Adam's Apple (Touch of Tantra #1) Page 3

  Wondering who warned her about me, I tap my chin and look her up and down. There is no way I’m going to let her see how affected I am by her remarks, and how they compound upon my already hellish day. It’s exhausting, and I feel like a boxer who needs to go to his corner and tend to his wounds.

  So I decide to play into her idea of my shallowness. I scan the room and spot a pleasant-looking brunette glancing my way. I return her gaze, smile, and nod. Kathryn watches the exchange, and I hear her laughter.

  "Good luck, little boy." Her remark is laced with disdain, and she turns to the bar, placing her palms flat against the polished wood. She flags down the bartender and orders a new glass of white wine. She picks up the glass and starts to walk away without even a sideways glance back at me. Somehow her avoidance stings more than her sharp debate about my perversity.

  “Wait a second, Kathryn. I endured being grilled on a rather intimate subject, surely you can tell me your last name.”

  I try to sound cool even though I feel a little desperate to know more about her. A fact I’m not happy with at all. However, my request isn’t completely ignored as I watch her stop and look over her shoulder at me.

  “My last name is Delcour.” She replies in a very dismissive and cool tone. I don’t like it one bit, but I can’t for the life of me let her keep walking away.

  “So you’re French, then?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation alive.

  “My late husband was. Good evening, Mr. Kingsley.”

  She turns away, and I’m surprised by her comment. She’s left me speechless once again. Her late husband? It’s just a little peek into who she is, possibly where she’s from, but in the end it explains so little about her. And I want to know more. I need to know more.

  I’m tempted to pull her back to me at the bar and resume our banter, but I refrain. Instead I watch her every movement as she leaves me.

  She saunters across the carpeted floor, and every man she passes follows her with wide eyes. They’re like me, taken aback by her beauty. Her path is like a promenade of sorts. Men appear to hold their breath until she passes them by, perhaps hoping she would dare to stop and speak to them. Disappointment shows on their faces as she passes. Now they contently gaze at the movement of her sweet, round ass. A tantalizing focal point that’s tucked tightly into her little green dress, gathered lightly at the back to display the perfection of her curves.

  At the edge of the room, Kathryn approaches a young man, possibly her next conquest to toy with or shamelessly torture. He's roughly my height, around six feet two inches. As she nears him, a welcoming smile graces his baby face and their arms link together. Whispering into his ear, she shifts him slightly to bring me into their view. I’m leaning against the bar and make eye contact with them both.

  I raise my freshly poured scotch in their direction. A salute of acknowledgement. "To being a man," I mumble under my breath and laugh at the lunacy of her words. But there are two things I can't deny, the lusciousness of her body and a lingering disappointment since she’s moved on to another man.

  As Kathryn and her new toy walk toward the banquet’s ballroom, I notice the rest of the attendees loosely scattered about the room following their lead. The main event must be starting shortly, so I need to plan my after-party. The day I’ve had requires one, and my audience with Kathryn Delcour has left my cock needy. Besides, knowing I have something to look forward to should make the evening ahead more tolerable. It’s a pity Dr. Kathryn is preoccupied. Perhaps another time.

  I need to find out more about her and get a better angle on who she is and what makes her tick. But mostly I need to define what she means by teaching sex as an art form. The scenarios in my head have me wondering. Dominatrix, perhaps? That’s one kink I’ve not submitted to, literally. But there was something different in her touch. A phantom ghost of it remains from my arm to the back of my neck, it lingers.

  I find the pleasant-looking brunette who held my gaze earlier. She's moved closer to where I'm standing, almost within hearing distance. I motion for her to join me. She walks over and I enjoy the view as she inches my way. I focus on her mouth; after all, that will be the host for tonight's party. It appears wide, red and, most importantly, willing.

  Her perfumed scent hits me before her words do. “Mr. Kingsley, I've wanted to meet you for some time. My name is Lizzie. Lizzie Woodward. The Woodward's from the Navistar Fund."

  I could care less who she is. "Please, skip the formalities and call me Adam." Moving almost flush against her, I stare down into her hazel eyes. Towering over her in size, I get to the point of my intentions. "I'd like to meet you after tonight's affair for a party of our own. Would that fit into your plans, Ms. Woods?"

