“But I won’t be participating in the programs offered here at the resort,” Kiley protested to Henri Bouvier. “Why do I need to be interviewed by Mr. St. John?”
“You may not wish to indulge in the pleasures offered here, Ms. Trevor,” Bouvier replied, “but you will be utilizing resort personnel. Mr. St. John wants to make sure your presence here is…shall we say? Kosher?”
Kiley frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be kosher, Mr. Bouvier? I am here as Dr. Carstairs’s assistant and—”
“If you wish to stay at the Cay and perform your duties as the good doctor’s assistant, then you must meet with Mr. St. John and acquire his approval,” Henri interrupted in a firm, no-argument tone.
Letting out an annoyed breath, Kiley put her hands on her hips, lowered her head in defeat and sighed again. “All right,” she said, looking up. “But I don’t see the need.”
Henri shrugged. “It isn’t up to us to question his orders, Ms. Trevor. I learned long ago not to do that.”
Irritated even more by Bouvier’s subservient attitude, Kiley pursed her lips. The more she heard about St. John, the less inclined she was to meet with him. That his manner was one of a despot, a dictator of this tropical paradise did not set well with her. Added to that impression of him, his method of carving out an empire for himself by selling male flesh to wealthy, bored women made him little more than an expensive pimp to her way of thinking.
“All right,” she said again. “Let’s get it over with then.”
Henri frowned.
Tough, huh? Kiley thought. Apparently, a woman unwilling to meet with the great Julian St. John was a rarity. If other women fell all over themselves and couldn’t wait to be ushered into the presence of the infamous lord of Mistral Cay, say hello to the woman who didn’t. Men who felt entitled had always rubbed her the wrong way. She didn’t like the superior attitudes and she suspected a man like St. John would have a brutal ego and pompous sense of self-importance.
“Fine,” she said under her breath. She’d meet with his lordship and slap him down a peg or two. Let him know she didn’t appreciate his highhanded ways.
“Please follow me,” Henri said, his scowl deepening as he heard Kiley’s exaggerated sigh of displeasure.
She barely glanced at the luxurious accoutrements they passed on the way to St. John’s office. The investigator part of her nature noted the beautifully carved panels of teak, the heavy gold damask drapes, the clearly expensive paintings gracing the walls and the exquisite fabrics on the seating arrangements. She took in the thick carpet underfoot, the pleasant smell of wisteria hanging in the air, the coolness of the wide hallway down which they moved, the lambent light that cast lush shadows from the tall potted palms they passed. While such trappings impressed her, she needed to maintain a mien of being unaffected by the display of the vast wealth and discriminating taste.
Henri stopped before a wide double door, the surface of which was carved with a scene similar to that in the murals in Kiley’s bedroom. He reached up to straighten his tie before knocking and Kiley wondered why a man would dress so formally at what was tantamount to a male brothel. This morning’s entertainment included watching several guests and their helpers frolicking naked at the beach. Held captive by the sight of deeply tanned masculine male bodies, she had forgotten breakfast to watch the revelers. Her stomach reminded her of that oversight just as a deep masculine voice called, “Come” from beyond the door.
Bouvier reached for the brass handle and swung the door open, stepping aside to allow Kiley to enter. She glanced up at him, realizing he was not going to accompany her, and squared her shoulders.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she mumbled to herself and entered St. John’s lair.
At first she thought she was in the room alone. It was a beautifully designed office with a huge mahogany desk behind which stood a wide burgundy leather chair, its rounded back to her. Behind the desk was a sweeping bank of windows that looked out over the ocean. In front of the desk was a comfortable looking club chair done in a lovely jacquard pattern of rose, teal and pale yellow.
“Please have a seat, Ms. Trevor.”
Kiley was further bothered by the man’s lack of manners. He was sitting with his back to her, ostensibly, staring out the windows. She clasped her hands in her lap and decided she would be just as blasé about this so-called interview as was he.
“Tell me,” he said, still not turning around, “what do you call the midline seam that runs along the underside of a man’s shaft, Ms. Trevor?”
Kiley blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is it the frenulum?” he queried. “The seminal vesicles?”
He swung his chair around. “Or is it the jaculum?”
Kiley found herself staring into a face that was by far the most handsome she had ever seen; a purely masculine face with bold eyebrows that arched over eyes the color of dark topaz. Sensuous lips—the bottom fuller than the top—were perfectly framed beneath high cheekbones and a nose that would be a plastic surgeon’s dream. Strong, even white teeth, ears that were positioned perfectly against St. John’s head over which a thick mane of sleek black hair curled in careless abandon and an athletic neck that suggested a youthful regimen of bridging exercises cast an undeniable picture of health, vitality and male supremacy. Only his jawline hinted at a nature that could be rife with danger.
“Well?” he prodded. “Which is it?”
Kiley cleared her throat. “I don’t have a clue what a jaculum is, but the midline seam that runs on the underside of your penis, Mr. St. John, is called the raphe.”
St. John smiled and that smile sent a tremor down Kiley’s spine.
“And the seminal vesicles?” he asked.
Glad for the crash course in penal anatomy Dr. Carstairs had given her on the plane trip to the Cay, Kiley relaxed in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.
