trip home,” one of the janitors said quietly.

Hansen smiled and as he left the VIP lounge felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his

shoulder.

Bellington frowned hatefully when the janitor entered the lounge. He glanced at the man then shook his

hands free of excess water. Glaring at the janitor who dared come much too close to Bellington’s person

to be ignored, the Englishman was about to turn to the offender and order him to step aside. Before he

could open his mouth, he felt the sharp pain in his back but his mind refused to acknowledge what his

body already knew—he’d been stabbed. It wasn’t until the blade ripped upward, grating over bone to

nick one lung before jabbing into his heart, that he knew he was a dead man. He dropped to the floor of

the restroom without a sound, his thick blood spreading across the Terrazzo to drip soundlessly into the

stainless steel center grate.

The man who had eliminated Julian’s enemy pulled a thick terrycloth hand towel from the stack on the

counter, wrapped it around the bloody blade then dropped the shiv into the pocket of his coveralls. He

walked calmly out of the restroom, nodding to the two uniformed attendants who had hung an Out of

Order sign on the door, keeping other travelers from entering, and continued on his way. He heard the

click of the lock falling in place as one of the workers secured the restroom door. It would be an hour or

so before anyone went to investigate. By then, the three of them would be long gone.

Fay Lynden put the receiver down and turned to her husband. “He wants us to fly to Kingston, Jamaica,”

she said. “He’ll have a boat there to take us to him.”

Brad took her into his arms. “How do you feel about that, Fay-Fay?”

Tears were streaming down Fay’s face. “I’m going to see my Paddy,” she said, her voice thick with

emotion. “After all these years, I’m going to see my baby.”

“He’s not a baby anymore, darlin’,” Brad reminded her. “A lot of water has passed under both your

bridges.”

“I know,” she said, swiping a hand over her wet eyes. “But it doesn’t matter. He knows why I went to

prison and he said he understands.”

“I’m sure he does but you have to remember he’s done a lot of things he’s going to be ashamed for his

mama to know. You’re going to have to go easy on him.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to calm down,” she said. “He can’t send the boat for us for a few days. He has

something he has to see to first.”

“That’s good ‘cause I think you’re gonna need those few days to rehearse what you want to say to

him.”

Fay shook her head. “I don’t need time for that, Brad. I’ve had over thirty years to rehearse what I’ll

say.”

Julian walked beside Henri along the beach. A storm was brewing off the coast and the waves were

higher than normal. Overhead, the sky was dark gunmetal gray.

“It was such a lovely morning a few hours ago,” Henri said with a sigh. “Now look at it.”

“Any word from our man in Kingston?” Julian asked.

“Her plane landed about an hour ago. She’s still onboard though the pilot and crew have disembarked.”

He cast Julian a jaded look. “Give you one guess what she’s doing.”

Julian rolled his shoulders. “I pity Umsted. She has a tendency to rake her nails down your back when

she’s angry.”

“I wouldn’t know. Never had the pleasure,” Henri snorted.

Julian stopped, picked up a piece of shell and sailed it out into the water. “You never did care for her all

that much, did you?”

“She paid well,” Henri replied. “Not as well as some of the madams in the Quarter, but well enough.”

Hunkering down on the sand, Julian looked out across the water. “Silkie called you a procurer and I said

that wasn’t what you did.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Henri admitted. He hunkered down beside his friend.

“Why did you take me to Celeste, Henri?”

Henri gave a loud sigh. “I could see potential in your scrawny little ass,” he said. “I would have taken you

over to Warden’s but you needed woman handling and not more of what you’d had too much of in

England.”

Julian felt a wave of anger grip him. “I’d have killed myself if you had taken me to Warden.” He thought

of the man who had eventually been found hanging in a field outside Metairie, his genitals gone. The man

who had provided entertainment for New Orleans’s wealthy pedophiles had not died an easy death.

“Celeste made a man of you,” Henri said. “I knew she would.”

“Even though you would have preferred to do that yourself,” Julian said quietly. He had always known

which sex Henri enjoyed. He suspected Henri’s affection for him went deeper than the strong friendship

they shared.

Henri sniffed. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you, St. John?” he asked. “Why would I

want a skinny little twelve-year-old English muffin when I could have all the fifteen-year-old American

biscuits I could grab?”

Julian laughed and stood up. He looked to Henri as he would have an older brother—a male who had

protected him when he was a child. “English muffin, huh?”

“Oh, Lord, that accent! Tea and crumpets, don’t you?” Henri complained, standing up. “It set my nerves

on edge! I’m glad you at least knew how to speak French!”

Julian draped his arm over Henri’s shoulders and they continued their walk, Henri’s arm over Julian’s.