  “Woodward.” She corrects me as I’ve mispronounced her name.

  “Oh, yes, Ms. Woodward. My apologies. What do you think about my idea?” I give her a sexy smile, knowing the power it has to get the answers I want.

  "I don't know if I'm brave enough to be alone with you," she replies innocently, winking at me.

  "Feisty one, aren't you?"

  Her smile communicates more than her words, and an approval of my request is reflected in her eyes. "I have been called lively."

  "Well, Lively Lizzie, meet me at the coat check after the wealthy have released their wallets and eased their guilt." Confusion from my words traverses her face; not a very lively brain would be my guess. "I meant when the event's over, darling."

  "Oh, at the coat check, right? I'll be there."

  "See you then." I conclude my invitation with a swift exit.

  After leaving her, I move through the crowd with ease. The seas part. Whispers follow behind my path. Several pathetic well-wishers try to get my attention, but I ignore their attempts, enjoying their scowls to my overt rejection.

  Stepping away from the herd beginning to fill the empty tables, I make a quick phone call to the one person I trust. In New York City, trust is an expensive luxury, and Peters Investigative Services comes with a steep price. Peters operates as my personal ear to the ground. His skills often skate on the edges of the law. Which serve me well.

  "Peters, I need a background.”

  “Anything, sir. What is the name?”

  “Last name, Delcour, first name, Kathryn. Caucasian. Age likely early thirties. Widowed. She’s attending tonight's dinner for The Swanson Foundation. Basic info tonight. Extensive details tomorrow morning."

  “Got it. I’ll get back to you.”

  I disconnect without a direct response and proceed to the head table, where I'm greeted by Kathryn's large blue eyes and ruby lips pinched into a disapproving grimace. Her brow furrows as I near.

  Finding her at the head table seated next to Ava Swanson confuses me. Mrs. Swanson is the executive director of The Swanson Foundation. Her name graces everything connected with the group. After a quick glance to Kathryn's right, I see the young man who escorted her out of the reception.

  Kathryn turns her head toward me as I stand to the side of her chair. Fortunately for me her sweet boy toy rises up from his chair and walks to the next table to greet a fellow patron. Kathryn stares up at me with big doe eyes, captivating. Smiling down at her, I speak. "We meet again, Mrs. Delcour."

  "Small world. Or are you following me?" Her face relaxes into a smile. Surprisingly putting me at ease, too.

  "Maybe a little bit of both." I trail my fingers along the top of her satin-covered chair and lightly graze across her bare shoulder. She shivers as my touch drifts past the last inch of her skin. I imagine her nipples taut and pebbling awaiting my touch. She continues to peek over her shoulder, our eyes meet, and I see an undeniable look of… lust. So a soft touch turns this vixen on? I hope to put this theory into practice more and prove whether I’m right.

  I bend to whisper softly in her ear; my lips press gently against her earlobe. "A sweet, selfish release might do you good, Kathryn. Leave the 'art form' fucking to the idealists."

  Observing her reaction, I watch her
grab the edge of the table, clawing like a kitten into the white tablecloth. Avoiding me, she stiffens and faces frontward. I continue to nuzzle into her shiny, black curls as my nose becomes lost in them. The slight movement by her releases the scent of her perfume, and I detect a hint of spice, rich and exotic, like Shalimar. I take a long, deep breath as I remember the last time I smelled that fragrance. A childhood memory long forgotten.

  I absorb her scent as she sits still and lets me. This time she is the one who remains silent. Unbendable. Looking forward as the crowded dining room fills with wealthy and shallow faces.

  "Looks like the cat has your tongue this time." Chuckling, I pull away, expecting her to release the claws I know she has hidden away.

  Instead, I see her breathe deeply, her breasts rise and fall as she digs down deep to bring forth her refined and polished breeding. A forced but still beautiful smile graces her lips.

  "You’re completely incorrigible, Mr. Kingsley. Shameless." Her scolding response sounds like something Scarlett would have spoken to Rhett as she picked up her skirts and turned in a huff.

  A tap at my elbow pierces the invisible bubble around us. It's rather unfortunate since I was enjoying a moment of teasing Kathryn. Rising to a full stance, I discover Ms. Vincent at my side.

