Read Online Passion's Mistral by Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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hands on her hips, lowered her head in defeat and sighed
again. “All right,” she said, looking up. “But I don’t see the need.”
Henri shrugged. “It isn’t up to us to question his orders, Ms. Trevor. I learned long ago not to do that.”
Irritated even more by Bouvier’s subservient attitude, Silkie pursed her lips. The more she heard about
St. John, the less inclined she was to meet with him. That his manner was that of a despot, a dictator of
this tropical paradise did not set well with her. Added to that impression of him, his method of carving out
an empire for himself by selling male flesh to wealthy, bored women made him little more than an
expensive pimp to her way of thinking.
“All right,” she said again. “Let’s get it over with then.”
Henri frowned. It was rare to have a woman unwilling to meet with Julian—rarer still was it to find one
whose distaste at such a meeting was so obvious. Normally the women fell all over themselves to be
ushered into the presence of the infamous lord of Mistral Cay.
“Please follow me,” Henri said, his scowl deepening as he heard Ms. Trevor’s exaggerated sigh of
displeasure.
Silkie barely glanced at the luxurious accoutrements they passed on the way to St. John’s office. The
investigator part of her nature noted the beautifully carved panels of teak, the heavy gold damask drapes,
the very expensive paintings gracing the walls and the exquisite fabrics on the seating arrangements. She
took in the thick carpet underfoot, the pleasant smell of wisteria hanging on the air, the coolness of the
wide hallway down which they moved, the lambent light that cast lush shadows from the tall potted palms
they passed. While such trappings impressed her on some deep, unconscious level, on the surface she
seemed unaffected by the vast wealth and discriminating tastes of Julian St. John.
Henri stopped before a wide double door, the surface of which was carved with a scene similar to that in
the murals in Silkie’s bedroom. He reached up to straighten his tie and Silkie wondered why a man
would dress so formally at a resort for nudists. Though she had yet to move beyond the four-story
building that housed the Cay’s guests, she had seen several guests and their helpers frolicking naked at
the beach that morning. Held captive by the sight of deeply tanned and very masculine male bodies, she
had foregone breakfast to watch the revelers.
Bouvier’s staccato knock on the door brought Silkie out of her revelry.
“Come,” a very masculine voice called out from beyond the door.
Bouvier reached for the brass handle and swung the door open, stepping aside to allow Silkie to enter.
She glanced up at him, realizing he was not going to accompany her, and squared her shoulders.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she mumbled to herself and entered St. John’s lair.
At first she thought she was in the room alone. It was a beautifully designed office with a huge mahogany
desk behind which stood a wide burgundy leather chair, its rounded back to her. Behind the desk was a
sweeping bank of windows that looked out over the ocean. In front of the desk was a very comfortable
looking club chair done in a lovely jacquard pattern in colors of rose, teal and pale yellow.
“Please have a seat, Ms. Trevor.”
Silkie was further bothered by the man’s lack of manners. That he was sitting with his back to her, staring
out the windows was an indication he cared nothing for her feelings. She clasped her hands in her lap and
decided she would be just as blasé about this so-called interview as was he.
“Tell me,” he said, still not turning around, “what do you call the midline seam that runs on the underside
of a man’s shaft, Ms. Trevor.”
Silkie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is it the frenulum?” he queried. “The seminal vesicles?”
He swung his chair around. “Or is it the jaculum?”
Silkie found herself staring into a face that
again. “All right,” she said, looking up. “But I don’t see the need.”
Henri shrugged. “It isn’t up to us to question his orders, Ms. Trevor. I learned long ago not to do that.”
Irritated even more by Bouvier’s subservient attitude, Silkie pursed her lips. The more she heard about
St. John, the less inclined she was to meet with him. That his manner was that of a despot, a dictator of
this tropical paradise did not set well with her. Added to that impression of him, his method of carving out
an empire for himself by selling male flesh to wealthy, bored women made him little more than an
expensive pimp to her way of thinking.
“All right,” she said again. “Let’s get it over with then.”
Henri frowned. It was rare to have a woman unwilling to meet with Julian—rarer still was it to find one
whose distaste at such a meeting was so obvious. Normally the women fell all over themselves to be
ushered into the presence of the infamous lord of Mistral Cay.
“Please follow me,” Henri said, his scowl deepening as he heard Ms. Trevor’s exaggerated sigh of
displeasure.
Silkie barely glanced at the luxurious accoutrements they passed on the way to St. John’s office. The
investigator part of her nature noted the beautifully carved panels of teak, the heavy gold damask drapes,
the very expensive paintings gracing the walls and the exquisite fabrics on the seating arrangements. She
took in the thick carpet underfoot, the pleasant smell of wisteria hanging on the air, the coolness of the
wide hallway down which they moved, the lambent light that cast lush shadows from the tall potted palms
they passed. While such trappings impressed her on some deep, unconscious level, on the surface she
seemed unaffected by the vast wealth and discriminating tastes of Julian St. John.
Henri stopped before a wide double door, the surface of which was carved with a scene similar to that in
the murals in Silkie’s bedroom. He reached up to straighten his tie and Silkie wondered why a man
would dress so formally at a resort for nudists. Though she had yet to move beyond the four-story
building that housed the Cay’s guests, she had seen several guests and their helpers frolicking naked at
the beach that morning. Held captive by the sight of deeply tanned and very masculine male bodies, she
had foregone breakfast to watch the revelers.
Bouvier’s staccato knock on the door brought Silkie out of her revelry.
“Come,” a very masculine voice called out from beyond the door.
Bouvier reached for the brass handle and swung the door open, stepping aside to allow Silkie to enter.
She glanced up at him, realizing he was not going to accompany her, and squared her shoulders.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she mumbled to herself and entered St. John’s lair.
At first she thought she was in the room alone. It was a beautifully designed office with a huge mahogany
desk behind which stood a wide burgundy leather chair, its rounded back to her. Behind the desk was a
sweeping bank of windows that looked out over the ocean. In front of the desk was a very comfortable
looking club chair done in a lovely jacquard pattern in colors of rose, teal and pale yellow.
“Please have a seat, Ms. Trevor.”
Silkie was further bothered by the man’s lack of manners. That he was sitting with his back to her, staring
out the windows was an indication he cared nothing for her feelings. She clasped her hands in her lap and
decided she would be just as blasé about this so-called interview as was he.
“Tell me,” he said, still not turning around, “what do you call the midline seam that runs on the underside
of a man’s shaft, Ms. Trevor.”
Silkie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is it the frenulum?” he queried. “The seminal vesicles?”
He swung his chair around. “Or is it the jaculum?”
Silkie found herself staring into a face that
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