Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (10 page)

“He said he was leaving Washington for good and
heading back to the ranch,” I said. “He said he needed a
vacation.”

Rebecca sucked in her breath.
“What?”

“It’s over, Rebecca. Senator Grayle won’t do any
interviews, he won’t even campaign for re-election. He’s pleading
‘no contest’ to the criminal charges. As far as I can tell, he’s
giving up.”

Rebecca sank into a chair. “I guess I’ll need to
start polishing off my resume.”

“We both will,” I said. “Excuse me for a few
minutes, Rebecca. I’ll need to make some calls.” I headed for the
door, but Rebecca stopped me.

“Go ahead and use Senator Grayle’s private office if
you need to,” she said. “It’s pretty clear he’s not going to need
it anymore.” Rebecca headed back to her cubicle, dragging her feet
with every step.

I shut the door behind her and made for Senator
Grayle’s private land line. As a senator, he was guaranteed the
privilege of a high-integrity fiber-optic line that was practically
impossible to wiretap. I needed to make a very important call, and
didn’t want to risk it on my cell. With the press swarming like
vultures around Senator Grayle’s office and law enforcement
probably watching him closely as well, I didn’t want to take any
chances.

I sat behind the senator’s giant teak desk, and
instantly felt powerful. I picked up the receiver and dialed Rodney
Doyle’s number. His assistant answered. “Rodney Doyle’s office,
this is Marie speaking.”

I remembered Marie, the tiny trophy-wife type poured
into a Prada suit. “This is Jasmine Rand of Senator Grayle’s
office,” I barked at her, trying to sound authoritative. “I need to
speak with Rodney Doyle immediately.”

A pause. “I’m sorry, Ms. Rand, but Mr. Doyle does
not take calls from persons he doesn’t know.”

I swore under my breath. “Mr. Doyle knows me very
well, I assure you.” As in, the Biblical sense.

“Hold just a moment, Ms. Rand,” Marie sang, her tone
more than a little snobbish. “I’ll have to verify that first.”

“That’s fine,” I said, but the hold music had
already come on by then, an annoying instrumental version of
“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head.”

Rodney’s assistant came back on the line. “Rodney
Doyle was expecting your call, Ms. Rand.” Marie sounded surprised.
“I’ll connect you now.”

“Hello, Jasmine,” Rodney’s smooth baritone boomed on
the line. “What can I do for you?”

“How about you put a bullet through my head?”

Rodney cleared his throat. “I’d really prefer not
to. I’m told they put people in jail for that nowadays.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m serious, Rodney. My career is
over.
Really
over. Senator Grayle just flew the coop. He’s
heading back to North Dakota. Rather than deal with the sex scandal
head-on he’s just walking out on the rest of his senate term and
giving up. So I’m afraid that not only am I out of a PR job, I
don’t have anyone I can snoop on for you undercover, either.”

“I see,” Rodney said. “Well, that’s a problem.”

“It’s more than a problem. It’s a disaster.”

I could hear the creak of Rodney’s leather desk
chair as he leaned back in it. “Tell me something, Jasmine. When
did Senator Grayle leave?”

I glanced at the clock. “About five minutes
ago.”

“And where did he say he was going?”

“To the airport, I assume.”

“You
assume
?” Rodney asked. “Why?”

I drummed my fingers on the desktop, irritated. “He
said he had a plane to catch back to North Dakota. Where else would
he be going?”

“Jasmine, I know for a fact there’s only one flight
out of Washington National to North Dakota per day this time of
year, and it doesn’t depart until six-thirty this evening. That’s
ten hours from now.”

“What are you, a travel agent?”

Rodney laughed. “No, I’m a rich, sleazy tabloid
publisher, and I pay people to keep track of flight schedules for
me, that’s all. That kind of knowledge can come in handy in my line
of work, you see.”

“Sorry, I’m not following.”

Rodney lowered his voice slightly. “Jasmine, if his
past patterns of behavior are any example, I have a feeling that
Senator Grayle planned to make a pit stop before he headed out to
the airport. I’m going to give you an address for a place in
Columbia Heights. It’ll look like an ordinary townhouse, but it’s
actually a private club. I want you to head over there now. I’m
acquainted with the owners of the club and I’ll give them a
heads-up that you’re coming. I’ll also make some other. .
.arrangements with them that will assist you in your undercover
work.”