  "Mr. Kingsley, may I have a word with you before we begin today's program?" I hold up a finger to indicate I'll be with her shortly; I have unfinished business with the beautiful woman in front of me. Ms. Vincent nods in agreement and walks away.

  "Enjoy your evening, Kathryn." I say as I turn to leave her. I notice that the foundation’s executive director, Ava Swanson, who’s sitting next to Kathryn, has just finished conversing with one of the event staff and looks up at me in surprise.

  "Good evening to you, Mrs. Swanson." I bow my head in acknowledgement to her.

  Mrs. Swanson twists further around in her chair, a broad smile shining on her face. Her attire is stylish, a dark navy dress with a coordinating jacket, reflecting a slightly matronly appearance.

  Mrs. Swanson offers me her hand to rise. "Good evening, Mr. Kingsley. Pleasure to see you. Thank you for joining us tonight."

  "Think nothing of it, Mrs. Swanson, and, please, stay seated. You look lovely tonight." She displays a pleasant smile and settles back in her chair, smoothing out some imaginary wrinkles in her silk dress. Her diamond-encrusted hand sparkles, catching my attention for a moment. "Your foundation is a rare charity. It has integrity. And remember I’ve asked you to call me Adam."

  "Thank you, Adam. Quite the charmer as always, aren’t you?” I give her a little wink, and I watch a slight blush appear on the older woman’s face. No doubt a stunning beauty in her day. She continues on. “It has been my aim since we started twenty years ago. I will be acknowledging your support in the program tonight. I hope you are comfortable with being in the spotlight?"

  "I'd prefer it to be short and sweet." I notice an inquisitive look on Kathryn's face and a hidden fire in her eyes. A hellcat.

  Mrs. Swanson glances at Kathryn and then looks back up at me. “Have you had a chance to meet my Kathryn?”

  “Your Kathryn?” So Kathryn’s Mrs. Swanson’s daughter? How interesting. It does explain a few things to me, mostly why she’s seated at the head table.

  “Yes, my lovely daughter. She’s finally came back home to New York City. She’s been in Paris for years.” Mrs. Swanson places her hand lovingly on Kathryn’s arm. However, Kathryn’s lips are pursed. She is fuming mad as her mother reveals details about her personal life, and I can’t help my amusement by Kathryn’s reaction.

  “Lovely, indeed.” I smirk and nod my head in response to Mrs. Swanson’s comments concerning Kathryn. “Actually, Kathryn and I met in the reception area. I enjoyed our conversation, too.”

  “Yes, Adam was telling me about his favorite extracurricular activity. It keeps him rather busy.” I smirk at her quip. Score one for the pussycat.

  “I’m thrilled you two were able to meet. I’ve told Kathryn all about you and how you’ve helped the Foundation.” Well surprisingly her mother approves of me, but I wonder what it would take to gain her daughter’s favor. As Kathryn rolls her eyes at her mother’s words, I decide it will likely take major convincing on my part, and I’m definitely up for the challenge.

  “As I’ve said, your foundation puts every dollar it receives to good use. It’s been my pleasure to support your endeavors in Africa.” Mrs. Swanson beams up me while her daughter scowls. The contrast between them makes me chuckle.

  “See, Kathryn, I told you he’s a wonderful man,” Mrs. Swanson says facing her daughter, and then turns up to me. “You should take my daughter out to dinner, Adam. You do seem like her type. Besides she needs to get out of that apartment of hers.”

  Does Mrs. Swanson read the gossip columns in the New York City papers? Surely, she doesn’t, they don’t paint me in the best light. I’m no saint and definitely not a mother’s dream for her daughter.

  “And what is her type? I’m taking notes.” I smile at the two beautiful faces in front of me.

  “Dare I say a bit of a bad boy?” Mrs. Swanson giggles and winks at me. “But one with a good heart. Much like her late husband.”

  A look of sadness crosses Kathryn’s face at the mention of her late husband. I wonder if she’s a recent widow and the loss is still fresh.

  “Please, Mother,” Kathryn pleads, protesting her mother’s candor.

