The Sublime Miss Paige (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  She didn’t have much experience with men. After all, she was only thirty-two and had wasted eight years on Matt. Her most arousing memory had been during a college break in Daytona Beach. She had witnessed two men doing unnatural, erotic things to each other in an alley. But boy, had she longed to join in. Great. My most sensual experience, and I was just a spectator.

  She was excited by the activities suggested in the menu but also afraid of them.

  Willow wasn’t even aware that her jaw was hanging open until a figure appeared in the office doorway. She looked up stupidly, making a noise that approximated “eh?”

  The silhouette was delicious enough to take Willow’s mind off the menu for a few seconds. He was tall and lean, a “long, cool drink of water” as they said in the west. A drip of sweat rolled down between her breasts. This was one thing she already disliked about the Coachella Valley. She wasn’t slender enough to wear the fashions that the hundred degree June weather required, so she felt very self-conscious in sleeveless, low-cut shirts. She wore them nevertheless, because the air conditioning wasn’t functioning yet. And this man’s level, assessing gaze made her feel highly self-conscious. It was as though he had X-ray vision and could see her thunder thighs through her flippy miniskirt.

  When he stepped into the office away from the backlit doorway, she could see he was a stunning man, with the chiseled features of a Marlboro stud. His closely-shaven auburn hair looked soft like a brush. Although he wore a button-down jean material shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows like some sort of professional, she could tell in an instant he was built, cut and carved like a turkey. “Mrs. Paige,” the man assumed, with a bit of a drawl. He almost sounded Irish.

  “Miss Willow Paige,” she corrected him.

  He reached out a hand for her to shake. “Steffen Jung.”

  It occurred to her. This is the guy Jaclyn warned me about. The Norman Fell fan who was looking for smut magazines. This might be the artifact he’s looking for. Willow dropped the menu back into the file drawer and slammed it shut. She wasn’t about to sell the menu. She shuddered to think the menu had anything to do with Norman Fell.

  Smiling artificially, she stood and shook his manly hand with her clammy one. “Yes. You’re the guy looking for some Three’s Company memorabilia.”

  He frowned. “Three’s Company? That show with John Ritter?”

  Willow was less self-assured now. “The show with Norman Fell?” It was more a question than a statement.

  Steffen grinned seductively. “Well, Norman Fell was a member of Frank Sinatra’s Rat Pack. That would explain why someone would be here looking for some memorabilia of his.”

  “You’re kidding me. The super on Three’s Company was a Rat Packer? Well, if I would’ve known that, I would’ve named a suite after him. Which artifact exactly are you looking for? I’ll let you know if I’ve come across it.”

  “Well, as much as I’d like to find Mrs. Roper’s housecoat, I’m actually here to sign off on your building renovation.”

  “Ah, excuse me? Sign off on what, exactly?”

  “Oh.” Steffen took a business card from his front shirt pocket and handed it to Willow.

  The card was steamy, having been against his chest. Automatically, Willow’s pussy shivered with delight, and she imagined she could smell his musky sweat emanating from the damp card.

  Steffen Jung

  Chief Building Inspector

  City of Palm Springs

  Oh, dear. He was here to inspect her plumbing, not ask for a Cream Pie.

  Chapter Two

  Steffen was amused by the beautiful woman’s cluelessness. He was carrying a clipboard and had about a hundred keys jangling from a belt loop of his 501 jeans. He thought it was pretty obvious that he was a building inspector and not a memorabilia collector. Steffen was very familiar with those celebrity vultures who crawled all over construction sites, looking for schmaltzy items from the fifties or sixties when Palm Springs was in its heyday. Steffen himself had an intense interest in preserving mid-century architecture and loved to help owners get the remodeling details just right for the era. He hated those celebrity vultures with a passion. They were only in it for the bucks. Whenever Steffen stumbled across an artifact, he either made sure the owner preserved it or gave it to a museum.

  He said, “I just want to see how you’re coming on your improvements.” He looked at his checklist. “HVAC, the swimming pool, plumbing. Looks like the last guy out here never signed off on your Phase I electrical. Let’s start with the circuit panel, make sure it’s properly grounded out and won’t electrocute anyone.”

