RoxannesPirate Read online

  Chapter Eight

  Roxanne lay on her stomach and breathed in the lavender-and-rosemary-scented air of the massage room in the spa at the Las Flores Hotel.

  “Comfortable?” her masseuse asked. He adjusted the oval frame on which Roxanne’s face rested.

  “Yes,” Roxanne murmured. She sighed as he poured warm oil along her spine.

  Mrs. Bigelow’s assistant had booked Roxanne a night at the luxurious Las Flores Hotel and surprised her with a massage. The spa was elegant. The teak wood trim, the plush carpet sprinkled with lavender buds, the silky-smooth plaster walls, the candles in waist-high torcheries all contributed to the feeling of being wrapped in a cocoon.

  A little pampering as payback for the indignities of the last week, Roxanne thought. Her clients had universally responded with concern to her calls and emails but none had been outraged. “Things like this happen,” was what she heard over and over again. Several of her clients wrote supportive letters to Derek Macauley, extolling her service and hoping that this unfortunate incident—the accidental loss of a laptop—would not adversely impact her position with the firm. As far as Roxanne knew, none of her clients had suffered any harm as a result of the theft nor had her financial information been affected. Derek had been true to his word and her humiliation had not surfaced in office gossip. Even Roxanne’s overactive libido had given her a break. The meeting in Florida for the Bigelow Foundation had come at the perfect time.

  The masseur rubbed Roxanne’s shoulders with warm, oiled hands. She could feel the strength in his fingers. She couldn’t remember his name. Ricky? Nicky? He’d introduced himself to her at the desk, but she’d still been in frantic travel mode. He was good-looking in an androgynous way—thin with cropped blond hair. Not at all the kind of man Roxanne would have fantasies about, if she still had fantasies, which she did not. Would not. She needed relaxation, not sexual stimulation.

  She sighed.

  “Okay?” the masseuse asked. His hands paused.

  “Fine,” Roxanne said.

  His nimble hands manipulated the muscles in her lower back then proceeded down her thighs to her calves and ankles and feet.

  “Turn over, please,” he said. He raised the towel to shield Roxanne’s nakedness.

  Roxanne turned.

  He placed a damp scented towel over her eyes. “This is a new scent we’re using at the spa. Our clients find it very soothing.” He picked up her right arm and worked his way down to her fingers.

  Roxanne had to disagree. The musky scent wasn’t soothing—it was arousing. She wasn’t sure why the scent should suddenly trigger that all-too-familiar ache between her legs. She‘d been lying naked on the massage table for almost an hour and the masseuse’s touch had not stirred her at all, but now the scented towel had her biting her lip. She considered what it might feel like to have those strong, slender fingers slick with oil move up between her legs and thrust inside. Her pelvic muscles contracted. What the hell was wrong with her? As soon as she got to her hotel room, she was going to have to indulge in a little “me” time.

  The masseuse’s fingers lifted her head and massaged the back of her neck. He gently brought her head down to rest on the table. He covered her with a warm blanket.

  “Stay and rest as long as you like,” he murmured. He gathered some things and left the room, shutting the door almost noiselessly.

  Roxanne parted her legs. She couldn’t wait for the privacy of her room. Her senses were on fire already. She reached under the blanket and stroked her oiled thighs, enjoying the feel of her silky skin. She shut her eyes and flicked through the images in her mind, as though she were flicking through television channels, trying to find the erotic moment that would most excite her. She immediately skipped the masseuse. When she and Paul had lived together, she’d often had fantasies about their next-door neighbor, a muscular cop, but conjuring his face did nothing for her now. She’d read a book on the plane about a highwayman and a nobleman’s daughter. There was one particularly arousing scene where the two were stuck in a cottage in a storm, their lust overcoming their natural disdain. She pictured the highwayman ripping off the woman’s dress, but his amorphous features slid into the contours of a familiar face, his brown hair curled and darkened, a black moustache sprouted above his lip.

  Not him! But her nose caught another whiff of the scented towel that had turned her on and she recognized the smell. It was the scent on Carlos’ neck. The scent caught her and held her against her will.

  “You’re my captive,” he whispered. “Completely at my mercy.”

  Carlos the pirate knelt between her legs.

  Roxanne’s clit swelled under her fingers. She tried to picture herself with the whip in her hand, but her libido pushed the whip away. Silk ribbons twisted around her wrists and ankles.

  “Yes,” Carlos said. “Bound for me, like a fly in a spider’s web.”

  Silk ribbons tied her arms to the headboard posts of a large four-post bed. Her legs were spread wide, her knees bent. Silk ribbons looped around her thighs and just below her bent knees, binding her legs to the headboard posts. Silk ribbons looped around her ankles and tied them fast to the footboard posts. She was spread wide open to him.

  “I hate you!” she said to him.

  He laughed. “I know.” There were red marks on his chest from her lash. He held a burning candle in his hand. “You claim you want to rule me, but what you most desire is for me to rule you.” He leaned forward and tipped the candle. Hot wax dripped onto one of her breasts.

  She cried out.

  He tipped the candle again, on her stomach, on her other breast, on her nipples, on the tips of her toes, on the tender skin of her inner thighs. She hated him for the sharp pain, hated him for making her want the pain to continue.

