Training Her Curves - London (A BBW Billionaire Domination & Submission Romance) (2 page)

This was it -- the portrait I had agreed to sit for as part of Rick Well's payment for photographing my catalog. He had hinted I might never see it and now it was in a hotel room some thirty five hundred miles from his New York studio when he could hardly be expected to know I was visiting the United Kingdom.

Still just a coincidence...

Heart hammering against the back of my rib cage, I carefully worked the horizontal stripe of twine down the length of the frame, knowing I would have to have everything perfectly re-wrapped before I could allow any staff into the suite.

Another piece of twine wrapped around the portrait vertically. I only had enough patience and remaining arm strength from all the stretching to carefully re-position it some ten inches off center so that I could peel a bit of the tape securing the paper.

I only wanted a little peek -- just enough of the contents visible to confirm it was the painting before I re-wrapped it tighter than a nun's ass.

Hearing the shriek of paper as some of it ripped diagonally, I winced and hoped the desk came equipped with a roll of tape. If I threw a sheet over the painting, the maids would only become more curious as to what hid beneath. One look by the staff and I wasn't sure I would ever be able to set foot in the hotel again.

Another rasping tear appeared in the wrapping paper as my hands refused to stop shaking. I placed my palms against my cheeks, reminding myself it wasn't the staff discovering my naked body rendered on canvas and oils that I was freaking out over. I had resigned myself to the possibility of an accidental public discovery before agreeing to Rick's terms.

Perhaps what had me freaking out was something else entirely. On the other side of the paper shielding the portrait beneath, the first glimpse of him -- my rope master -- could be waiting. The thought of him, a man I had no name for beyond the endearment of Baku I had given him while trying to hold onto my sanity from all the pleasure he delivered, turned me instantly wet.

Remembering it could be Simon, I turned dry just as fast.

Too have been tricked like that by one man I considered a friend and another I all but loathed was unbearable. Not to mention Dylan's feelings about St. Simon. My big brother would think I was the world's biggest idiot.

And on this point, he might just be right.

Dragging and pushing the white leather chair from the desk area, I climbed onto the seat, boots and all, and balanced precariously while I strong armed the twine closer to one corner. Returning the chair to the desk, I rummaged through the drawers, coming up with scissors, box cutters and a roll of tape.

Taking the box cutters, I carefully sliced the rest of the tape along the front seam. Pulling gently, I peered into the sliver of space to find a representation in oils of nothing more than my flesh. If I wanted to know whether Baku was included in the portrait, I would need to peel more of the wrapping paper to the side.

I swapped the razor for the scissors and started to cut. I had the bottom edges cut and was about to drag the chair back over to cut along the top when the phone on the desk rang. I wanted to ignore it and finish unwrapping the portrait, but there was the chance Jo hadn't been able to reach my cell and was dialing my room with news of Mishka.

"Hello?" I answered, cradling the phone against my ear as I tugged the chair in place with both hands.

A woman's crisp British accent informed me that St. Simon was on his way up.

"Stop him!" I blurted.

"Miss?" Her tone sounded like I'd just sworn that the earth was flat. "I'm sorry, but he's already on the way up. The elevator doors closed as you were answering."

With no time for politeness, I hung up and returned to the package. I wasted a few seconds trying to decide if I should immediately begin sealing the paper or seeing as much as I could and doing a quick and dirty re-wrap. The seconds were wasted because I knew my rope master had insisted on his anonymity. Rick wouldn't have included the man's face in the portrait.

I jerked the roll of tape from the desk and dropped to my knees.

"Damn it!" I swore at my stupidity. "Why didn't I back out when that son of a bitch sprung another person on me? Idiot, idiot, idiot!"

I had just finished calling myself an idiot for the third time when a confident rap of knuckles landed against the door to my suite. Apparently the elevators ran faster when the big boss was in them -- or I had spent more time in indecision than I realized.

"Just a minute!" I yelled, hoping my voice was loud enough to cover the distance and penetrate heavy doors that were meant to provide a nearly absolute noise barrier. Messily, I finished taping the bottom and started running the roll up the vertical cut I had made.