I was bewildered. “Why would Senator Grayle want to
go to a private social club at seven-thirty in the morning?”

“This is no ordinary social club, believe me. It’s
very exclusive. The club is located at 73 Brentwood Way. It’s a
three-story graystone townhouse with a black door. Very
ordinary-looking from the outside, but that’s only to keep what
goes on inside a secret.”

“What exactly goes on inside?” I asked, though I
already had some idea.

“It’s a sex club,” Rodney said. “Senator Grayle has
been going there for years. And you’ll need to head over there
right now if you’re going to catch him in the act.”

I bit my lip. “I’m not sure if I want to do this,
Rodney. It sounds—well, risky.”

“You’ll be perfectly safe, don’t worry. And if
there’s ever a time you start to feel uncomfortable, you can just
leave. The staff at the club are very understanding and supportive
of first-timers.”

I jotted the address down on a slip of paper. “How
do you know all of this?”

“I’m a regular customer,” Rodney said. “When you get
there, ask for someone named Daisy. Daisy works undercover for me,
too. She’ll tell exactly you what you need to do.”

“But—“

“Jasmine, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get to an
important meeting now. I’ll check in with you later in the day.”
With that, Rodney hung up.

I sighed and rubbed my temples. I was in way over my
head. Still, it wasn’t as if I had anything to lose at this point.
I gathered up my things and headed out.

I stopped by Rebecca’s cubicle before I left.
“Rebecca, I have to go out and—well, I’m going to go see if I can
find Senator Grayle and convince him not to leave.” It wasn’t
exactly the truth, but it wasn’t exactly a lie, either. And I
really wasn’t comfortable lying to Rebecca.

Rebecca brightened. “Good. If anyone can do that,
Jasmine, it’s you. Shall I hold your calls or transfer them to your
cell?”

“Hold them, please. I’ll try to return some of the
press calls myself from my cell while I’m out, too. I know you’re
getting buried with them.”

“Thanks,” Rebecca said. “But what should I do if the
press starts swarming the office again while you’re out?”

I sighed. “Pretend you aren’t here.”

I dashed out of the office before Rebecca could
protest.

Chapter 9

I hopped a cab to Columbia Heights, my stomach
aflutter. I’d never set foot in a sex club in my life. I didn’t
even know what went on inside sex clubs, to be perfectly honest. Of
course I knew that
sex
went on in such places—but what
kind
of sex, I had absolutely no idea. And I wasn’t exactly
going to a sex club as a customer. I was going as a spy.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling the slightest bit hot
between my legs as the cab bumped along the city streets to
Columbia Heights—an old, shabby part of town that I seldom ventured
into. The fact that a clandestine sex club was located in Columbia
Heights was no surprise to me. The area was full of seedy shops,
low-rent buildings, and shady-looking people. I made sure to keep
tight hold of my purse and cell phone as the cab crossed into
ever-danker and dingier territory.

The cabbie stopped the car in front of the
nondescript graystone townhouse located at 73 Brentwood Way and
turned around. “Pardon me ma’am,” he said. “I know it’s none of my
business, but I was just wondering what a nice-looking lady like
you would want to be doing in a neighborhood like this.”

“Just taking care of some personal business, is
all,” I said curtly, and paid the fare.

The cabbie handed me his card. “If you need a ride
back, give me a call and I’ll come get you right away. You usually
can’t hail a cab in this neighborhood, and I have a feeling you
might decide you want out of here in a hurry.”

“That’s thoughtful of you. Thanks.” I took the card
and headed for the townhouse.

The plain black wooden door had no knocker or bell,
so I pounded on it with my fist. To my surprise, an unseen bell
chimed twice, and the door whisked opened automatically.

A tall, willowy blonde woman appeared in the
doorway. She wore a 1960s-style short, sleeveless sheath dress and
white go-go boots. She also wore a fresh white daisy tucked behind
one ear. “You must be Jasmine,” she said, her voice light and
whispery. “We’ve been expecting you.” She placed a bone-white hand
on the small of my back and lithely guided me inside.

I didn’t quite know what to make of this; how could
I spy on Senator Grayle here if everyone at the club already knew I
was coming?