  “You want more, don’t you?” he asked.

  “No!” she said, and twisted in his web.

  “Don’t lie to me. I can see how wet you are.”

  The heat of the candle flame traced the edges of her labia. She tensed, waiting for the next drop of wax—fearing where it would fall, longing for it.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I know what you want.”

  A hot drop of wax hit the tip of her clit like a searing tongue.

  “Fuck me!” she begged him.

  “With pleasure.”

  He was on top of her, supporting his weight on his arms, the wide head of his cock pressed into her, stretching her open.

  “Harder!” she begged him. “Deeper!”

  He groaned and thrust into her.

  Roxanne let the flutters of her climax die down. She sighed deeply and pushed the blanket away. Her little vignette had left her unsatisfied, but she would have to wait for more until she was back in her hotel room. She padded down the hall to the changing area and the lounge. She caught sight of her reflection in a bathroom mirror, her hair was a mess but her complexion glowed.

  “Hot wax,” she whispered. She shook her head and smiled. “Where does this stuff come from?”

  She showered and toweled her hair dry. She opened her bag to get dressed and decided to leave her bra and panties in the bag. She’d be taking them off as soon as she got back to her room. She pulled on her black yoga pants and a loose-fitting jacket. She walked quickly through the spa and into the main lobby, enjoying the sensations in her body, eager for more pleasure.

  “Ms. Cline?”

  She looked up, puzzled. The hotel employee who had assisted her with registration waved to her from behind the front desk.

  “Yes?” She detoured to the desk.

  He handed her a business card. “A gentleman left this for you. I believe he’s still in the lounge.” He indicated the couches and chairs that furnished the lounge area off the lobby.

  She glanced at the card. There was a handwritten scrawl in black ink—Dinner? She turned the card over. Her pulse quickened as soon as she saw the printed name Carlos Delgado, President and CEO Delgado Enterprises.

  She glanced toward
the lounge. There he was, standing by one of the large windows, looking out past the hotel’s gardens to the sea. He had a cell phone to his ear.

  She would toss the card away, burn it in a trashcan. It was one thing to enjoy him in her fantasies, quite another to risk more humiliation. She was not a masochist.

  He turned slightly. His dark eyes were fixed on something in the distance. Roxanne stared at his crooked nose, at the black moustache above his lips, at the chin with its slight cleft. He stretched out his right hand and took a green apple from a large bowl. She looked at his long fingers and her body tensed with the memory of those fingers on her and the longing to feel them on her again.

  She would leave before he spotted her. She was crazy to linger. She should run.

  He closed his cell phone and looked up and saw her. He smiled—a lovely, warm, welcoming smile. His face was animated with the intelligence and virility that had caught her the first time she had seen him.

  Don’t be an idiot! Flee!

  But fleeing would be cowardly and she was not a coward. She would face him and tell him exactly what she thought of him. Well, not exactly—she would leave out the part about craving his skin, his mouth, his hands. She walked purposefully across the lobby.

  “Mr. Delgado.” She said his name as if it were a nasty thing she couldn’t wait to spit out of her mouth.

  “Hello, Roxanne.” He beamed. “When I called to speak to you today, I was delighted you were staying so close to me. You should warn your secretary not to be so free with that information, however. Who knows whom else she’s told?”

  Roxanne silently cursed the temp who was sitting in for the vacationing Liz. She glared at Carlos.

  “I came to apologize for my regretful behavior,” he said. “I entirely misjudged the situation.”

  “You are scum.”

  The smile disappeared from his face. His color deepened. If he was acting, it was an impressive performance. “Not that bad surely.”

  “Scum.” She turned to leave.

  He caught her arm then quickly let her go. “I am enormously sorry for what I did. I beg your forgiveness, and I assure you, I rarely beg for anything.”

  “I don’t care.” Roxanne said with all the ice she could muster. She stood tall and rigid. One of her hands clutched the strap of her shoulder bag, the other curled in a fist pressed to the side of her leg.

  “I hope not,” Carlos said softly. His eyes searched her face. “I sincerely hope not.”

  She wanted to give him a scathing response, something that would send him away with his tail between his legs like a beaten dog—the verbal equivalent of a slap on his face. “Your apology can’t begin to undo what you put me through.” Her voice shook slightly. Damn! She sounded pathetic.

  “Please let me take you to dinner. Let me explain.”

  “No. I don’t want anything to do with you!”

  “Just a drink then. Here in the lounge. I promise you’ll be perfectly safe with me.” He motioned to two chairs in the corner. “Please, Roxanne. What harm can one drink do?”

  She was near enough to catch a whiff of his singular scent. It made her blood rush.

  Don’t start! “You’d better go or I’ll ask the concierge to remove you!”

  “I know I’ve earned your contempt, but I promise you, if I could undo what happened, I would. Please have one drink with me.”

  Would he think she was weaker if she stayed or if she left?

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  “I’m not afraid of you!” Not of you but of myself—of my seeming inability to resist your charm.

  “One drink then?”

  “One drink,” she said, grudgingly. She sat in a chair, put her bag on the floor and crossed her arms across her chest.

