Sinful Escape Read online

  Sinful Escape

  Book one in the Six Months of Sin series.

  KITTY KENDALL

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kitty K News

  More books by Kitty Kendall

  About the author

  I Am Not Invisible

  My Urban Cowboy

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  IMAGINE SEEING A NAKED hunk with a mighty erection cartwheeling across a stage.

  It’d be impossible to miss.

  My tits are like that. Impossible to miss. They’re also my worst enemy. Especially now.

  While I was desperately pleading with my asshole boss to change his company policy, Bruce’s eyes yoyoed up and down between my boobs and my face. I’d already checked my top button was firmly secured, ensuring my cleavage was concealed as much as possible beneath the strained uniform shirt. Yet Bruce continued to eye bounce.

  Most of the time I ignored his blatant ogling. Not today, though. Not when he’d just told me that in six months, I could no longer work for Vacation Dreamz.

  “It’s company policy,” he repeated for the billionth fucking time.

  I wanted to launch over the table, clutch his ugly, stained tie and yell BULLSHIT. Instead, I clenched my fists below the table, digging my nails into the flesh, and willed my rising fury to calm down. Last thing I needed was to ruin my perfect employee record. “But you’ve changed company policy before.” I hated that my voice sounded whiney. “You did it for Nathanial last year.”

  “Yes.” He huffed out a disgusting nicotine-plagued breath. “But that was different. We had to make the change for discrimination reasons.”

  I grabbed my folded letter from his desk and waved it, resisting the urge to scrunch it into a ball and peg it at him. “Using my age against me is discrimination.”

  He rolled his eyes to the clock on the wall behind me. “No, Daisy. It’s not.”

  That clock suddenly seemed very loud. Ticking away the seconds like a fateful countdown. A countdown to the end of the only thing in the world that meant something to me . . . my job.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Bruce gathered his pen, hovering it over a blank notepad. He held my gaze. His expression hardened. “Was there anything else?” He tapped his pen on the notepad. Tap, tap, tap. It was his typical move, signaling the end of our meeting.

  “No.” Asshole. “But we haven’t finished—”

  “There’s nothing more to discuss.” He cut me off. “It’s company policy. The end. Oh.” He clicked his fingers. “I nearly forgot.” His bloodshot eyes swooped up from my chest. “You have a new driver.”

  I unclamped my jaw. “What?” Shit! Today just got a thousand times worse. “What happened to Clancy?”

  “Apparently his wife got sick of him being away and told him to choose between this job and her.” A creepy cackle erupted from his throat, highlighting decades of cigarette abuse. “If you ask me, he made the wrong choice.”

  “See? You shouldn’t have changed that company policy insisting that people be single. Married people can’t do this type of job. I’m single—not even close to getting married, so I’m not going anywhere. Yet you’re happy to get rid of me.”

  “Not happy, Daisy. We have no choice.” He leaned forward and jabbed a button on his desk phone. “Tracy, send in Roman.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tracy’s squeaky voice sounded more high-pitched through the intercom.

  “But you do have a choice.” My muffled words were swallowed up by Tracy’s giggle as she opened the door and stepped into the room. Following her was a man who had my heart careening to a stop. If he’s my new driver, I’m in trouble.

  Bruce raised his pudgy hand from the table. “Daisy, this is Roman . . . your new man.” Bruce introduced him with a booming voice like he was a WWE wrestler.

  Roman strode to me with his hand stretched forward, brandishing dazzling teeth in a brilliant smile. Standing to greet him, I had no idea where to look. His incredible eyes. His luscious hair. His stunning complexion. Roman had it all going on.

  I’d had six drivers since I started my career as a tour guide—three in their fifties, three in their twenties. The older ones were only doing the job until something better came along. The younger ones wanted to party. With most of our tour groups comprising of young single people and a fair percentage of them being women, there was plenty of partying. Sex was on tap. Roman was young and oozing sex appeal.

  Clearly, he was here for all the wrong reasons.

  And that meant I was in for hell.

  “Buongiorno, Daisy.” Roman’s warm hand enveloped mine. “I’ve heard all about you.” Thanks to his Italian accent, even his voice exuded charm.

  “Oh. Really?” I looked up into his eyes and was distracted by their interesting honey color.

  He released my hand. “Si, Bruce told me you are their top tour guide at Vacation Dreamz.”

  “Oh.” Fucking great. One minute Bruce tells me I’m out of a job, next minute he’s telling people I’m the best operator he has.

  “Si, he said you and I will make a great team.”

  “Oh.” For a woman whose job involved talking, monosyllables were suddenly my thing.

