by Christa Wick
About London
Bound in New York, blindsided in London -- Riona Kehoe is about to meet her rope master!
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This seventh installment in the Training Her Curves series is the second story focusing on Riona Kehoe. Wondering about the reading order? Chicago (1) and Miami (2) focus on Jake and Alexa. Boston (3) brings Dylan and Marjolein together for a time, while Dallas (5) concludes Jake and Alexa. Kinbaku (6) awakens Riona's senses for the first time with her rope master, followed by Geneva (7), in which Dylan Kehoe is finally tamed.
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Training Her Curves - London
"All I'm saying is that something has to change!"
Standing in line at the registration desk of a London hotel, my head jerked up at the shrill and emphatic voice of the middle-aged businessman in front of me. I had been half-listening with bored impatience to the previously calm conversation he was holding with another, much older, man while I mulled over my invisible status at a hotel I partly owned.
His pitch returning to an acceptable and clearly embarrassed level, the man closest to me continued to push his agenda. "You can't deny that their trade surplus is hurting the rest of us."
I glanced at my shiny, expensive boots to hide the eye roll I could feel coming on. The two were engaged in some debate over kicking Germany out of the Eurozone. The subject wasn't the least bit interesting to me, but I had apparently arrived at the start of a global conference on the economy. Large signs in the lobby advertised the schedule of events and the entire check-in process for all guests was being slowed down as the registration clerks had to confirm conference status and hand out special packets to attendees.
"Change is the last thing the markets need right now," the older man countered.
Still only half-listening, my head slowly danced from side-to-side as I traced a line along the marble flooring with the toe of my boot. The men's esoteric conversation of currency fluctuations, trade surpluses and comparative advantage didn't interest me, but I could appreciate the timeless question of embracing change or running hard and fast away from it.
The last three months of my life seemed like a constant stream of changes. Two women, one I had known and adored for a little over two years and another who was slowly thawing to my immense charms, were about to become my sisters-in-law. That change had my seal of approval. But the joint wedding ceremony was stuck in a holding pattern because of another change that ripped my heart to shreds.
Mishka Nazarov -- bodyguard, giant teddy bear and beloved family friend -- was missing.
I still didn't have a full grasp of the facts, I only knew that my brothers were trying to take down a miserable piece of shit named Maxwell King, that King had business dealings with even nastier people who were likely part of a Russian crime syndicate, and that Mishka had come across a name, a woman's name, that had him hopping on a plane bound for Moscow two hours later. Contact with him had shut down three days after his departure and there was no trace of him to be found, not a single swipe of his bank card or a ping off his cell phone -- absolutely nothing.
I blinked, my chest tightening as I tried to force aside the dark thoughts I'd been avoiding for weeks, especially whenever I was in public. A full blown crying jag with witnesses would hurt the Kehoe brand, even if the tears were reasonably shed.
I tilted my head upward and feigned an interest in the antique chandeliers that graced the hotel's lobby. When my eyes grew mistier, I searched for something to get angry about. I might have been unlike my older brothers in so many ways, but we handled anger in an identical manner -- calm, cold, calculating, and utterly rational. If I could get mad, I wouldn't break down in the hotel lobby and make a spectacle of myself. The tears would abate until I reached the sanctuary of my suite.
A suite in which I should have already been ensconced.
As odd as it might seem, relaxation started to seep through me as I found something to be angry over -- or at least irritated. I wasn't so spoiled or shallow that I could work up a proper hissy fit at what was likely an unknowing snub by the hotel staff. But I could get irritated that I was the only Kehoe who could walk into one of our hotels and not be recognized immediately. Half a dozen staff members would have already swarmed my half-brothers Dylan and Jake. But I had to wait in a lobby in a city I didn't want to be in at all, after my second terrifying plane ride in the last few months, all so I could talk face-to-face with a man I didn't want to ever talk to again -- Simon St. Simon.
Even his name was ridiculous!
I snorted, my nasal outburst startling the man in front of me. He had stopped arguing with the older gentleman and both men had their registration packets and room cards in hand. I waved the men out of the way, anxious that their dawdling would encourage someone in the lines on either side of mine to fill the small gap between them and the registration desk.
It didn't matter that I was standing in the VIP line. At a conference of economists with a string of advanced degrees to their name, every last one of them thought they were a VIP. Never mind that the woman they were jumping in front of owned slightly less than one sixth of the hotel.
My phone vibrated in my pocket as I reached the clerk. Whipping it out, I saw the call was from Marjolein Dekker, my oldest brother's fiancé and former executive assistant. She and Dylan were in Washington, D.C., as part of the effort to find Mishka.
"Hello, Gorgeous," I answered even as I braced against the possibility of terrible news. "What's the story, morning glory?"
"No story yet," Jo-Jo answered. "Big brother is behind a very big set of double doors talking with some under-secretary in the State Department and I'm waiting for a call back from a senior staffer from the Foreign Relations Committee."
The words came out as one long breath and she had to stop to suck in fresh air before asking, "How was the flight?"
