Excerpt

Pivoting on one stiletto, she managed to grope her way down the hallway, through a couple of twists and turns in the pitch-blackness until she stumbled onto a small sign, lit by a night-light, that proclaimed, “This way out.”

Relieved, but with a touch of regret, Annabelle grasped the doorknob and walked into a dimly lit room that looked like a solarium. Glass walls, glass ceiling, large plants and ferns and tropical trees in huge pots, wicker furniture with plump, brightly colored cushions. Men and women in all kinds of costumes standing in small groups and holding glasses. A bar, a bartender.

Just what the doctor ordered.

She sauntered—she hoped that’s what it looked like—to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic, tall glass. Some of the men looked at her with avid interest, some of the women nodded or smiled, but no one acted as though she had a scarlet letter pasted on her chest.

Annabelle felt as though she’d passed some kind of test. She took several gulps of the refreshing drink.

And saw Mr. Smith approaching her.

But holy Hannah, not in her wildest imaginings did she visualize the pagan god striding towards her. His black hair, untamed and curling down to his neck—he must use a gel to keep it in place during work hours, she thought—was somewhat held down by a beaded Indian headband. His face and muscular, hairless torso were decorated with streaks of white, ochre and several other shades of a powdery substance. As to a costume, the only thing covering him was a tan leather loincloth held up by another beaded band riding low on his slim hips. She could see the unbroken line of his golden olive skin from chest to hip to thigh to moccasins on his long feet. She gulped. No tan line.

He was magnificent.

And he was standing in front of her, devouring her with his eyes.

“Mr. Smith,” she whispered, the awe in her voice evident.

“You are a goddess,” he responded, and bent his head down to brush a kiss on her unresisting mouth.

She opened her mouth, her mind, and her body language to him. Accepting her unspoken invitation, he deepened the kiss, delving delicately with his tongue. She felt the glass being removed from her hand then he pulled her to him, breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and wrapped strong arms tightly around her. He smelled like fine cognac mixed with leather and earth and man. It intoxicated her more than any liquor she could imbibe.

A tiny part of her mind wondered briefly if her costume was dry-cleanable, as the war paint on his chest was probably transferring itself to her dress—after all, she was rubbing against him like a cat. Then feeling the impressive bulge of his cock under the leather loincloth, she forgot all about the complexities of clothing. She did that to him! To the untouchable, unemotional Mr. Lowell Smith.

She felt herself being waltzed backward. Blinking her eyes open for an instant, she realized he was steering her behind a thick patch of bamboo, in effect screening them from other guests. She closed her eyes and just let herself feel.