I heard a beep, the sound telling me St. Simon had just swiped his all-access card. My lungs seized and my bladder almost emptied until I remembered that I had set the inside latch.

"Pushy bastard," I hissed under my breath. Whether he had heard my order for him to wait or not, it was just like him to disregard both my wishes and my boundaries. The man would call me any time before midnight and after five in the morning no matter how many times I reminded him what the hour was in Dallas.

Simon was such a royal pain, he could be the freaking King of England!

Stretching all the way up on my tiptoes, my arm extended over my head, I finished my rushed job of re-taping the paper so that the portrait beneath was shielded. Mumbling unflattering words about my unwanted visitor who was several hours early, I quick-stepped to the doors, sweating and undoubtedly flushed as I yanked them open.

"I told you..." My reprimand trailed off as I got my first look at the man.

This couldn't be Simon St. Simon. Not that I had been able to find a picture of him, but this man didn't match my image of my very British pain in the ass. I had searched online, found nothing, then casually asked both of my brothers what he looked like. Jake had never met the man and Dylan only glowered at the question because St. Simon had the dubious honor of being the only person to ever best my powerful big brother at business. Dylan might never forgive the win.

So I had nothing more than St. Simon's voice to go by in forming a mental picture of his looks. High, almost lilting and definitely theatrical, his voice had me picturing him as a bit of a dandy, not very masculine, and either very diminutive in size or twice as fluffy as I was.

The phone voice and speech mannerisms did not match the face and body in front of me. Not in a million years!

"I know we agreed to meet later," he smiled, gently pushing his way into the room despite my death grip on the doors. "But something exceedingly important came up for this evening, so I decided to drop by now."

I turned and stared in open surprise. Not only did my visitor not look like the picture I had formed of Simon, but the voice wasn't the least bit familiar despite the far too many hours I'd spent in telephone conversations with him heatedly arguing over design aspects of the London hotel.

I took another quick, discreet glance at the hard, lean body hiding beneath an expensively tailored silk suit. This couldn't be St. Simon. It just couldn't. Maybe the card I had heard swiped was a regular room card and this man was lost while St. Simon had somehow been delayed on the elevator, perhaps running into staff who desperately needed his attention.

"Simon..." I started hesitantly. If he was the wrong man, then use of the name would clear up the issue immediately.

"Riona?" he said with a teasing lilt I half recognized. He turned in the small entry area to look at me, pale green eyes sparkling with mischief. "I am the only one you're expecting, I hope."

Holy crap -- it was him. This was beyond wrong. In a desperate desire for it to not be true, I had almost talked myself out of any meaning in finding the package here or the room decorated with flashes of that perfect shade of cerise. Through all that cutting and re-taping, I was no more than a microsecond from convincing myself that Rick had found out I would be in London and thought it would be hilarious to make me go through customs with the painting.

Now, I was once again facing the very real possibility that St. Simon, who had a body that was definitely similar to all the thick muscles and powerful limbs of my rope master, was the man who had tied me up and made me climax in Rick's studio.

He repeated his query. "No one else on your calendar, correct?"

"Of course I'm only expecting you." I stumbled past my embarrassment and closed the doors. "It's just that you don't sound at all like your phone voice."

I stopped myself before I stupidly confessed to having searched far and wide on the Internet for a picture of him.

He chuckled lightly. "Admittedly, my voice tends to go a touch higher when I'm highly amused. I imagine the phone exacerbates the difference."

I froze. Did the bastard just say he found our calls highly amusing? Or was it that he found me highly amusing, his high voice on the phone evidence that he thought of me as the spoiled little rich girl playing at being a designer of any sort? Maybe it was the little trick he had played with Rick's help that had layered his voice in merriment?

And just how damn long had they been planning it?

Lifting my chin, I strode past him as I responded. "I just arrived and am not ready for the meeting. If you can't discuss the designs tonight, then it will have to wait for tomorrow or later in the week."

