Star fish, p.1
Touch Me (Stilettos and Secrets Book 1), page 1
Touch Me
STILETTOS AND SECRETS
BOOK ONE
KENDALL TALBOT
This book is dedicated to all the women out there who want to be taken to the limit.
Chapter One
The giant statue of a man in front of my counter stared right through me like I was invisible. The annoying bastard was probably admiring his reflection in the lobby mirror which was plastered the entire length of the wall behind me.
“What are you doing about it? Are you listening?” He fired questions, one after the other, in slurred, garbled speech without waiting for my response which added to my conviction that I must be invisible.
He raised his hands as if praying to the football Gods, giving me a disgusting view of the sweat stains darkening his armpits. “What’s your name?”
I cringed. I hated my name - Jane. Plain Jane. I wished I could give the beefed-up chump a more exotic name like Krystal or Celeste. Names that were much more suited to the beach location of the Hot Horizon Hotel where I worked.
“Jane,” he barked, and I damned the stupid name badge over my left breast for the hundredth time.
“Yes?”
His puffy cheeks were blotchy red and darkening by the second. “Do you know who I am?”
An asshole. I smiled my most bewildered smile. “No, sir.”
“I’m Jimmy Ringbothom. Bomber Bothom. Heard of me?”
Shaking my head, I shrugged.
The man had it all going on . . . spectacular looks, great body, but he was a lobster—all muscle, no brains.
The Gold Coast was full of men like him.
Don’t get me wrong. I love handsome eye candy as much as any single, twenty-eight-year-old woman. But I prefer to admire them from afar, not invading my personal space like this one was.
And certainly not accompanied by foul body odors.
“I said, I’m hungry.” He slammed his palm onto the counter, snapping me to attention.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bottom—”
“Ringbothom.” He spat his name so hard, spittle landed on his oversized chin.
Oops. “The kitchen closed two hours ago; I can’t—”
“I don’t hear, can’t,” he said with exaggerated slowness, glaring up at the light-studded ceiling as if it would give him strength.
I had a protein bar in my desk drawer. I’d be happy to shove that where the sun didn’t shine. I could do it, too. I’d trained at Kamoto’s Karate dojo for two years, preparing myself for creeps like this.
Of course, I’d never do anything. Plain Jane didn’t cause a scene. I didn’t even swear. Not aloud, anyway. In my head, though, I was screaming ‘asshole’ at the top of my lungs.
Lobster placed two hands on the lobby counter, smearing his enormous, greasy paws across the glistening black surface. His immense height allowed him to lean right over, and his glassy red eyes drew to within inches of mine.
As I clutched the counter with one hand and balled my other fist, ready to unleash my self-defense moves on him, the rum cloud that swarmed from his mouth threatened to topple me.
“I need food, or I’ll—”
“Bomber. Bomber! What’re you doing?” The newcomer’s voice was steeped with authority, and within seconds, Lobster was peeled off the counter and out of my face.
Able to breathe again, I filled my lungs.
I glanced at my hero and froze.
I haven’t laid eyes on him for nineteen years. But I would never forget his full lips which were the color of overripe strawberries. I have a vivid memory of that mouth nearly sucking my lips off my face when we were young kids.
My head spun.
Geoge Whiteman, the first boy I’d ever kissed, is here. . . on the Gold Coast. . . in my hotel. What the hell is he doing here?
I always dreaded a chance encounter with old classmates, and this was my first.
Lowering my head, I drove my fingers through my bangs bringing them forward and hoping they would give me sufficient cover.
I thought moving more than one thousand miles away from my hometown of Mildura would ensure I’d never be found. I should have gone farther. Abroad, maybe, to some tiny little haven in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Or maybe Iceland, where I could disappear beneath my fur-lined bonnet like a turtle hiding in its shell.
“I’m so sorry about this, Miss . . .” George had grown from the pudgy boy I knew in grade five into a man with a strong, chiseled jaw, trimmed with a three-day growth that made him look. . . manly and hot. His islander heritage upgraded his look to exotic.
“She won’t get me food.” Lobster sounded like a naughty child about to get a walloping. Maybe he sensed me gearing up to karate chop his ass out of here.
“Come on, Bomber, it’s four o’clock in the morning. The kitchen will be closed.” George’s voice was deep, smooth and hypnotic.
“She said that too.”
“Because it’s true.” As George pulled Lobster away, he looked over his shoulder at me “Sorry to bother you.”
The two of them staggered toward the front doors, and the glass slid back, allowing the cool sea breeze to sweep away the lingering odors Lobster left behind. When the doors closed, silence, my friend, crept back into its rightful place.
After thoroughly cleaning the front counter and giving the area a heavy spray with Glen 20 Country Scent, I slipped in behind the computer and searched the hotel guest list until I found George Whiteman.
Holy shit! I’m right. It is him. He checked in yesterday, all by himself.
I pulled his records and scanned his driver’s license. I couldn’t believe George still lived in the same Mildura home he’d grown up in.