  “On that note . . .” Bruce spun on his chair and thumbed toward the window. “You two better get going.”

  In the distance, the London Eye loomed in the sky. The famous icon was just one of the many attractions I’d intended to visit one day. Thanks to my boss’s stupid new policy, I was about to run out of one days.

  Bruce’s immediate view overlooked the Vacation Dreamz parking bay. Twenty-four tour buses could be parked there at any one time. Only three were present this morning. The purple bus, artistically decorated with graffiti images of the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa and several other European icons, was mine. I’d been working on the same bus for two and a half years.

  Congregating near it, with their abundant luggage, was my tour group for this month. They were waiting for me. Waiting for us—me and my driver. I hated being late. It was Bruce’s fault. I’d scheduled this meeting a full hour before I was due to start. He’d kept me waiting for forty-five minutes.

  Yet another reason why he’s an asshole.

  Roman rubbed his hands together, drawing my attention back him. My new hell. “This’s going to be eccellente.” He held his hand toward Bruce. “Thank you for this opportunity. I will not disappoint you.”

  “I know you won’t.” Bruce nodded at me. “Make sure Daisy shows you the ropes.”

  Glaring at my boss, I wished I had a voodoo doll of him so I could shove giant needles into his bulging belly very slowly.

  Roman turned to me and, wriggling his eyebrows, he indicated toward the door with his hand. “After you, signora.”

  “Hey Dolly, don’t forget this.”

  Clenching my jaw, I bit my tongue and spun to Bruce.

  He held forward the folded letter that’d instigated my crisis meeting with him. Bruce’s smug grin confirmed our discussion was over for good. I snatched the letter, shoved it into my bag, spun on my heel and stormed from the room.

  “What’s up with her?” Roman’s voice, despite being on the other side of the door, no longer sounded slick and charming, but rough-edged.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Bruce answered. “She’ll get over it.”

  Get ove
r it! There was nothing to get over. For two and a half years I’ve had a job I loved. But it was about to be yanked out from beneath me. That asshole had the power to renew my employment, so I could extend my European Visa. But he’d refused because of some new company policy bullshit.

  I strode from the building. If I’d been a cartoon character, steam would’ve been shooting from my ears. But when I saw my new tour group, all buzzing with youthful energy and flashing joyous smiles, I decided I couldn’t let my boss and that stupid letter get to me. Not now. Not when thirty full-paying tourists were counting on me to give them the vacation of their lives.

  That’s what I’m going to do.

  It was the only thing I was good at.

  Crossing the parking lot, I talked to my myself like I was a complete nutter.

  It’ll be okay.

  My career isn’t over. Not yet at least.

  I have six months to figure it out.

  Glancing down, I checked my shirt was still done up. Yep. All good.

  Each month, my boobs suffered scrutiny from a whole new set of people. Worse than just people. These were young tourists, high on life and usually high on something else.

  Several months into this career, at the start of each trip, I’d taken to making silent bets with myself on how long it’d take before someone would comment on my breasts. For no particular reason, I made today’s bet two minutes.

  I was a few feet from my group when I heard a male voice say, “Nice tits.”

  Wow. That was barely three seconds. A new record. I scanned the crowd for the loudmouth. “Okay. Who said that?”

  A blond-haired man, with almond shaped eyes that pranced from me to his mate, slinked backwards.

  I zeroed my focus onto him. Stepping forward, the mob parted. Not wanting to scare him on day one of our tour, I smiled sweetly. “You were saying?”

  “I said, er, nice bus.” He slapped his hand onto the Eiffel Tower artwork.

  His mate sniggered.

  Out the corner of my eye, Roman slotted into the crowd.

  This was my chance to show him exactly how good I was at my job.

  I took another step toward Mr. Loudmouth, and with a wicked smirk, I said, “You said nice tits.”

  His jaw dropped.

  “But that’s so boring.”

  “Huh?” His almond eyes widened.

  “Come on, surely you could be more creative than that.” I scanned the crowd; all eyes were on me.

  Women were smiling and giggling.

  Men were glancing at each other, jaws ajar.

  “I mean, there are so many more colorful synonyms. Let’s have a try, shall we?” I held up my fingers, ready to count off some of the gazillion labels I’d heard for tits. “What about hooters, bazookas, knockers, suckling mounds, or even crumb catchers.” I could go on and on with the labels, but this was the perfect chance to get them involved, loosen them up. “Anyone else want to add?”

  “Coconuts,” someone yelled.

