Seduced: Den of Sin Boxed Set 1

by Mel Blue

  Will this fantasy weekend at his Uncle Henri’s hotel give him a second chance with his contemporary Amazon, or will her fear of rejection be a barrier to their reconnection?

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Hey, baby. I hope you know CPR, because you just took my breath away.”

  Karen Freeman knew she had great legs and an ass that wouldn’t quit, so it was no surprise when a guy in a Tulane sweatshirt, his jeans low on his hips and probably not a day over twenty-one, delivered one of the cheesiest lines she’d heard in a while. For a guy who was barely legal, he had all the goods, but she wasn’t interested in a scandal in the city that would soon become her home.

  Karen grabbed her lone checked bag from the conveyer belt. If this child wanted to impress her, he could have hefted her bag for her. “If all goes well, I could be teaching at your alma mater this spring. I’m pretty sure there’s a fraternization policy in place.”

  He clutched his heart again. “You wound me. Why do the good ones always have to be out of reach?”

  “Probably because no woman worth her salt wants to be hollered at in the middle of an airport. The trick is to make the pickup line so smooth, she doesn’t even realize you’re giving her one.” Karen didn’t wait to see his reaction. She turned and walked to the exit.

  Prior to her double mastectomy, she might have taken more stock in the young man’s attention. She might even have encouraged the appreciative glances from other men and a few women, as she navigated her way through the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. This would not have been foreign to pre-cancer Karen. In fact, she would have reveled in it, but no more.

  Although she was nearly six feet tall in heels, and she refused to diminish her stature by wearing flats, she knew her admirers showed her attention only for the appearance of being whole and perfect. But looks were deceiving. She’d left behind the life of the supermodel who posed for Sports Illustrated and Victoria’s Secret a long time ago.

  Despite everything she’d endured over the past decade, she still took meticulous care of herself. She’d been told more than once by more than a few men that she was a dead ringer for Mya, the R&B Singer, or by some bold men who remembered how she’d allowed herself to be objectified from her early teens to her early twenties, “that supermodel who got cancer and had to quit the biz.”

  At thirty-three, her time of entertaining spontaneous liaisons had been long over. In fact, her very presentation of the perfect female form was a lie. She was a couple of appendages short. A reality she awoke to every day.

  That was another reason she still questioned her sanity for agreeing to participate in the activities at The Beaudelaire Hotel to ring in the New Year. Seraphina Gibson, her sister Brandy’s friend from college, worked for the hotel in New Orleans’s famed Garden District.

  When her invitation had come a few months ago, she’d tried everything she could to get out of going, but Seraphina wasn’t having it. She’d called and walked Karen through every step of the preparations to participate in her first fantasy weekend at the hotel, which took on the sobriquet “The Den of Sin,” four times a year.

  “Don’t forget to fill out the questionnaire completely, Karen. This will help match you with someone so perfect, you’ll think we’ve hijacked your fantasies.” So, of course, Karen had answered every question. Even the ones about sex that were so detailed, they would make Dr. Ruth and Dr. Drew blush.

  Karen had decided to participate in the weekend at the urging of Brandy, who’d been convinced Karen wasn’t getting any. How could she tell her sister how wrong she was? She didn’t have the heart to tell her that on those rare occasions when she decided to indulge, it was on her own terms, in a dark hotel room.

  Karen emerged from the bowels of the busy airport to locate her mystery man, who also happened to be her ride. She was wearing her favorite charcoal gray wool suit and matching overcoat. If she were honest, the ensemble was a bit warm for the relatively mild southern winters in the Big Easy, but she’d come from below freezing weather in Baltimore. If she were being honest with herself, the suits were her armor. A way of keeping the flirting at bay. She hoped they said “back off” to the opposite sex.

  As with other liaisons in the past, the guy she was meeting for her fantasy had been vetted to do everything she was comfortable doing with her top on. She’d leave him behind when the weekend was over, and go back to her life as a history professor at Morgan State University, then on to her new life, and new position at Tulane.

