I nod. “I think I have everything I might need, but thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Also,” Karesh begins, clearing his throat. “Mr. Spencer wanted these delivered to you.”
Karesh hands me a white envelope. I take it, curious as to what Reese might want me to have that comes in such a form. “Thank you.”
Karesh nods again. “Also, he’s requested you at dinner tonight.”
Warm blood fills my face and gushes through my veins. It’s pleasure, plain and simple. As much as I hate that it does, Reese’s desire to have me around makes me happy.
“What time?” I ask, hoping Karesh can’t see my pleased flush.
“Seven sharp.”
I nod again.
“If you need anything, just remember I’m at 300 on the phone. Otherwise, I’ll leave you to your preparations.”
“Thank you.”
It’s Karesh’s turn to nod again as he turns and leaves my room. He’s so formal it makes me feel like white trash. Luckily, I grew up around the wealthy, so it’s nothing new. And at least I know how to comport myself like I’m accustomed to it.
As soon as he has shut the door and I hear his light tread falling further and further from my room, I tear open the envelope and remove a single folded sheet of paper. Printed on it at the top is Reese’s full name followed by a doctor’s name and a lab service’s name and address. Below that is a long patient number and then a list of tests on the left and results on the right.
My mouth falls open. They’re all tests to check for STDs. They’re all negative, which is great, but at the moment, I could care less. Fury heats my skin and floods my blood with adrenaline.
How dare he? How dare that presumptuous ass**le have his lackey give me STD results as though me ending up in his bed is a foregone conclusion.
“Like hell I’ll be at dinner tonight,” I mutter as I stomp over to the phone beside my bed and angrily punch in a three followed by two zeroes.
A voice answers immediately. “Karesh.”
“Hi, it’s Kennedy. On second thought, I don’t think I’ll be able to make dinner tonight.”
“Are you ill?” he asks.
I bite back a bitter laugh and refrain from giving him a very detailed explanation on just how “ill” I am. But Karesh doesn’t mean ill as in angry; he means ill as in sick.
“No, but I had quite a bit to drink and I need to get it out of my system before the show.”
While I’d love to give Karesh one heck of a message to deliver to Reese, I know that’s not something that would ever get conveyed appropriately. No, that’s something I’ll have to tell him face to face. And, by the time I stew in this for the rest of the day, I’ll be more than happy to do so tonight if he so much as looks at me the wrong way.
“Very well. I’ll let Mr. Spencer know.”
“Thank you.”
If Reese wants a show tonight, I’ll give him a show. A show for his guests. Just like I was hired to do. He’ll see that I’m not his and that I never will be.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Reese
It took every bit of willpower that I have not to go to Kennedy’s room earlier. It’s not often that I have to wait very long for something that I want. But Kennedy is different. We have history. A lot of history. And she’s determined to let that be an issue. But as much as I don’t like it and as hard as it is to go slow, I’m equally determined to do whatever is necessary to get her in my bed again. What began as a simple desire has blossomed into an obsession. She’s under my skin, in my blood, and I won’t be satisfied until I can feel her wanting me from the inside, tight and wet.
When nine o’clock finally rolls around and we are gathered in the show room, surrounded by crushed velvet covered walls and the deep thump of music, I’m so anxious I’m ready to snap.
With a casualness that belies my coiled insides, I stretch out my legs in front of me and sip my seventy-year-old scotch, my eyes glued to the curtain through which Kennedy should soon be emerging. When the lights dim further and the music fades, I feel like both holding my breath in anticipation and exhaling it in relief.
Michael Bublé’s voice drifts from the speakers. We all fall quiet and watch, waiting for Kennedy to appear. Only she doesn’t. He sings the first few lines and there’s no sign of her. The curtain parts the slightest bit and a straight-backed chair glides smoothly across the polished floor of the stage, but still no Kennedy.
The singer’s voice carries softly on, my anticipation rising with it. Then, just as the music starts up with a blare of horns, the curtain parts with a flourish and out struts Kennedy. She’s wearing a hat again. A tall, black top hat set at a cocky angle that hides her face in shadow. It perfectly complements the tuxedo shirt and jacket that she’s wearing.
Moving in time with the music, Kennedy walks past the chair, reaching behind her to drag it along with her as she moves closer to center stage. When the horns stop, Kennedy whips the chair around, raises one long leg and plants a high, high heel in the seat. She’s wearing nothing from the waist down but shiny black panties that I get a glimpse of every now and again. I’ve never wanted to rip a tuxedo off someone before. But I do now. More than I would ever comfortably admit to.
Kennedy folds her upper body over her bent leg, trailing her fingertips from her ankle to the top of her thigh, pushing the tails of the tux back just enough to give me a gut-clenching glimpse of her deliciously-formed ass. She whirls again, turning to sit primly on the edge of the chair before leaning back and easing into the floor, her legs spreading into a perfect split before she reaches behind her and flips the chair over, setting it down in front of her.
For just over three minutes, I watch her work that chair. She reminds me of a cat rubbing its long, slender body in and around the legs, stretching over the back and winding around the seat. It isn’t until her dance is nearly over that she rips her hat off, like I saw her do that night at Exotique, and throw it into the crowd.
Only this time she throws it to Sig.
Her hair floats around her face, but it doesn’t conceal it, so I can plainly see the smile that she gives him. I can also plainly see the look that she gives him as she straddles the chair and arches her back. My blood goes from boiling to icy in those few seconds. I have to grit my teeth when I hear Sig say, “Come here and I’ll help you with the rest of that outfit.”
Kennedy grins at him, the tip of her tongue sneaking out at one corner of her mouth. For a few seconds, I think of standing up, taking my own chair in hand and swinging it right into Sig’s face until I hear bone crunch. But I don’t. God knows how, but I don’t.