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An Excerpt From: HOT GEORGIA WINDS
© Copyright CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2007.
All Rights Reserved, Phaze Books
As they walked up the stairs side by side, she glanced at him. "What will you die trying to do?" she asked.
He gave her a look that made her toes curl. "Draw a smile from those silken lips," he answered, staring at her mouth.
She blushed as she smiled, unable to keep from doing so.
"See?" he asked. "I've accomplished my objective."
"Are you always successful?"
A faint shadow darted through his gold eyes. "Not always."
"I can't believe there's a woman alive you can't charm."
"There have been a few," he said softly.
He led her to a spacious bedroom done in mauve and rose with a king size brass bed with an intricately swirled headboard and footboard sitting directly in the center of the room beneath a stunning chandelier. A rose marble fireplace sat at one end of the room with two sofas upholstered in burgundy silk flanking it, a low coffee table positioned in front of the sofas. At the other end of the room were two large oak armoires to either side of a desk and chair. At the opened double French doors, soft pink gauzy curtains fluttered wistfully into the room on a cool evening breeze. Underfoot was a plush sculpted emerald green carpet with floral area rugs scattered about.
"Very nice," Francesca said as he closed the door behind them.
"May it be ever so humble," he replied.
She turned to look at him. "This can't be home for you." She nodded at the floral print pillows. "Too feminine by far."
Brandy smiled. "No, it isn't my room. Staff lives on the third floor and Madame's quarters encompass the entire fourth floor."
"So you do live here?"
"Most of the time," he said. "When I'm not otherwise engaged."
He was wearing expensive black silk trousers that held a crisp crease down each pant leg. Black leather Italian loafers—the shiny grain of which matched the slim belt at his waist—and black socks completed his wardrobe. In his left ear, he wore a thin gold hoop barely visible behind one sleek curl of his dark hair. No watch, no bracelet, no rings adorned the rest of him but there was just a hint of a gold chain inside the opened collar of his white shirt.
"Are you Catholic?" she asked, glancing at that chain.
"I am," he answered. "Would you care to sit?"
"St. Christopher, Miraculous medal, Sacred Heart of Jesus…" She knew he had picked up on her question for he put a hand to the front of his shirt and smiled slightly.
"St. Jude," he told her. "The saint of lost causes."
"Ah," she said as she moved to the sofa. "And are you a lost cause?"
"I am what has been made of me," he said softly and went to the bar fridge and opened the door. "Double Irish cream, right?" He looked around at her. "Preferably with no ice?"
Francesca drew her legs up on the sofa and half-turned to face him as he poured her drink. "Someone has been tattling out of school, I see."
She saw his expressive mouth purse. He had such beautiful lips for a man and she wondered what they were going to taste like.
"Alex wanted you to enjoy yourself while you're here," he said. He came over to the sofa with two glasses—one containing her liquor and the other with a clear liquid bubbling away.
"No potent potable for you, milord?" she asked with a cocked brow.
"I don't drink," he said and took a sip of the lemon-lime she could smell.
"Smoke?"
He shook his head. "Never have."
"Illicit drugs?" she questioned, eyes wide.
"Define illicit," he countered, grinning at her over the top of his glass.
She laughed. "You're quick."
"Not in the areas that count," he said, his gaze heated.
Francesca felt her cheeks burn. "I have to ask," she said, leaning forward to put her glass on the low cocktail table.
"So ask," he said, taking a seat beside her, turning as had she to face her. He crossed his left ankle over his right knee, as relaxed as if they'd known one another for years.
"This is a bordello for women, isn't it?"
"It is defined by Madame as an elite club for privileged ladies," he replied. "You must belong to the club, pay annual dues, uphold to the rather stringent rules, and be very discreet in whom you bring here. Reservations are made well in advance and sometimes take nearly a year to book."
"I see," she said. "So not just anyone can walk in off the street and be…ah, entertained."
"I am told the annual dues would prohibit most would be visitors from joining," he told her. "And so you'll know, the staff is examined weekly by Madame's personal physician and we must pass with flying colors or we are let go. There is no chance of a member contracting an illness while here at the Syn. If she brings it to us, her membership is revoked." His gaze flicked away. "The staff has all undergone vasectomies so neither can we impregnate a member."
Francesca blinked. "Wouldn't condoms been a better alternative to sterilization?"
He shook his head. "There are many women who don't like to use prophylactics and some who only use them to perform oral sex on their partner." His left eyebrow jumped. "Flavored, of course."
A wild tint of red stained her cheeks. She practically stammered her next question
"Are there only men…ah, entertainers…here?"
"Only men," he answered. He took one last sip of his soda then placed it beside hers on the table. "What else would you like to know about the Syn?"
"How many of you work here?"
"It depends on how many women are visiting," he answered. He draped a long arm over the back of the sofa until his fingers just grazed her shoulder. "Right now, there are five of us…" He grinned. "…entertaining ladies. Two members are never here at the same time. It isn't allowed. The member may bring up to five ladies with her or she may come alone. "
"Ah, a little one on one, huh?"
"No, it is usually six on one," he corrected and when her mouth dropped open, he shrugged. "Some women like that kind of thing."
"Tell me about you," she said, wanting to get away from dwelling on that wicked statement.
"What would you like to know?" he asked, propping his elbow on the sofa arm, his head tilted on his fist.
"Are you from New Orleans?" she asked.
"I was born in Jefferson Parish," he said. "I'm a bayou baby."
"Brothers and sisters?"
"I have six older half-brothers and one half-sister," he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw. As though he expected her next question, his foot jumped impatiently. "I'm thirty-five."
"And I'm fifty-eight," she said.
He let that declaration pass, just sat there looking at her with his gorgeous amber eyes glinting. She nervously toyed with a loose thread on the arm of the sofa. "Did you go to college?" she asked.
His slow grin made her want to kiss him until he groaned. "Sweetness, I didn't even finish high school but—as the old saying goes—I'm well read."
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