As if reading my thoughts, Daisy said, “Don’t worry,
the only person who knows who you really are is me. I’m Daisy, and
I do some work for Rodney Doyle on the side. I’ve taken the liberty
of creating a persona for you to use at the club. Nobody else here
will know your true identity. We keep everything anonymous and
discreet here at the House of Flowers.”

“The House of Flowers?” I said, trying not to
giggle. “
That’s
what this place is called?”

Daisy smiled softly. “Yes, the name is kind of a
throwback to an earlier era,” she conceded. “Once upon a time, this
building housed a florist shop that was a front for an
old-fashioned bordello, with the resident prostitutes using flowers
as their stage names. We’ve hung on to some of those old traditions
in the way we run things here at the club.”

Daisy led me down a narrow, twisting corridor that
opened into a large, sumptuously decorated marble waiting room.
Vases of fresh flowers were everywhere, and one wall was covered
with a large mural that depicted beautiful nude women with flowers
in their hair. One of the women in the painting closely resembled
Daisy. “So is Daisy your real name or your stage name?” I
asked.

“Both,” she said. “My parents named me Daisy, and I
call myself Daisy for clients, too. But I’m the odd one out. Most
of the men and women who work here choose to keep their real selves
a secret from everyone, even the owner.”

“Who’s the owner?” I asked as Daisy gestured for me
to take a seat on a luxurious red-velvet chaise lounge.

Instead of answering, Daisy just gave me a
mysterious wink and held her finger to her lips. “I believe you’ll
find the person you’re looking for right now in our Blossom
Submission Chamber,” she said. “Would you like to participate in
that guest’s activities directly, or as a secret voyeur? We can
accommodate both choices.”

“Um, secret voyeur, I guess,” I stammered. I didn’t
think it would be a good idea for me to spy on Senator Grayle out
in the open.

“Of course. Right this way.” Daisy led me down a
dark hallway and into a tiny room. The room’s only furnishings were
a small wooden chair and a coat rack. She opened a closet door and
took out a black silk robe and matching slippers, which she handed
me. “Undress and put these on,” she instructed. “You can hang your
clothes on the rack there.” She reached into the closet again and
took out a silk eye-mask of the style worn to masked balls. It was
trimmed with rhinestones and dyed-black marabou feathers. “And put
this on, too. It’ll help keep your identity a secret while you’re
here.”

Daisy stepped back into the hallway. “I’ll just be
right outside,” she said, and shut the door.

I fingered the silk robe. The fabric was of the
highest quality—finely woven, satiny smooth. The diagonal jacquard
silk weave reflected the light in delicate waves, and as I slid my
fingertips over the fabric, the sheer sensuality of the cool,
slippery cloth against my skin sent a little shiver up my spine. In
an instant, any doubts I might have had about disrobing in this
strange and mysterious place melted away.

I slid out of my suit and pulled on the robe. The
sheer silk fabric was like a liquid caress against my naked skin. I
let out a deep sigh and my groin muscles relaxed unconsciously; the
Chinese balls shifted slightly inside me, sending out their tinny
little chimes. My whole lower half warmed up into a pleasant slow
burn.

I slipped on the mask and checked my reflection in
the tiny dressing-room mirror. With the mask and robe, no makeup,
and my hair pulled back into its severe bun, I was unrecognizable.
I’d never been a voyeur onto someone else’s sex play scene before,
but the very notion that I was wandering a top-secret sex club
incognito
was insanely erotic. I felt my pussy grow hot and
slick between my naked legs, felt the butterflies of anticipation
pick up pace inside my belly. I was about to become a
deep-undercover sexual spy, and it was hot.
Way
hot. The
fact I was about to go play top-secret spy on my paunchy,
sixty-seven-year-old boss didn’t even phase me. I didn’t much care
what I was about to watch, in fact. It was the mere
act
of
watching that had me so turned on.

The fact that I would be working undercover to
gather potential sex-scandal fodder clad in nothing but the finest
silk only made my crotch feel that much hotter. I knew I had to
record what I’d be seeing somehow, so I slipped my cell phone into
a pocket I found on the inside of my robe. My cell phone had a
discreet camera function; perfect for capturing dirty photos on the
sly.