“I’m glad you didn’t want to butter this English muffin, Henri,” Julian said.

“Never could stand those things,” Henri complained. “Now a good French croissant or an American

biscuit…”

Silkie listened with the receiver held away from her ear. Greg’s anger was a tangible thing leaping out at

her from all that distance. She had the feeling that had they been in the same room together, he would

have slapped her. She had called to tell him to send her last paycheck, her part of the money for finding

Fay Lynden’s son. She had also called to tell him she wouldn’t be coming back to Iowa and that even as

she spoke to him, movers were packing her belongings up for shipment to Mistral Cay.

“What about Xander?” Greg bellowed. “Are you going to just leave that poor—”

She pulled the receiver to her ear. “You don’t give a rat’s ass about my cat, Greg,” she snapped. “Don’t

you even think to try to guilt me about him. He’s being taken care of, don’t you worry!”

“I guess you like that perverted lifestyle down there, huh?” Greg sneered. “Didn’t get enough fucking

yet?”

“Goodbye, Greg,” Silkie said. “Screw only the ones who don’t have a communicable disease.”

With that she hung up. Her hands were trembling, her stomach sour and the blood was pounding in her

ears. She disliked confrontations—even at a distance or on the impersonal Internet—and found them

very unsettling. Brooding about such things for hours, if not days, afterward was part of her personality.

“He didn’t take it well, I gather,” Julian remarked. “I imagine he hates losing you.”

Silkie shrugged. “I think it’s more of an ego thing with him. He likes things his way all the time.”

Julian went to her and took her in his arms. He made no comment to her words, only held her as she

snuggled against him.

“What about Celeste?” she asked.

“What about her?”

“Do you think she’ll keep trying to come to the Cay?”

“My men have orders not to allow her here,” he replied. “She won’t answer my phone calls so screw

her. I wanted to explain about you personally to her instead of having her take the word of her snitch, but

if she doesn’t want to talk to me about it, she’ll just have to scratch her mad place.”

“But if she was mad enough to send for your uncle, she is mad enough to try to cause you real

problems.”

“Let her,” Julian said, his voice tight. “I’m not an altar boy, Silkie. I can fling shit with the best of them.”

“Your uncle will—”

“That situation is being taken care of, sweetness,” Julian told her. “I won’t have to worry about him

again.”

A shudder passed through Silkie but she knew she would never ask what had occurred to rid her lover

of his enemy.

“Did Mr. St. John receive my résumé?” Hansen asked Henri.

“Yes, indeed he has, mon ami. I am delighted to offer you employment here at the resort,” Henri replied.

“We recently lost our housekeeper. Would you be interested in that position?”

“Yes, indeed I would. I have no desire to go back to England.”

“Completely understandable. I assume it will be a few days before you will be able to journey on to

Kingston?”

“Yes, the police are investigating the shocking murder of my former employer. I will, of necessity, be

obliged to remain here until matters are settled.”

“Yes, of course,” Henri agreed. “Please let us know if there is anything we can do to help speed up your

arrival.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Henri hung up the phone and settled back in his plush leather chair. He had known James Hansen for a

long time and had been paying the Dutchman to keep tabs on the Bellington household for over ten

years.

He smiled. It had been nearly a decade since last he had shared his body with James and was looking

forward to a renewal of their friendship.

Silkie watched her lover pacing the deck of The Connemara like the caged panther to which Dr.

Carstairs had once likened him. His dark hair blew about his handsome face, tugged at his white silk shirt

but he seemed not to notice.

“Not black?” she had asked as he tucked the shirt into the waistband of a pair of gray slacks.

“This is my mother I am meeting,” he answered, reaching up to remove the gold earring from his earlobe.

“I want her to meet Patrick O’Reilly, not Julian St. John.”

“Would you prefer I call you Patrick then?” she asked.

He had looked around at her. “Do you mind?” he inquired.

“No,” she answered. “I haven’t been sure whether to call you Sean or Julian or just plain old Sugar

Buns.” She grinned.

He rolled his eyes. “You’d better not,” he warned then his lips twitched. “At least not around my

mother.”

As she watched him prowling the deck, she could not help but admire the sensuality of his movements.

There was something very primal—almost predatory—about the way he moved and she was reminded

vividly of the power and wealth this man wielded. One phone call had precipitated the removal of all her

worldly goods from Iowa in the space of a few hours’ time. The cost must have been astronomical but

was most likely pocket change to a man like Julian. She corrected herself—like Patrick O’Reilly.

“They will begin building our home on the far side of the island next week,” he had told her.

“Our home?”

“You don’t think I would expect you to live at the resort, do you?” he queried.

“Even if I would prefer to do so?”