  A waitress came to take their order.

  Carlos ordered a whisky. Roxanne ordered a glass of chardonnay.

  “No whisky this evening, Roxanne?”

  “I no longer care for the taste.”

  “Tastes change. Maybe your taste for it will return.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Still it might. Stranger things have happened.”

  He seemed impervious to her disdain. What kind of man was he?

  The waitress set their drinks on a low table. Carlos picked his up and held the glass out to her.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  She ignored him and gripped the stem of her wineglass. She took a sip. The wine could have been vinegar for all she could tell.

  He sat back in his chair. “I am sorry that I caused you any distress. I regret the way I overreacted to the situation. All I can offer by way of explanation is that my recent history has made me ill-disposed to liars, and you had lied to me.” He leaned forward slightly. “I’ve found to my great unhappiness that there are people in the world who cannot be trusted, even when you think you know them well. It has made me extremely sensitive to anything that could be remotely construed as subterfuge. You did deceive me, but I should not have been so harsh in my treatment of you.” He bent toward her. “I hope you can understand and forgive me.”

  She caught a fresh wave of his disturbing scent. “Am I to understand that you now believe my explanation?” She pronounced each syllable with exaggerated formality.

  “All the evidence supports your claim that our assignation was spontaneous.”

  His gaze was fixed on her face. She hoped the heat in her cheeks did not mean she was blushing under his scrutiny.

  “I found no evidence in your files that you were connected with Hector Rivera or that you had used any information you might have found in my papers in support of Rivera’s lawsuit.”

  “Really.” Roxanne’s voice was acid with sarcasm.

  “I do want to assure you that I destroyed my copies of your client records. I had no intention of using any of that information. Your own financial information is equally safe.”

  “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

  He smiled, ignoring her animosity. “I must admit that reading through your computer files was an unusual but efficient way of getting to know you. You’re serious about your work, but you have a good sense of humor. Your friends are loyal and concerned. Your mother is insistent. Your ex-fiancé was a bore—you’re well rid of him.”

  He was a cocky, arrogant bastard.

  “I’d like a chance to start over with you.” He rested his hand on her thigh. The heat of it penetrated through her thin pants. Every nerve ending was aware of his touch. She could see in his smile that he knew the effect he had on her. He acted as though he could have her with the flick of his finger.

  She pushed his hand away and stood. “I’ve heard enough.”

  “Roxanne, please sit down. You haven’t finished your wine.” He reached for her, but she stepped away.

  “I’ve heard your heartfelt apology.” She smirked. “That old saying ‘this too shall pass’ certainly applies here. It’s passed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”

  She strode out of the lounge, across the hall and straight onto an open elevator. The door closed. The button for her floor was lit. She leaned back against the wall, half listening to the chatter of her fellow passengers.

  Carlos’ apology was meaningless. So what if he had reason to doubt her integrity. He should never have done what he had. He could take his disturbing scent and his handsome face and turn his charm on someone else. She was finished with him.

  The elevator door opened on her floor. She got out and headed to her room.

  It was true Rivera was not to be trusted. Roxanne had tried to sort the puzzle pieces after her meeting with Bardon Collins. Rivera must have made some kind of alliance with Murkley, an alliance he had tried to hide from Carlos, an alliance that had quite possibly led to the ruin of the Dover Key Development and perhaps the death of Carlos’ business partner Spencer Marshall. Ines’ role was less obvious, but she seemed to have switched allegiance from Rivera to Murkley. Murkley was evil—anyone w
ho was his ally was suspect. From the flowchart she’d seen in Carlos’ hotel room she knew he knew that Rivera and Murkley were connected. With all that as background, no wonder he’d suspected Roxanne when he found out she had a relationship with Rivera. Before then, he’d been courteous to her—courteous and charming and passionate.

  Roxanne bit her lip. Why the hell was she excusing his behavior? She could not, would not forget what he had done to her—her fear, her pain, her humiliation! She leaned her head against the door to her room. She sighed heavily. She had to put all thoughts of him out of her mind. She reached for her room key in her pocket, and then remembered that she’d left her key in her shoulder bag. And the shoulder bag? She’d left that in the lounge next to her chair. “Damn!”

  She took the elevator down to the lobby. The elevator door opened and there was Carlos, holding her bag.

  She reached for it. He pulled it away.

  “You can have your bag back, but first you have to kiss me.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  His smile widened. “I know but those are my terms. One kiss. On the lips.”

  She glared at him.

  “Come on, Roxanne. You didn’t find kissing me so unpleasant before.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh and moved closer to him.

  “Not out here.” He stepped back a few feet and led her into a dimly lit hallway.

  She followed slowly, ignoring the warnings that rang in her head.

  “There is something I have to tell you before you give me that kiss.” He looked down at her, suddenly serious. “If I were scum, I wouldn’t have come to see you tonight. I wouldn’t have apologized. I’m here because I can’t stop thinking about you, about the way you feel, the way you taste. I haven’t felt this way about a woman in a long time. And I think you feel the same about me, despite everything. I think, that is, I hope, you still want me as much as I want you.” He smiled. “Now you can kiss me.”