  “Well, I believe you’re a bigger fan of me than your beautiful daughter. Maybe you could persuade her to join me for dinner.” Kathryn huffs as she looks at me with daggers in her eyes, likely plotting my death.

  “Well, if I was younger, I wouldn’t need any persuading,” Mrs. Swanson laughs, but Kathryn’s anger is in full display as her face turns a bright red. I think Kathryn’s had enough of this conversation, and Ms. Vincent’s not a patient woman, so I decide to put an end to the fun… For now.

  “Well, if you'll excuse me, ladies, I hate to keep Ms. Vincent waiting."

  I know what the conversation will be with Ms. Vincent. My contribution tonight was left open-ended. Sometimes I vaguely hint how much I'm willing to contribute, never really revealing the amount. It leaves people guessing and kissing my ass, among other things.

  Ms. Vincent turns toward my seat next to Sir Scott. As we pace the few feet to my chair, she begins to bring up the inevitable subject. How much will my check be? My thoughts on that subject have changed since I arrived. I planned on giving around five hundred thousand. Which is a very respectable personal contribution. But now Kathryn is sitting next to Mrs. Swanson, and obviously a close confidante, so I consider raising the amount to impress her. I'd like to see her reaction when they announce my obscene donation. I wonder if she'll join the others in their oohs and aahs? Something tells me adding another zero to the amount will not impress her, or at least she'll never let me know if it does. Now to drop the bomb on poor Ms. Vincent.

  Chapter 3

  "Let's cut to the chase, Ms. Vincent. I'm upping my donation considerably this year." I pause as she eyes me speculatively. "I'll be giving five million dollars tonight. I'd like the money to be used to build a state-of-the art medical clinic for the poor in Africa. From start to finish. Nothing spared. Mrs. Carter, my assistant, will wire the money tomorrow."

  Ms. Vincent stares at me with her jaw slack. I almost snort at her expression. Flustered, she seems at a total loss for words or coherent thought.

  "Are you okay?" The color in her face is gone. She's as pale as a ghost. I chuckle as I wait for her to regain her senses.

  "Did I hear you right? Five million dollars?" Ms. Vincent is speaking barely above a whisper as if she's lost the wind from her lungs.

  "I'm totally serious. I decided on the amount tonight, and from the look on your face, I'm beginning to think you would've preferred a fair warning."

  "Mr. Kingsley, this is, uh, unexpected, but wonderful. Do you realize what we can do with support like this? Words can't express
how grateful I am. Does Mrs. Swanson know?"

  "No. She has no idea. I think I'll take my seat and let you tell her."

  I pull out my chair and lower myself next to Sir Scott. I catch a distinct and assaulting smell of mothballs mixed with some cheap aftershave. Turning toward the cause of offensive odors, I take in the man who is Sir Scott, a tall and brown-headed Englishman in need of a nose and ear hair trimmer.

  He stretches out his tweed-covered arm and shakes my hand. Interestingly, he didn’t conform to the black tie dress code for tonight’s event.

  "Mr. Kingsley, it's so nice to finally meet you in person."

  "Likewise, Sir Scott." I take small, shallow breaths to avoid a deep intake of air. Too much of his malodorous concoction would surely bring on a headache. And I don’t want anything deferring my scheduled fun later with the alluring Lively Lizzie.

  "Thanks to your contribution last year, we were able to fund a wonderful program to help single mothers start micro-businesses. It's remarkable to see what a little support can accomplish. Hopefully, you received the quarterly newsletters outlining what we're doing in Addis Ababa."

  "Absolutely." I lie, but only a white lie to protect his pride and my ignorance.

  I'm almost certain his newsletters arrive at Mrs. Carter's desk, never to be seen by me. He obviously has no idea what it takes to run a billion-dollar company. The tug and pull of forces around me keeps me from interacting with the mundane, like his little newsletter. I read the New York Times and a few select financial journals. I watch one television network, CNBC. Everything else is fluff and mind-numbing garbage. The only exception is my regular dalliance of porn.

  Our conversation is miraculously cut short as the emcee for the night speaks into the microphone on the podium and welcomes everyone to the event. An African-American man is introduced to recite a special Ethiopian Jewish prayer. The man delivers the prayer without an introduction or conclusion. The prayer's words are enough.