"I am never flying again," I grumbled as I slid my passport across the polished wood to the waiting fingertips of the hotel clerk. It had been three months since my last plane ride and, just like the last time, it felt like a fiery crash had been narrowly avoided.
"Hun, you're in London," Marjolein deadpanned. "You know, the one in England?"
"I'll take a boat home, one filled with muscular, shirtless sailors." My head bobbed with certainty that just such a boat and crew were exactly what I needed to get me back to America.
"Those take a long time, don't they?" she asked from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
For one confused second, I thought she was talking about the sailors, in which case their taking a long time would be a positive factor for what I had in mind. The next second, the registration clerk was snapping her fingers impatiently. She snapped again and it took me a few stunned blinks to realize she wasn't making the sharp gesture at me but at the young man standing a few feet from the side of her desk.
"Take Miss Kehoe and her luggage up to the Princess Suite," the woman barked once she had captured the bellboy's attention.
Hearing the name of the room, I forgot that I was in public and groaned with soft contempt. The so-called Princess Suite was one of the many reasons I had been forced to strap my ample bottom into a tin can and cross an ocean, the gray skies above it filled with lightning and storm clouds that, combined with a moron in the control tower, had almost le
d to a mid-air collision.
"Riona -- are you still there?"
The voice came from the level of my hip. With the registration clerk's bossy and distracting snaps and memories of the harrowing flight, I had forgotten I had Jo-Jo on the phone.
"Sorry," I said, lifting the cell to my ear as I followed the bellboy toward the elevator. "I'm about to lose the connection. You'll let me know as soon as you can what the State Department says?"
"I will, hun," she confirmed. "Don't worry, we one-hundred-percent will find our Russian teddy bear and get him home safe."
Suppressing a sniffle at the idea her assurances might not come to pass, I managed a quick good-bye before the elevator doors closed and I lost the signal.
"You have a package waiting for you," the bellboy said, his words surprising me because I wasn't expecting any deliveries. "Took it up to the suite myself."
Frowning, I looked in his direction, my gaze glancing off his name tag. "What package, Jordan?"
"Don't know. It was really big but thin," he answered, his hands moving to indicate a width over four feet before he raised just one hand above his head to demonstrate the height. "Sort of like the framed movie posters they have at the theaters. Not too heavy though because I delivered it all on my own."
My mouth pushed forward in a pinch as I searched my memory for clues as to what the package might contain. The description sounded like something I'd have sent to my Dallas studio or maybe a runway event, but I didn't have any marketing or similar posters on order and I certainly wouldn't route them to London. I was only in Europe for a few short days to beat some design sense into Simon. After that, I would return to Dallas.
Knowing it was unlikely that someone at my company would have sent the package to London instead of Dallas, an unpleasant thought suddenly occurred. Of all the people in existence, only one had reason to send me something with the dimensions Jordan had just demonstrated. Three months prior, on the trip to New York with its turbulent landing, I had been photographed by Rick Wells for the purpose of his painting a portrait of me.
The photos and whatever painting Rick produced from them were not something I wanted to take through customs on my return trip to America. I had been naked for the entirety of the shoot, my body covered in a light sheen of sweat and bound in silken ropes by a man I didn't know and was blindfolded against seeing.
"Did you notice who sent the package?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm as conflicting emotions whipped through me. I felt the cold grip of anxiety then a warm flush of arousal. I had fallen a little bit in love, or maybe a whole lot in lust, on that trip. But my rope master was no more than a ghost who had manipulated my body to the most explosive orgasm I had ever achieved. I had no idea who he was, and, given the passage of time without a hint of contact, I likely never would.
"We're not supposed to pry, miss," Jordan answered.
I could tell by the look in his eyes that he had pried -- or otherwise knew something he was itching to tell me. I just hoped that he hadn't been curious beyond looking at the name of the sender. Before I could press him on the issue, the elevator doors opened and he gestured for me to exit ahead of him.
"Your suite is at the end of the hall, on the left."
I took a step forward, my knees belligerent. I would know the package's contents and the sender's identity soon enough, I chided myself. No need to fall tits over ass in front of the junior staff on my first visit to the London site. They'd be laughing at the fat little rich girl for months, if not years, afterward if I did.
Reaching the double doors to the suite, I stepped aside and allowed Jordan to swipe his access card. For a few short seconds, I avoided any thought of the mysterious delivery as I braced myself for the first view of the interior, dreading what St. Simon had done to the palette I had selected.
He had been eviscerating my design ideas on the suite for the last two months, taking the rich reds and purples and the dusky pinks I had settled upon and changing them to a ghastly yellow accented with blue and red. Basically, I had sent him samples of exotic, luxurious passion and he had replied with a palette that matched Snow White's dress.
The bellboy lightly touched my shoulder. "Are you okay, miss?"