  She hoped since an agreement was in place, he wouldn’t be like all the others who’d tried to insinuate themselves into her life. She wasn’t interested in what would ultimately disintegrate into failure when they found out the truth about their supermodel fantasy. Her ex-husband, Greg, a photographer she’d fallen in love with during the heyday of her modeling career, had taught her that handsome, interesting, and accomplished men wanted a whole woman. And that was a disappointment Karen would not set herself up for again.

  When Karen waffled about the health questionnaire that culminated in a full battery of tests for every STD known to man, Seraphina had called her again. “You know the drill, Karen. This will give you, and the guy with whom you’re partnered, peace of mind. You may use protection if you choose, but a clean beginning takes all the worry out of it, so you can relax and have fun.”

  She had anticipated going through all the motions then calling Seraphina about a week before and cancelling. The sudden position at Tulane had come up, a job she’d fought hard to win. It provided the perfect excuse.

  “Seraphina, I can’t do this now. I’ll be working in New Orleans in the spring. How awkward would it be to run into the guy at some university event after I spent a holiday weekend getting my freak on with him?”

  “I say it’d make for some interesting sexual tension at an otherwise boring academic function. Listen, New Orleans is a city of 379,000 people, not to mention the tourists in and out of here all the time. The odds you’d ever see your fantasy man again, unless you want to, would be nil. Now get on that plane, or I’m coming to Baltimore to personally escort you down here.”

  “Then don’t tell whoever he is I’ll be moving there.”

  “Discretion is my middle name. I only get to share what my clients desire me to, through their profiles.”

  “Thanks for overnighting his to me. So, when do I get to know his identity, anyway?”

  “When he picks you up at the airport.”

  “How will I know who he is?”

  “He’ll have a card with your name on it, or something.”

  “All right. And you’re sure this guy’s okay with the ‘top on’ requirement?”

  “Absolutely. He knows your health history, and he isn’t spooked by it.” That had to account for something, so Karen stopped picking it apart and resigned herself that she was going to hook up with a stranger at a sex hotel during New Year’s. Besides, Seraphina had her back. Though Brandy had warned her that Seraphina usually kept people at a distance, it felt like she’d warmed up to Karen during her frantic calls and correspondence.

  When the Christmas holidays descended, any further chances at a cancellation were lost. So here she was in New Orleans, four days after Christmas and just a week and a half after accepting the job at Tulane, looking for a man with a sign with her name on it.

  Karen took off her coat and tucked it into the crook of her arm. She was beginning to look forward to this fantasy weekend. She didn’t have to do anything, but show up. After all, it had been six months since she’d last taken care of her libidinous needs. Her focus was trained on the cars lined up at the curb and the holders of placards. None bore her name. Then she felt an electric current spark to life the moment she heard a familiar voice. Karen’s heart sank somewhere in the vicinity of her gut.

  “Well if it isn’t Diana Prince.” Paul Beaudelaire said. His voice caressed the pet name he’d given her when they’d first met. He was the most delectable specimen of man she’d kno
wn for almost ten years and never had the pleasure of sleeping with. And unless his being here was one big coincidence, this mystery weekend would change that, and she wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it yet. No wonder Seraphina had kept his identity under wraps.

  She turned to face him. There he was, dressed in a well-worn soft leather jacket and jeans that covered his six-foot-three-inch frame just right. Karen began to internally salivate almost immediately. She managed to make it up to stunning blue eyes that were fucking her so thoroughly, she couldn’t think straight. It took a few moments for her brain to register that he expected a response.

  “Can you excuse me for a few minutes? Ladies room,” she said by way of explanation and thrust her luggage into his hands before practically running back into the terminal.

  Once in the restroom, with shaking hands she took her cellphone out of her purse and dialed Seraphina. Good thing she’d put her on speed dial, or she wouldn’t have been able to dial her digits, she was so livid.

