Page 4 of The VIP Package

“Hi,” I manage, just being polite.

“Hello!”

“Aren’t you pretty?” I continue past.

The bird tilts its head and squawks.“Cunnilingus.”

“No, thank you.”

There’s a thump from a room to my left. A sign on the wall says the spa’s to the right and the laundry facilities are straight down the hall.

Another loud clang suggests someone’s behind the closed door on my left. I pivot and reach for the handle.

“Hello?” I push it open, dragging my gym bag with me. “Anyone here?”

It’s some sort of boiler room. Big metal tanks huddle against dark concrete walls. Pipes snake the ceiling, forming a path that leads God knows where. I’m probably not meant to be here but screw it. They’re the ones who left the lobby unattended.

“Hello?”

Heavy footsteps thunder from somewhere down a long hall before there’s a crash and some heavier stomping.

Then a door flies open and in strides a man in blue Armani. He’s impeccably groomed, with a gray silk tie and sleek silver sideburns at his temples. Onyx and platinum cufflinks gleam at both wrists and the shoes on his feet are a high-polished crocodile leather. He’s incredibly handsome with that older-guy swagger I so often see in a zaddy.

Icy blue eyes lock with mine, then narrow in fury.

“Who the fuck are you?”

CHAPTER 2

ASHTON

Istare down the willowy redhead wearing a wispy white dress and the baffled expression of someone who expected Geoffrey the Butler and got Godzilla instead.

Or maybe Norman Bates.

She’s not answering my question, so I try again with more professional grace.

“Pardon me, that came out wrong.” I fix one of my cufflinks that’s turned sideways and watch her eyes dart to my sleeve. “Who the fuck are you,ma’am?”

She straightens to her full height of five-foot-nothing and I watch her jaw clench. “Real fucking polite,” she claps back. “If this is how you treat all your guests, it’s no wonder this place is deserted.”

Now she’s just pissing me off. “A guest,” I snarl, “would have a resort reservation. I can assure you, madam, that you do not.”

That steals some of the stiffness from her spine, but she puts it right back and tips up her chin. “I can assureyouthat your website malfunctioned when I attempted a last-minute booking. But the system showed unoccupied rooms, which I was able to book with a two p.m. arrival.” With a glance at her watch, she holds a pale wrist aloft in triumph. “It’s two-oh-two.”

She must be lying. Either that or there’s a glitch with the website. Someone on the tech team is getting fired. “Be that as it may, you donothave a reservation for the resort.”

“Are we seriously quibbling over a technicality?” The woman huffs. “I can show you my credit from Holyfield Properties, my room reservation, screenshots of my desired reservation dates, proof of vacation insurance, and the stupid zillion-page questionnaire with tick-marks beside all of my kinks and most passionate desires.”

She sounds passionate, all right. But it’s the rip-your-dick off brand, so I absolutely, positively shouldn’t ask to view the forms that detail her most intimate fantasies. That’s none of my business. Also, irrelevant.

“Let me see it.”

I expect her to hand me her phone, but she digs in her bag and yanks out a thick sheaf of papers. “The airport had a business center.” She thrusts the forms at me and I have no choice but to take them. “I’ve learned to always make printed copies.”

“I see.” I most definitely should not look at this.

Butshould notsare my personal weakness, so I let my eyes drop to the paperwork. The redhead’s creative, I’ll give her that. She’s ticked boxes for activities like skinny-dipping and nude sunbathing. She’s apparently open to group sex, plus some exhibitionist play. There’s a tick-mark for age gap, which isn’t the most common selection for guests. Our system defines it as a minimum gap of ten years, and I ponder who’s on the schedule this week.

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