  “Circuit panel? Uh, I think I know where that is. I think it’s actually in a storage area next to the Cesar Romero Room.” Miss Paige turned and looked down at a vintage turquoise filing cabinet as though maybe it contained the key to the Cesar Romero Room. From this angle Steffen could appreciate the slope of her shapely ass. Her hips flared beautifully from her waistline, and her clingy short skirt swayed when she moved.

  He chuckled. “The Cesar Romero Room? I’d like to see some recent plans for this building too. I could help you naming some rooms, for example. I am sort of an aficionado of mid-century modernist buildings. The Coachella Valley has the highest concentration of them in the world. I’m on the executive board of the Palm Springs Modern Committee. You might want to join, too, seeing as you’ve got an obvious interest in preserving that era.”

  She turned back to him, chipper now, having apparently decided not to open the file cabinet. She, too, had a belt slung low on her lovely hips, with almost the same amount of keys as Steffen had. She fingered them as she led the way back into the breezeway. “That does sound intriguing, Mr. Jung. I haven’t been here long—I just chose Last Chance, really, because it was cheaper than Palm Springs proper. I lived in Florida near Gainesville my entire life until recently. When I saw this rundown motel I just knew I had to have it. This area has a lot of similarities to Florida, actually.”

  Steffen peeked into a few rooms that were somewhat furnished. He saw pieces by Eames—or Eames knockoffs at least—Lasky and McCobb. White globe pendant lamps, burnt orange pop-art fabric, metal wall sculptures, and the clean lines of Scandinavian wood were highly featured. He thought he spied a Steve Reiner original chaise longue in one room. “You’ve done a good job. Do you have a David Niven Room?”

  Turning, she looked at him curiously. “You’re kidding me. Don’t tell me David Niven was a Rat Packer. I guess you really could tell me a lot about this era. I do have a Swifty Lazar Room,” she said proudly.

  “Actually, Sinatra hated the term ‘Rat Pack.’ He called it ‘that stupid phrase.’”

  Steffen immediately regretted that he had crushed the girl. She stopped walking. Her open, trusting face wrinkled in disappointment, framed so prettily by long ash-blonde hair. “Well. I suppose I’ll have to change the name of my Rat Pack Suite.”

  Steffen said cheerily, “I saw you have a pétanque court.” Pétanque was a game like bocce ball gaining popularity in the valley. Willow’s lovely new gravel court was on a knoll by a pristine lawn with an expansive view of the San Jacinto Mountains. Steffen could see she had a flair for hotel management. Seeing the court and lawn made him immediately want to sit at the poolside bar and order a Bellini or gimlet.

  His ruse worked. Willow continued walking and said happily, “Yes, I’m going to sling some hammocks out there between palm trees. You don’t sound American. How’d you come to like this style of architecture?”

  “I was born in Heidelberg but raised in County Kerry, Ireland.”

  Willow paused, about to fit the key into the utility room door. She seemed so entranced with Steffen’s background her fingers just hovered near the keyhole. “Ah. Army brat?”

  “Yes. We moved to Palm Springs when I was in high school.” Steffen’s dad was an army engineer who had praised him, given him the confidence to succeed—the self-assurance required to bed hundreds of women. Suddenly, though, just
meeting Willow Paige made him take a different tack. He needed to step more gently with her. He couldn’t just toy with her. She wasn’t that easy.

  “I see. That’s why I couldn’t pinpoint your accent.” She looked so long at him she seemed to have forgotten about the key. Her eyes grew soft and moist and she seemed fixated by his mouth, a feature he’d always hated. He thought his mouth was grim, his lips too thin, so he tried to compensate by smiling a lot.

  He pointed at a nearby closed door. “The Cesar Romero Room.”

  She blinked. “Yes! How’d you know that?”

  “The plaque on the door was a giveaway,” he suggested.

  Once inside the utility room, Steffen inspected the circuit panel. Everything looked properly grounded out. Next he wanted to check if the completed plumbing was up to code, look at venting ducts in the kitchen, and check the automatic sprinkler system. An inspector beneath Steffen had signed off on the Phase I framing and sheetrock, but Steffen wanted to see the final phases of this retro beauty himself.