Stopping, I looked over my shoulder and gave a dismissive wave of my hand that indicated he needed to leave. I hadn't grown up as my daddy's daughter without learning how to put on a good show of being an imperious, stuck up brat. Simon might be a jerk by natural inclination, but I had more than twenty years of practicing my bitch face. And he if thought he was going to get the best of me with that damn charade in New York, he had more than another think coming. I didn't care how lovely or expensive my boots were, he would find one of them up his ass if I learned he had played me like that!

His oh-so-fine ass...

I suppressed a snarl at my overactive libido and continued walking away, expecting to hear the sound of a few short steps from Simon, the doors closing and then nothing but my own noises. Instead, the door shut, the latch slid back into place and Simon followed after me, his long legs bringing him quickly by my side before he pulled ahead of me and reached the desk before I did.

Giving a casual nod at the covered picture, he sank into the guest chair in front of the desk. "I hope the staff didn't have a hand in that tape job," he laughed lightly, more of his high tone returning. "I'd have to fire the lot of them."

Confused, I circled the desk and sat down wondering whether the sudden, but brief, change in his voice signaled only amusement at the fast and dirty job I'd don'e of taping the edges back together or if he couldn't refrain from enjoying his little joke back in New York.

If, of course, he was my rope master and I wasn't over-analyzing everything and placing too much importance on the appearance of the painting in London and that shade of cerise in the room.

"Do you know?" he asked, bouncing to his feet and swiping the roll of tape from the top of my desk.

For the second time in less than fifteen minutes, I felt like my bladder was going to empty. Was he asking me if I knew he was Baku?

"Know what?" I managed to croak out.

"If the staff did this or the sender?" he huffed. "It's a damn shoddy piece of taping. Perhaps the shipping company damaged it in transit and had to re-seal it. Who handled it?"

He ripped off a long piece of tape and started to place it along the top edge, his extra foot of height over my shorter stature meaning he barely had to raise his hands over his head to place and smooth the tape. Taking a step back, he looked the package over from top to bottom then shook his head.

"No, that won't do. We'll need to trim those patched areas of the paper." he turned, his hand outstretched and his gaze dead serious. "Hand me the scissors, pudding."

Certain my face was turning beet red, I grabbed the scissors from the desk's surface and shoved them in the drawer. I waited until I could speak without stuttering and then I turned a withering glare on Simon. "I told you not to call me that again."

A simpleton's smile graced his face and then his brows pinched together. "When?"

I thought back, my own brows pinching when I realized the first and only other time he had used the endearment was shortly after my trip to New York. I didn't want the time frame to have any meaning. I couldn't comprehend who this man in front of me was. I just knew who I didn't want him to be -- my rope master.

"Almost three months ago," I growled, my hands wrapped tight around the armrests of my chair.

"And I haven't used it since?" his grin hinted that he knew the answer. He looked exactly like a toddler caught climbing on the countertops of his mother's kitchen so he could reach the cookie jar she'd hidden from his precious, but greedy, little hands.

Damn, he was mouthwateringly gorgeous. He didn't need to be so damn cute at the same time. That was exactly the kind of grin that women gave into. And the bastard knew it!

But that didn't mean he was my rope master. He was having a go at needling me like he always did in our phone conversations. The calls never ended until he had managed to get my temper up, an angry passion coating my words.

I rolled my lips, looking for some measure of self-control. "That shoddy tape job is mine, Simon. And I like it just the way it is and it's not something you have any say in."

At least I hoped he didn't have any say in it -- hoped like hell he hadn't been the one to tape it in the first place.

"I think we can end the purpose of my trip today," I continued, trying to regain control of the conversation. "Seeing the changes to this suite so that it's almost completely restored to my original design, I can return to the States tomorrow after we agree on one last concession."

His mouth twisted until it looked suspiciously like a pout. He recovered quickly, his face returning to an amused mask as he settled gracefully in the guest chair. His hands turned palm up in a gesture of good will.