“They are on the sides of the scrotal sac. They feel like little twigs.” She arched a brow. “And what, pray tell, is a jaculum?”
St. John’s smile widened. “Perhaps I meant ejaculum,” he responded.
“Well, if that’s what you meant, that’s just another word for cum, Mr. St. John. Cum is—”
“I know what it is, Ms. Trevor,” he said, cutting her off.
Kiley lifted her chin. “I’m sure you do,” she said.
He made a steeple with his fingers and rested the tips beneath his chin as he braced his elbows on the chair arms. “How many—would you estimate—cocks have you photographed for Dr. Carstairs?”
She could feel the blush creeping into her cheeks and from the knowing look in his stare, she knew he could see the telltale color. Realizing he was watching her intently, ready to pounce on a lie, she shrugged. “None as of yet.”
“Really?” he asked. “But you do know what you’re looking for?”
There was no mistaking the twinkle in his eye and although she wasn’t sure if he was teasing or goading her, she cocked her head to one side.
“Well, let’s see—hopefully a long, fleshy piece of cartilage with a bush of crinkly pubic hair on top and a heavy scrotum hanging beneath. Some will be circumcised and some won’t. If they are, the head of the shaft will be apparent. If not, it will be necessary to have the subject pull—”
“I believe you know what you’re looking for,” he said, amusement turning his eyes a lighter shade of gold.
“Yeppers, I do,” she said brightly. “Cocks of all different sizes and shapes and colors and—”
“When would you like to start?” he interrupted harshly.
She was taken aback by his strident tone and slightly unnerved by the sudden hardening of his features.
“Will I have access to the resort grounds or will you send the men to me to photograph?” she asked.
His gaze narrowed. “Which do you prefer?”
Though it was a lie, she said she had to admit she would like to see what the resort was like. In truth, she didn’t want to be alone in a room with a man whose penis was only inches from her face. Out in the open, with others around, seemed a bit less intimidating although she feared it would be more embarrassing.
He stared at her for a long moment then leaned back in his chair. “I will have Henri find a spot for you on the beach. At any given time there are always helpers around. Do you have a preference of what size or shape or color you’d like to start with?”
She wished she could tell him she needed to see only the penises of those men who were white and thirty-seven years of age but then he would know she was there for a purpose other than what had been put forth.
“I’ll leave that up to you,” she said, ducking her head and pretending to flick lint from her cotton skirt.
“Unless it is in the fantasy scenario, the helpers are not allowed to speak with the guests,” he said. “Since you have opted not to participate in the pleasures offered at the Cay, the men will not answer any questions you put to them, so don’t bother trying.”
Kiley’s eyebrows shot up. “Not even Steve?” she inquired. “You know, the bellboy?”
Julian St. John’s eyes narrowed. “I know who the hell Steve is.”
“Since he and I have already spoken can’t I—?”
“Steven is not one of the helpers, but if you would like to photograph his cock, feel free,” Julian snapped. He got up from the chair. “If you want to question him about the size and shape and color of his prick, by all means do so. I’m sure he’d love to tell you all about it.”
With that, the owner of Mistral Cay skirted the desk and strode angrily to the door, slamming the portal shut behind him.
Kiley sat there for a moment her head swiveled toward the closed door. She was stunned by both St. John’s abrupt manner as well as the fury she had glimpsed in his molten glower. It was almost as though he was exhibiting jealousy, male possessiveness, but since she did not know him, had never met him before today, she knew that could not be the cause of his obvious anger. He certainly couldn’t be enamored of her on such short acquaintance unless…
Unless Steve is his lover, she thought.
That notion didn’t sit well with her and she slumped in the chair, considering it. Anything was possible, but she hated thinking he batted for the other team.
With that sobering thought, she left his office without slamming the door.
* * * * *
“Give Steve Bertran a couple of weeks off,” Julian ordered Henri. “All expenses paid to Miami or L.A. or wherever the fuck the little shit wants to go.”
Henri knew better than to ask why. He simply made a notation in the book he was never seen without. “When would you like me to start sending helpers to Ms. Trevor?”
“You’ve picked a spot?” Julian snapped.
“As you suggested, it is within full view of the cabanas. I have provided a small tent and have had her equipment set up.”
“Equipment never used before now,” Julian said with a snort.
“The price tags were still on two of the lenses.”
Another vicious snort came from Julian. “Did you place the call as I asked?” he demanded.
Henri sighed heavily. “Julian, don’t I always do as you ask?”
Julian ignored the question. “Have the helpers meet with me in about twenty minutes. If you need to pull them from a scenario, do it.”
Such an order was outside the norm and Henri winced. “Julian, won’t that be impinging on the ladies’ entertainment? I mean—”
“Don’t argue with me, Bouvier. Just do it.”
Henri stiffened his posture. “As you wish.” He clicked his heels together, turned with military precision and marched off, his back ramrod straight.
Julian ran a hand through his hair and tugged. He hated speaking to his best friend in such a manner but his nerves were beginning to get the best of him.
As was an acute jealousy that, until today, he had never experienced.
“Steve Bertran won’t be showing you his wares, sweetness,” he swore as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jeans.