Station Road was four blocks away from my childhood home. We’d shared many hours on the school bus together. Though he rarely spoke to me. I wasn’t the girl boys wanted to hang around. The extra weight I’d carried ensured I was left alone.
Exactly how I liked it.
The clock above the filing cabinet confirmed I had at least two more hours until I could crawl into bed. New Year’s Eve was long over. Not my shift, though.
The minutes dragged on as I attempted to busy myself with next week’s roster for the housekeeping staff. I always struggled with this roster. . . I knew only too well what the staff had to deal with on a daily basis.
The 1980s-built Hot Horizon Hotel was situated in the middle of Queensland’s sunny Gold Coast strip. Surfers Paradise was a haven for travelers from all over the world, and sadly, not all of them had decent hygiene manners.
A gust of breeze signaled the front doors opening, and George returned, battling against gravity to keep Lobster upright. I managed to dive into the back room in time, and peering over the top of the filing cabinet, I watched them stumble to the elevator and disappear behind the silver doors.
George seemed like a decent guy. He’d have to take Lobster up to his room on the eighth floor before he returned down to his own room.
At least I wasn’t the only one waking up to the New Year alone.
The sun hinted at the horizon, and as I did nearly every day, I grabbed the cordless phone, strolled out to the daybed at the front of the hotel foyer and sat with my cup of green tea to watch a new summer’s day unfold.
As the sky morphed from deep indigo to blood orange, I watched several seagulls fight over their morning breakfast. Rainbow Lorikeets added to the noise as they flitted from one Pandanus palm to another in a colorful aerial display.
I’d heard that Rainbow Lorikeets were monogamous. Once they met their partner, they were paired for life. Pity some humans didn’t adhere to the same instincts.
I slapped that shitty thought to the back of my brain, determined not to ruin the fabulous display nature had put on for me.
People went about their morning routine, which on the beautiful Gold Coast usually involved some form of exercise. Young men, with slick surfer’s bodies and wetsuits rolled down to their hips, swaggered down the path with longboards tucked under their elbows.
Gorgeous young women in minuscule jogging outfits trotted past with earbuds wiring them to the phones strapped to their biceps.
Elderly couples strolled hand-in-hand as if they had all the time in the world, and at this stage in their life, they probably did.
As the sun glided up from the ocean, I breathed in a new minute, a new hour, a new day, and on this morning, I also breathed a new year into my lungs.
As usual, the daytime manager crawled into work forty minutes late, and ten minutes later, I opened the door to room number thirteen. Unlucky for some, but lucky for me, it had been the least accommodated room in the hotel, so as part of my management package, this one-bed apartment became mine.
With the trip home just a short elevator ride away, this was my favorite perk of the job.
I kicked off my heels and peeled off my clothes as I marched toward the bathroom. With the taps running at full, I poured a good slosh of scented bubble bath into the hot stream and lit the two vanilla-infused soy candles at the end of the tub.
I headed to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was a barren wasteland. My staples of fruit, yogurt, and eggs were long gone. I reached for the foil-wrapped package on the top shelf and lobbed the three-day-old pizza slices into the waste bin.
A bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the door caught my eye. Andre, the restaurant manager, had given it to me for Christmas. I grabbed the champagne and a long-stemmed flute and convinced
I popped the cork, filled my glass to the top, and nestled it on the tub with a packet of corn chips I’d plucked from the cupboard.
Before I slipped into the bath, I grabbed my new diary from my bedside table. My best friend’s choice of Christmas present was an interesting one. According to Lolita, documenting my miserable life would make me realize just how gloomy it was.
Apparently, I couldn’t see the spiral I’d fallen into because almost every day was a repeat of the one before. Day after day blended together with no highlights to break up the monotony.
I had my own little Groundhog Day situation going on. Lolita was convinced that writing in this diary would be a life-changing experience.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Moving to the Gold Coast, away from my family, friends, and my cheating bastard ex-fiancé, was my first foray into life-changing events.
It hadn’t turned out exactly as planned.
It was easy for Lolita to make such grand statements; she had everything.
My best friend was living my ultimate dream—a husband she was puppy-dog in love with, two kids, a boy, and a girl, and a gorgeous house in the suburbs with a pool in the backyard.
She also had a stunning body, due to her exercise obsession. She was quick with a laugh, incredibly intelligent, and could recite who was married to whom in the celebrity world without pausing.
The day she ran next to me on the treadmill in the gym downstairs was one of the luckiest days of my life. I was running off volcanic anger because of my shithead boss, and Lolita homed in on that fury and showed me exactly how a good workout relieved tension.
Sex, according to Lolly, was just as useful.
I grabbed the diary, flipped to January 1st, and with my champagne in one hand, I waited for inspiration.
What the hell do I write?
The first morning of this year had been uneventful—until the Lobster landslide, that was. For the rest of today, I planned to have a nice long bath, for starters, then crawl into bed for eight or so hours. Then . . . then there was nothing.
It was pathetic. I was pathetic.
Maybe I could masturbate. That would release some of the tension Lobster had created.
Wow . . . I’d officially hit a new level of pathetic.