I nodded, too stunned to speak after just a glimpse inside the room. All my color suggestions, every last inch of my design, greeted me with only a single change -- a dark, mauve-like pink had been replaced by a very particular cherry pink, a perfect cerise that I had only encountered in textiles once and had been searching for ever since.
Just a coincidence, Ree. No need to piss yourself over a coincidence.
"Miss?"
The bellboy's voice had lost most of its professional edge. He probably thought I was frozen by some kind of seizure or brain aneurysm.
"I'm fine, thank you." Blindly, I reached into my purse and pulled out a bill, not knowing until I saw the shocked grin erupt on Jordan's face that I had given him one of the larger denominations. I didn't care. I wanted him out so that I could find a paper bag and breathe into it before I began hyperventilating.
Except a fat tip is the worst way to get hotel staff to clear a room. That hundred pound note might as well have been printed on contact paper. Jordan's feet were glued to the plush, deep plum carpet that cushioned my steps into the room.
"Any room service or supplies?" He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card. "I'm on duty for the next four hours."
"Thank you, I'm all set." I took the card then ushered him toward the double doors, almost laying hands on him to speed his departure.
He countered my attempts with what probably qualified as a cheeky grin among the stiff-lipped British, one small dimple appearing to the right of his mouth. "Sure I can't help you unwrap the package? It's quite a bit taller than you."
The package -- fuck!
I had been so taken aback by the colors and what one of them might signal that I'd forgotten about the package. The presence of that particular shade of cerise, that perfect hex triplet #DE3163 of cherry pink, more than likely meant that my fears about the contents of the package were about to be proven true, and in the very worst way possible!
Just a coincidence, Ree. You did not let Simon St. Simon tie you up and bring you to climax while blindfolded!
"No!" I all but screeched, my hands darting for the edge of the doors so I could close Jordan out. "I've got it all in hand, thank you."
With the doors shut, I hastily flipped the security latch to make sure no hotel staff could enter. Then I power-waddled in my thigh-high leather boots to the center of the suite's living room. The space was big, more than four hundred square feet, which made it a suitable size for a real princess holding court.
Tall, wide windows, their silk drapes pulled back and colored the same deep plum of the carpet, allowed the feeble, gray-dipped light of a late London afternoon to enter the room. Wine-hued velvet covered the couch and two winged-back side chairs. A fragile desk of polished white ash and thin curving legs had been placed near the far wall. Next to it, in plain brown paper, the package waited, its size contrasting with the unimposing wrapping. I stepped in front of it, stretched out my arms and tilted my head upward for a rough measurement. It stood at least a foot and a half taller than me and had a width that was wider than the distance between the ends of my outstretched arms.
This was it -- the portrait I had agreed to sit for as part of Rick Well's payment for photographing my catalog. He had hinted I might never see it and now it was in a hotel room some thirty five hundred miles from his New York studio when he could hardly be expected to know I was visiting the United Kingdom.
Still just a coincidence...
Heart hammering against the back of my rib cage, I carefully worked the horizontal stripe of twine down the length of the frame, knowing I would have to have everything perfectly re-wrapped before I could allow any staff into the suite.
Another piece of twine wrapped around the portrait vertically. I only had enough patience and re
maining arm strength from all the stretching to carefully re-position it some ten inches off center so that I could peel a bit of the tape securing the paper.
I only wanted a little peek -- just enough of the contents visible to confirm it was the painting before I re-wrapped it tighter than a nun's ass.
Hearing the shriek of paper as some of it ripped diagonally, I winced and hoped the desk came equipped with a roll of tape. If I threw a sheet over the painting, the maids would only become more curious as to what hid beneath. One look by the staff and I wasn't sure I would ever be able to set foot in the hotel again.
Another rasping tear appeared in the wrapping paper as my hands refused to stop shaking. I placed my palms against my cheeks, reminding myself it wasn't the staff discovering my naked body rendered on canvas and oils that I was freaking out over. I had resigned myself to the possibility of an accidental public discovery before agreeing to Rick's terms.
Perhaps what had me freaking out was something else entirely. On the other side of the paper shielding the portrait beneath, the first glimpse of him -- my rope master -- could be waiting. The thought of him, a man I had no name for beyond the endearment of Baku I had given him while trying to hold onto my sanity from all the pleasure he delivered, turned me instantly wet.
Remembering it could be Simon, I turned dry just as fast.
Too have been tricked like that by one man I considered a friend and another I all but loathed was unbearable. Not to mention Dylan's feelings about St. Simon. My big brother would think I was the world's biggest idiot.
And on this point, he might just be right.
Dragging and pushing the white leather chair from the desk area, I climbed onto the seat, boots and all, and balanced precariously while I strong armed the twine closer to one corner. Returning the chair to the desk, I rummaged through the drawers, coming up with scissors, box cutters and a roll of tape.
Taking the box cutters, I carefully sliced the rest of the tape along the front seam. Pulling gently, I peered into the sliver of space to find a representation in oils of nothing more than my flesh. If I wanted to know whether Baku was included in the portrait, I would need to peel more of the wrapping paper to the side.