  “This is weird,” said Willow in a faraway voice.

  Steffen chuckled, scribbling on a form on his clipboard. “That’s not a phrase that a permit applicant usually uses around an inspector.” But when he looked up, it was his turn to gasp in surprise.

  Willow stood with hands on hips, examining the contraption. “What is it?”

  Steffen knew exactly what it was. He had game, for better or worse. He knew the ins and outs. If he hadn’t seen it all as an inspector, he had personal experience with St. Andrew’s Crosses. Black, padded two-by-fours were crossed and bolted to header beams at a height of about seven feet. The builder had rendered it moveable by attaching it to a supporting frame with wheels. The footrest would render it more stable, Steffen could see. The builder had smartly bolted suspension cuffs at a reasonable height so that even a short woman wouldn’t suffer unduly when strapped in.

  “Hm,” said Steffen, examining the cuffs with a professional air. “Fleece lined. Looks like real fleece, too.”

  Willow frowned at him. “What is it? I promise you, Mr. Inspector, I’ve never seen this thing before in my life, and I’ve been inside this utility room, obviously.”

  Steffen watched her face carefully for a reaction. “It’s a bondage cross.” Understanding slowly spread over her face. “See these cuffs? Because of the angle of the cross, the submissive wouldn’t actually have to dangle, but the builder went through the trouble of using suspension cuffs which reduce the chance for injury. See? Her feet would actually rest on this foot board—”

  “I see!” Willow backed away with arms crossed in front of her abdomen in a protective stance. Her eyes flashed with shock, as though Steffen had built the contraption himself. “I promise you I have no idea what it’s doing in my establishment! It wasn’t here before!”

  Steffen held his hands up in a calming gesture. “Miss, miss. It’s all right. I’m not going to cite you for it. It’s hardly against the law between consensual adults.”

  She was calmer now. “I know. I just didn’t want you to think that I…condoned or planned…This is not that sort of establishment!”

  Steffen chuckled. “I didn’t think it was, Miss Paige! It’s obviously a leftover attraction from this place’s glory days as a bordello. It’s actually an exciting find, I think.”

  Willow seemed to even warm to the odd structure now. She smiled a little as she examined it from all angles. With a wicked glint in her eye, she asked, “And how do you know it’s a ‘her’ who would be attached to this cross? Hm? Why not a ‘he’?”

  She was a strange one! First protesting that she was not a regular user of the St. Andrew’s Cross—as though he would assume she had brought it with her from Florida to store in a utility room—and now making slyly erotic insinuations! Steffen casually gripped the padded header bar with one hand and looked down at the little minx. It must be over a hundred in the stifling utility room with no AC, and a rivulet of sweat dampened her yellow T-shirt between her breasts. Her bra must have been soaked because the outline of her nipples clearly stood out. He shouldn’t be noticing these things about a permit applicant in a work environment. But it was hard to ignore her voluptuous form, her sublime, almost angelic face. “Indeed, Miss Paige.”

  She became even bolder. “Call me Willow.”

  “Willow. Indeed, why not a fellow? See, a submissive could be faced either way. Toward the cross, or with his back to the cross. Each position has different pros and cons.”

  Her intrigue was plain. “I don’t want you to think I’m a complete prude.”

  “The people who protest that they’re not prudish are usually the ones who are. It’s all right. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I know today’s modern world puts pressure on people to be so-called ‘open-minded.’ Lots of people just aren’t cut from that cloth.”

  She stuck out a stubborn lower lip. She had to look at his clavicle to make her next confession. “I may have just wasted eight years with a, uh, an unimaginative dull man—”

  “Vanilla.”

  As expected, she looked confused. “Yes, boring and flavored like vanilla. But don’t think I’m inexperienced. I had an experience in Daytona Beach I’ll never forget. Things get pretty crazy there during spring break, believe you me.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Why did she care what he thought? That was an encouraging sign. A woman with no interest in him wouldn’t give a shit what he thought. “What happened in Daytona Beach?”