My mind drifted to George Whiteman. We were twelve years old when I’d caught him in a game of Catch and Kiss. It hadn’t been hard; he was the slowest boy in the entire seventh grade, given he was in a knee brace at the time.
Once I had him in my clutches, I’d dragged him to the love tunnel and made him kiss me.
I chuckled at that memory. The love tunnel had been nothing more than a large concrete pipe located between the play swings and the football oval.
With nothing exciting, intelligent, or even interesting to write, I set the diary aside, tugged my long hair into a bun on the top of my head, and lowered beneath the warm water.
My nipples bobbed to the surface, peeking through the foam bubbles like a couple of dials on an ancient radio. As I rolled my head from side to side, I breathed in the vanilla-scented air and closed my eyes. The water embraced me like a lover’s cuddle.
The tap dripped and I opened one eye to glare at the damn thing. I’d meant to mention the annoying leak to maintenance weeks ago, and I cursed myself for forgetting. I poked my big toe into the faucet to stop the drips, and at the sight of my disastrous nail polish, I added paint toenails to my exciting agenda for today.
I parted my legs and allowed my hand to fall between my thighs.
Inhaling a deep breath and forcing myself to relax, I blocked out the irritating drip and ran my finger over my sweet spot. I imagined a hot guy’s fingers exploring my deepest, darkest secrets, searching for the one true thing I treasured the most.
Goddammit. That stupid thought ruined it. I had yet to discover something to treasure as if my life depended on it.
I slapped the water, casting a wave over the edge of the bath and onto the black and white, cow-skin patterned bathmat on the floor. The water was promptly soaked up by the present my mother had sent to me for Christmas.
My twenty-year collection of unique Friesian cow ornaments hit rock bottom with Mom’s gift. The collection I’d started was meant for small, intricate black and white cow ornaments that were unusual or quirky.
If I ever managed to convince a man to join me in my apartment, I’d need to enter in stealth mode first and eradicate all existence of my once-cute collection.
But I didn’t need to worry about that; I’d never had a man in my apartment.
And it’s been more than three years since I’d had sex.
I slapped the water again. Damned if this year was going to be my fourth.
My permanent night shift made it impossible to meet guys, let alone go on a hot date. I didn’t do one-night stands either.
Sex with a man I knew nothing about pushed me way out of my comfort zone.
A thought crashed through my conscience, and I sat up, gripping my arms around my knees.
George Whiteman was an old acquaintance.
That would bypass my one-night stand idiosyncrasy.
However, after playing the scenario in my mind, I sighed.
I couldn’t do anything with him.
There was a one-hundred-percent guarantee George would tell someone about it, and before I knew it, details of our encounter would pass through every home in Mildura like a bad dose of dysentery. My mother would faint onto her world-famous orange teacake, and my cheating bastard ex-fiancé would cherish the notion that I’d lowered myself to his fucked-up standards.
An idea whizzed through my brain like a shot of tequila. I climbed from the bath, and dripping wet, I marched to my wardrobe. The door banged open with my eagerness, and the automatic light at the top illuminated my meager clothing collection.
Shopping for clothes was not my thing, and my scant assortment highlighted that. My shoes, on the other hand, were my pride and joy, stored in five neat rows at the bottom of my wardrobe.
I yanked all the clothes aside to locate the fancy-dress costume Lolly had talked me into for the Hot Horizon Hotel Christmas party. Of course, I’d chickened out in the end. Just the thought of my shithead boss ogling my breasts as they were forced to bulge over the top of the stiffened lace was enough to curdle my stomach.
As I pulled the French maid costume off the hanger and threw it onto the bed, I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door. My slightly lopsided shoulders were a freaky compliment to my lopsided breasts. My left boob was a fraction bigger than my right.
This abnormality had amused my cheating-bastard ex-fiancé to no end.
Screw him!
I spun toward the sexy costume and holding it against my body I assessed the disguise.
This could work.
George won’t even recognize me.
And I’ll do my makeup so I can’t even recognize myself.
I couldn’t decide if I was bat-shit crazy, or the most desperate woman in the world.
Probably both.
I was about to do something wild. Something I would probably regret.
But I had to do it.
Chapter Two
I have lost my freaking mind. But I couldn’t stop. Giggling like a horny teenager, I tossed the skimpy French Maid costume onto my bed, raced into the bathroom, toweled off, and rummaged through my makeup kit, finding bits and pieces I rarely used.
I started with foundation to cover the freckles sprinkled over my nose and cheeks; applying so much the concealer would take forever to remove later. I did my eye makeup next, fiddling with colors and layering mascara onto my lashes, adding more and more makeup until my green eyes were both enhanced and I looked nothing like Plain Jane.
Overdoing my makeup and wrestling my long, light-brown hair into the black bobbed wig that came with the costume changed my appearance completely.
Even Lolita would walk past me.
I slipped into lacy panties and chose a sexy pink bra that plumped up my boobs. Then I tugged on fishnet stockings with pretty, elasticated lace at the top that held them in position and pulled the costume over my head. The dress fit perfectly, which wasn’t hard, as most of it was made of stretchy fabric.