  “Thank you for calling The Beaudelaire, this is Nina, how may I direct your call?”

  “Seraphina Gibson, please.”

  “One moment.”

  Seraphina came on immediately. “This is Seraphina.”

  Karen wanted to remain calm and professional, but when she heard Seraphina’ s voice, she couldn’t control the screech that came out of her mouth. “Paul Beaudelaire? Seriously?”

  Seraphina sighed heavily and launched into her undoubtedly well-rehearsed response. “You and Paul are as near a perfect match as any I’ve ever seen—”

  “But, you led me to believe this was someone I didn’t know.”

  “I know, and I tried to go the stranger route, but the few I presented your profile weren’t too keen with the ‘top on’ stipulation.”

  “So what makes you think Paul would be okay with it? I’ve only ever seen him with tall, busty brunettes on his arm. Ass and leg man, my ass!”

  “He would understand your situation better than the average guy, considering he lost a leg in Afghanistan.”

  “This is different. No woman ever asks a man for a little leg.”

  “Maybe the third one.”

  “Seraphina!”

  “Men don’t usually ask for a little breast, either.”

  “We’re both being inappropriate here. Politically incorrect, even.”

  “But we’re allowed in this situation. After all, you are coming to a ‘Den of Sin’ weekend. Is Paul a deal breaker for you? I thought you and he were good friends.”

  “We are, but…”

  “Would it make a difference if I told you he put in a request for you long before you put your hat in the ring?”

  “He did? How is that possible?”

  “My boss is his uncle.”

  “I thought it was just a coincidence he had the same last name as the hotel. So his lecherous old uncle runs a sex hotel?”

  “The Beaudelaire is not just a sex hotel, and Henri Beaudelaire is barely forty and far from lecherous.”

  “I’m sorry. I was out of line. Seeing Paul just threw me for a loop.”

  “I understand. If you want the history, Paul’s father is Henri’s oldest stepbrother from another set of heirs. But that’s neither here nor there. Where is Paul while we’re having this riveting conversation?”

  “He’s outside the terminal.”

  “Let me guess. You’re in the ladies room.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Acoustics.”

  “I’m getting on the next plane back to Baltimore.” Then she realized Paul had her luggage. It was going to be very difficult to extricate herself from this situation gracefully. Why hadn’t she just taken the bags with her?

  “Listen, Karen. You’re here now, and Paul has seen you. Are you going to stand the poor guy up at this late hour?”

  “You tricked me. It’s hard enough hooking up with a stranger. How do you expect me to do this with a friend and colleague I’ve known for years?”

  “All things being equal, if you’d selected the man you were paired with based solely on his profile, wouldn’t you still have been drawn to the sexy academic type you asked for?”

  “Probably so, but—.”

  “No ‘buts.’ Now go back outside and properly greet your date for the weekend. I have it on great authority he’s looking forward to it.”

  Karen knew she was flirting with disaster, but she washed her face, reapplied her lipstick, and exited the bathroom. She put on as much false bravado as she could muster and returned to where Paul stood, leaning against the passenger side of his car. His blue eyes lit up once again, and he stood erect when she approached. Somehow his expression managed to register concern, even as he bore a sexy-assed grin on his face.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I uh … Just needed to, uh … you know… go.” She mentally rolled her eyes. Why hadn’t she come up with a feasible excuse for her erratic behavior before returning to him?

  “I thought for a second there you might have gotten back on the plane.”

  Karen smiled. If only he knew. “But I left my luggage with you …”

  “Oh, so you did think about it!”

  His laugh was a deep rumble as he approached her, arms outstretched, for a hug. Paul was tall, blond, chiseled, and oozed sex appeal. He was the kind of man who makes you wonder how he could exist without being mauled by women on a regular basis. Military injury notwithstanding, every other part he possessed was sheer perfection. She’d always been attracted to him, even when she was married and it had been inappropriate for her to entertain the thought.