  Willow looked from side to side as though someone was eavesdropping, and she lowered her voice. She even gripped the St. Andrew’s Cross, too. “Well. I was coming out of a nightclub around midnight, you know, through the side door that leads into an alley. Of course I was with two girlfriends, I’d never go clubbing that late alone, but they were so drunk they were sort of stumbling ahead of me. I noticed two men behind a parked car. One was leaning against the wall, but the other was down on his knees and—”

  “All right!” It sounded as though Gomer Pyle had just stepped into the utility room. Even the fellow’s silhouette made him look like Bart Simpson’s bus driver. His spindly arms stuck out from an oversize T-shirt, and his long dark hair was like an unkempt pyramid. “Ronnie Dobbs here, at your service. Is this the place I come to appraise Norman Fell’s watch? Hoo-wee! It’s hotter than a two-peckered billy goat in here! Oh Lord, did I interrupt something? Someone said a Miss Willow Paige was down here? Wow-wee, that sure is some well-made bondage cross. Ha-ha! Well, lookie here, a Betty Boop love meter!”

  Instinctively, Steffen stepped between Willow and the intruder. The fellow had round, bulging cartoon eyes, and he wore long shorts that would have been at home on a Lil’ Rascal. “Listen here. Miss Paige is in a meeting. Why don’t you just march back down the hall to her office and wait for her there?”

  The goofball cringed back in mock fear. “Well, well! I’d say you’re more of a too-hot-to-handle lover boy than a Frigidaire!”

  What was this idiotic appraiser going on about? Having been raised around military men, Steffen knew the value of manners. But having been raised around military men, he also knew the value of a well-placed fist. “Listen here, you half-witted twat—”

  Willow insinuated herself between the men. “I think he’s talking about that Betty Boop love meter over there, Steffen.”

  Steffen blinked and looked. Willow was right. A vintage slot machine against the wall depicted Betty Boop asking, “Hot how are you?” Apparently one of ten answers was “lover boy.”

  Ronnie Dobbs wiped his brow. “I didn’t mean no harm. It’s hotter than a pair of sweatpants full of barbecue, Lord. Sometimes I just can’t help insulting people. I had a very rough childhood, so people usually let me get away with it. I think that’s why I like to collect old-timey toys and suchlike. It just brings me back to a more innocent time, you know, buddy?”

  “I suppose,” Steffen said grudgingly. He knew that was why he was an aficionado of mid-century architecture. It symbolized more inno
cent times, when people did healthy, wholesome things and were way more easily amused.

  But Ronnie Dobbs just had to continue on. “Times when people played with Transformers, back when you could be satisfied with a good ole bottle of Night Train or Thunderbird, you know? Back when your old lady couldn’t have you arrested just by pointing a finger at you and saying ‘Officer, I swear he just bashed me in the head with that six-pack of Old Milwaukee.’ Shee, I haven’t drank an Old Milwaukee in three years, how would that bitch know—”

  Steffen finally exploded. “All right, that’s it!” Grabbing Mr. Dobbs by the front of his shirt, he gave him the bum’s rush out the door of the utility room. He didn’t set him loose in the hallway, either, but continued hustling him down the hallway. Ronnie half-walked and half-flew by the seat of his pants. “We’ve heard enough, you twisted bugger! Miss Paige doesn’t want to sell you any damned wristwatch. I don’t want to see you hanging around here anymore, hear me? And I’m gonna be around here plenty, keeping an eye out.”

  “You can’t do this to me!” Ronnie Dobbs wailed as he was ejected toward the parking lot. Steffen wanted to follow, to see what kind of vehicle he got into and make note of his license plate number. “I’m an honest memorabilia collector looking for artifacts! I ain’t a sleazebag like those douchefaces who try and make money off other people’s sorrows!”

  Steffen jammed his hands onto his hips. “Oh, yeah? Then why do you want Norman Fell’s watch?”

  “I keep it! I collect them! I’m the keeper of the collectibles, like!”

  “Well, it’s not going to do anyone any good sitting in your closet now, is it?” Steffen pointed with a stiff arm. “Get out of here, you dirtbag! There are plenty of workers in there with heavy equipment I could order down on your head, so get!”