T is for Temptation (17 page)

“Mr. Mathews e-mailed a photograph of you to our concierge. He arranged everything this morning and gave us your mobile number.” The good-looking young man flashed a grin. “When I tried your cell phone, it went straight to voice mail. I spotted you on my way to ask the authorities to page you.”

A wave of dizziness hit her at the near escape. “May I see some ID?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Trent, a wise precaution in these troubled times.” The man reached into the front pocket of his uniform, pulled out a laminated square, and held it out.

Tee checked the picture against his features. “Thank you.”

“Most welcome, Mrs. Trent.” He waved a hand forward, frowned, and stopped. “No luggage, madam?”

A band of fright constricted her chest. “It’s on a later flight.” She managed, smiled, and rolled her head to one side. Her neck cricked. “Lead the way.”

Ten minutes later, they wove in and out of the traffic on
London
’s back roads. Tee tapped the glass separating the driver and passenger area.

“Yes, Mrs. Trent, do you need something? All the beverages are in the bar area to your right.”

“Thank you, I’m fine. Is Mr. Mathews at the hotel?”

“No, Mrs. Trent, I’m to pick him up early tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.”

“I believe the concierge has more information for you, Mrs. Trent.”

“Thanks.”

The glass slid back into place. Tee dug around in her purse. She found her passport and flipped through it, checking the stamped entries. Since she found nothing dated for today, she studied one from her last arrival in
London
and visualized it in a blank area with today’s date. Surveying the results, and wondering if she’d just committed a crime, she deliberated texting
Dee
and then burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Fifty-three minutes later, the concierge himself took Tee to the hotel room. She didn’t even have to register.

“Mr. Mathews gave us very specific instructions this morning, Mrs. Trent.”

“This morning?”

The concierge opened the door to her room and motioned Tee inside.

“This is the Davies Penthouse. Welcome.” He smiled. “A very thoughtful man, your Mr. Mathews, Mrs. Trent. He called from
America
early this morning with a few requests.”

“Was he in
Florida
, do you know?” Tee asked.

“Yes, madam, he mentioned the state. Per Mr. Mathews’s request, we turned on the fire. I’m afraid it’s gas.
London
regulations prohibit wood. Your room is to the left, through that door.” The hotel spokesman pointed a finger. “Mr. Mathews indicated you should contact me for anything you may need.”

Tee read the name on the man’s badge. “Thank you, Mr. Brown. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

She only relaxed when the door closed behind the concierge. Her sudden burst of energy and good humor vanished like a deflating balloon whirling a crazy expiring splutter. Fatigued unease claimed Tee’s mind when she remembered her luggage. She headed for the room designated as hers, and at the door, concentrated on the brown suitcase with its bright red and white strip. Third time in a row, her haphazard conjuring worked. Relieved and not a little proud, her mood shifted, and she grinned at the object and resolved to buy a lottery ticket.

A burnished mahogany dresser faced her as she wheeled the suitcase into the room. It held an enormous vase of dusky pink roses. Tee’s breath caught. She dropped the luggage and hurried over to the flowers.

Touching a finger to the soft downy petals, she inhaled. A heavenly scent, soothing rose with a hint of spicy apricot, her taut shoulder muscles relaxed. She noticed an envelope with her name written on it at the base of the crystal container. Picking it up, she kicked off her stiletto sandals, collapsed onto a chair facing a wall of windows, and read the printed e-mail.

Tee,

I’m sorry I’m not there to meet you. I had planned to be, believe me. My flight arrives at
4 am
tomorrow morning
London
time. I’ll see you for breakfast.

Jake

P.S. I bribed Brown not to read this email, but couldn’t take a chance, that’s why it’s PG rated.

I hope you like the roses. They go by the name, Adam, and are the first tea rose ever discovered, in 1838. The petals reminded me of Harbor Lodge, and you, my sexy witchy woman.

Jake

Tee traced the last three words with her fingertip. Did they mean he accepted her for what she was, and what did
my
mean? Theirs was a two-week arrangement. She spotted the
PPS
and read it.

PPS
. Go have your bath. You may have to warm the water. I had them draw it ten minutes before you arrived, some of my magic for you.
 

She shook her head, unable to believe Jake arranged all of this, the gestures so romantic and unlike his normal pragmatic style. Tee discarded her top and skirt on the way to the bathroom. A nice, long, relaxing soak and then she’d worry about those men at the airport.

Dozens of candles surrounded the huge marble tub suspended three steps above the tiled floor. Her toe test revealed a perfect water temperature. Tee propped the note against the carpeted ledge by the window, took off her underwear, and slid into the water. Lavender needles and pink petals caressed her shoulders.

“My sexy, witchy woman.”
The words waxed poetic against the impersonal
“babe”
. Her eyes drifting again to the note, she re-read it, resting against the foam bath pillow. Not wanting to admit the thrill his actions incited, she mulled over her cotton nightgown, the sexiest lingerie she owned. She’d thrown out everything bought for her honeymoon with Tony.