  It was during her rehabilitation after her double mastectomy, when she’d first met Paul Beaudelaire at Johns Hopkins Medical Center. They’d both gone there for physical therapy. She’d been a few months post-op, and Paul had decided to go private rather than VA for his newest prosthesis. After she and Paul shared almost daily physical therapy around the same time for several months, they found out they both were in PhD programs at Hopkins and raving comic book nerds.

  One day, he’d witnessed her suffer a meltdown following a fight with Greg. Paul commended her on her difficult decision. Then he’d used his knowledge of Amazonian folklore on her, claiming she should be proud because Amazonian women did what she had by choice, since Amazon literally meant “without breast.” The Amazons sheared off a breast so they could wield a bow and throw a spear better.

  “Penthesilea almost kicked Achilles’ ass, too. And you know he was one of the baddest dudes in Greek antiquity,” he’d said.

  She’d pointed out that Achilles ended up killing Penthesilea, so Paul had taken some major poetic license and told her a story about how Achilles had paid her an even higher honor by mourning her as if they’d been lovers. Apparently physical prowess turned Achilles on above all else. When she called him on his story being pure fantasy, he’d just said he was telling if from “a guy’s perspective.”

  Then he’d said, “You’re so fierce, you could have descended from the Amazons. I think I’ll call you Diana Prince.”

  She’d laughed when he called her “fierce” at a time when she’d been the complete opposite. Charmed, she’d played along and called him Superman.

  “I guess that’s a fitting moniker,” he’d said, “given the steel holding my left side together.”

  Even after Karen had finished up her PT, she’d found plausible reasons to meet Paul at least a couple of times a week until he completed his doctoral coursework and returned to his home in New Orleans. If the truth were told, they’d had an affair of the heart during that time, but both had been either too chickenshit or too embarrassed of their missing parts to do anything about it.

  Now, some nine years later, they were about to share a lurid weekend at the Beaudelaire. As they embraced on the bustling airport sidewalk, she felt as if it was the first time they’d touched. An electrical current from some newfound sexual chemistry zapped her like a defibrillator. By his reactio
n, he felt it, too. Maybe it was the knowledge of what they could be up to as early as that afternoon. Instead of directly addressing the two-ton elephant, they skirted around it with small talk.

  “I understand you’re to be my personal Superman this weekend.” she said.

  “Just tell me you don’t have any kryptonite on your person, and we’re good.” His smile was so sexy, if she still had breasts, her nipples would be as hard as kryptonite.

  Somehow she was able to snap herself out of the trance his smile put her in, and crafted a witty response. “None since I last checked, but I did bring my lasso of truth. So don’t try to snow me with your southern charm.”

  At thirty seven, Paul looked even better than the lanky hotness she’d first come to know and love when he’d been a twenty-six-year-old fresh out of a military rehabilitation facility. She’d known Paul, the man as a friend, but they’d steered clear of anything sexual. His Den of Sin profile had outlined all of his sexual preferences, and that document gave her a view of a whole other side of Paul. She’d liked what she’d seen.

  “I’ve always meant to ask, are you any relation to Charles Baudelaire, the poet?”

  “Somewhere way down the family line, perhaps.” He stowed her bags in the trunk next to his. “I’ll claim him with certainty if it will get me cool points with you, professor.”

  “You’ll have to do more than share a similar surname with one of my favorite classical poets to get cool points from me, professor.”

  He placed his hand in the small of her back and assisted her into the passenger side of his sleek sports car, which she’d originally ignored for the more staid town cars and limos that screamed hotel transportation. She noticed the slight lilt in Paul’s step more than she had years before, and her cheeks warmed when he caught her looking.

  “Which is why I plan to charm you with my quick wit and personality,” he said and opened the door for her.

  “I can’t wait.” Karen slid onto the soft leather seat and exhaled. Despite her surprise and earlier displeasure from being blindsided, she had to score one for Seraphina and The Den of Sin.