Maybe sexy lingerie was in order. Her gaze wandered, and she noticed a half-filled wine glass and a bottle. The label read
Edmeades
. She succumbed to sheer pleasure—he’d remembered her favorite wine—and knew in a magic moment, she could love this man.

His harsh tone and the words he’d said,
“I won’t marry you,”
stiffened her spine and chased the thought into a void. Muttering a rebuke about Cinderella fantasies, she gulped down the wine, determined to remain cool, unemotional. So what if he was the first mortal who accepted her powers? Sex, these coming two weeks revolved around sex. Physical ecstasy, nothing more.

A couple glasses of wine later, clean and clad in pink sweatpants and a matching short T-shirt, she jumped when the doorbell to the suite buzzed. When Tee answered it, George Brown, the young concierge, stood there with a FedEx package in his hands.

“This just arrived for you.”

She frowned, but took the package. “Thank you.”

Only four people knew her location, and that only if her mother told her father of her planned trip. Tee ripped open the package and a red hard-covered book fell onto the plush dove-gray carpet. A single legal-sized yellow sheet followed a dancy path in its wake. She picked up both, glanced at the book’s title, and froze,
The Perfect Blow Job
.

Tee gulped and read the note.

I called to see if Jake sent the plane ticket, and Tricia told me you had already left for
London
. The snake’s secretary resigned and sent me a box of Tony’s papers and this book was in the parcel. I’m not sure if it was a mistake or not, but I thought it’d come in handy (pun intended). Jake’s choice of hotel impressed me. Since he already knows you’re a witch, you don’t have to worry about getting excited and losing control. Go for it cupcake!

Love,

DeeDee.

P.S. Hopefully, I’ll need it one day – so keep it sprucy.

Tee grinned, a tad light-hearted and giddy.

Jake’s romantic surprises and
Dee
’s suggestion started her heart a-pounding and sent her hopes eagle-high. She clutched the book to her chest and did a little two-step of joy. Longing to touch Jake’s hard, muscled body, but afraid of making mistakes or conjuring strange gladiator-like scenarios, Tee had not let herself dream of exploring this avenue. If she could make Jake feel the way she had on the raft…

Skipping to the bedroom, Tee collected the bottle of wine, the goblet, and a blanket and returned to the luxurious living area. Curled up on the overstuffed chair, she took a sip of wine and opened the book to chapter one, titled “Taste, the Long and Hard of It.”

When the private jet landed at Gatwick, Jake allowed himself to relax. Current
London
temperatures, according to the pilot’s landing announcement, ran cool. He pulled a black sweater over his head, pressed the power button on his cell phone, and checked the service bars. Five, full service. A few stabs and a now-familiar number appeared. He hit the send button.

“Mr. Mathews for Mr. Brown, the concierge.” The hold music chimed in, and Beethoven’s fifth symphony played. Smiling, he leaned back against the headrest and pushed the recline button on the luxurious leather seat.

“Mr. Mathews, what can I do for you today?”

“Brown, how is Mrs. Trent?” Jake massaged the muscles at the back of his neck. He jerked upright at Brown’s answer to his question, shocked to discover the authorities had issued the British equivalent of an APB for Tee.

“Does she know about this?”

“No, sir. I saw the bulletin before she arrived. Mrs. Trent didn’t go through registration. I took her up to the suite myself.”

A stroke of luck, this man Brown.

“Has she left the suite? We landed at Gatwick minutes ago. I’ll be there in . . .”—Jake checked his watch—“ninety minutes. Don’t let anyone know she’s in the hotel. I’ll handle any repercussions when I arrive. And Brown, you’ll be amply compensated.”

Jake dropped the phone into his pocket, wondering about the reason behind the APB. His actions? Tony’s? The fact it even happened signaled danger. Henry obviously didn’t know. He considered alerting her father, but abandoned the notion, leery of Tee’s reaction.

Gatwick immigration authorities let him in the country with no questions, not a hiccup in the boring process. He could only assume it due to an aberration in international communications.

The young limo driver maintained a steady, numbing dialogue on the journey to Claridge’s. He caught Jake’s interest when he described Tee’s request for lingerie.

“What did she want?”

“The proprietor of
Agent Provocateur i
n
London
made a personal visit to the Davies suite.”

For the first time in hours, Jake’s mind stopped fast-forwarding. His shaft throbbed, stiffening into a painful erection. Images of Tee on the raft muddled any logical thought. “How long before we arrive?”

“Mere minutes, sir.”

Jake checked his diver’s wristwatch,
2:30 a.m.
, a full hour and a half earlier than the commercial flight he’d originally booked. Tee would be asleep. “Does Mrs. Trent know I’m coming in earlier than expected?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

Jake gave George Brown every cash bill in his wallet, resolving to hit the bank later. He waved the concierge off at the entrance to the Davies Suite. “Until I ask, make this suite off-limits to everyone.”

He peeked into Tee’s room. Lingerie of every color, description, and fabric lay strewn across the chair, table, and floor. His witch slept on the bed, a pale blue sheet covering one shoulder, one single perfect breast bared. Excitement and desire thrummed every pore.