  “Yes.” I raised another finger. “Come on, there are dozens.” I scanned around, grinning at all the smiling faces. I should patent this game. I’d call it the Melon Moniker game. Or Titty Titles.

  “Puppies,” a woman called.

  “Not so grassy knolls,” one of the blokes yelled out.

  I burst out laughing. “That’s a new one. Any more?”

  “Udders.” A guy at the back with wavy blonde hair and perfectly tanned skin, hollered with an American accent.

  “Milk monsters,” another man added.

  “Ewww. Guys are gross. Right ladies?”

  Laughing, the women agreed. Smiles beamed all around, including Roman.

  “Conjoined humpbacks,” the guy with the almond eyes yelled.

  “Oh jeez now we’re getting silly.” I pointed at him. “Alrighty, what’s your name, Mister?”

  His gaze shifted to his mate and back to me. “Robert.”

  “Robert, hmmm. I have a naughty corner right up the front of the bus next to me. It’ll have your name on it if you’re not careful.”

  “Uhhh, no thanks, I think I’ll pass.” He chuckled and his mate clapped him on the back.

  Nearly everyone was laughing. My Titty Titles game had broken the ice, perfect.

  This was one reason why I loved my job. My guests were like putty in my hands.

  It was time to shift into work mode and start my thirtieth trip leading a Vacation Dreamz bus tour through Europe.

  “All right party animals,” I bellowed over the crowd. “Leave your luggage here and get your sexy asses onboard. Grab a seat and get comfy.”

  The crowd slowly moved and I greeted each person at the door, putting a name to a face as I went.

  “Hi, I’m Mike.” The blonde American introduced himself and I marked off his name. He looked like he’d ridden here on a BMX bike. Mike rhymed with bike. That’s how I’ll remember his name.

  “Hi, I’m Brett,” the next guest introduced himself.

  He looked smart and innocent, like a teacher’s pet. Brett. Pet. That’s how I’d remember his name.

  This was one of my special gifts. On the first day of every month, I met a new group of tourists. I only required one introduction to commit their names to memory.

  My gift was a legacy from my childhood.

  I went to nineteen schools in twelve years, so I was always the new kid. Remembering names and quickly assessing the classroom pecking order had been the key to my safety. And my sanity.

  The tourists had absolutely no sense of urgency. It’d taken me some time to accept that backpackers had their own speeds. Slow when we had to get moving onto the bus. Fast when they had to down a drink and order another before the bar closed. But I got it; they were on vacation. Time had a new meaning.

  Time had a new meaning for me too. Six months left on my work visa suddenly seemed very short.

  I wasn’t ready to leave Europe.

  Most of the female tourists looked at my eyes, but some, like the majority of the men, shot a quick glance down at my chest. It was like I was just a plank of wood with two attention-seeking melons emblazoned in neon lights. Nobody ever seemed to notice my hands. Or my teeth. My red hair sometimes attracted attention, but that was a whole other story. As were my freckles.

  A young woman paused before me and with a beautiful smile, she offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Sunny. I’m so pumped to be here.” I was already jealous of her long golden hair and flawlessly tanned glowing skin. Sunny was like a ray of sunshine. Her name will be easy to remember.

  Her excited greeting was like a dose of adrenalin. “I’m excited you’re here too, Sunny. You’re going to have an incredible vacation.”

  “Thank you. It already is.”

  “Perfect, head on up and grab any seat you like. Preferably a vacant one.”

  Sunny giggled with a sweetness and purity that matched her appearance.

  Roman was toward the back of the bus, shoving a case big enough to warrant its own zip code into the luggage hold. Any normal human would be gasping after that effort. Roman was not normal.

  While flexing his muscles, he was simultaneously flirting with the ladies and pouring out compliments that had the women cackling like hyenas. He was the type of womanizer most mothers would warn their daughters to steer clear of. Except my mother. She would’ve undone my top button and shoved me at him.

  By the way these four gorgeous backpackers were ogling Roman, it was obvious I was going to have a few broken hearts during this tour. I’d witnessed it before with both of my previous young drivers. And dozens of my male tourists. The men just wanted sex. The women, though . . . some of them wanted more than a quickie. The worst part was when the women claimed they’d fallen in love. How was that even possible? The tours were only twenty days long.

  Besides, there was no such thing as love. Not unconditional love.

  The sooner they learned that, the safer their hearts would be.

  Roman glanced my way, and when a weird expres
sion wobbled across his face, I wondered what Bruce had told him about me. Not that there was much to tell. Other than what I did for a living, Bruce didn’t know me. Especially not on a personal level.

  There were so many things I loved about my job . . . visiting thirteen fascinating cities in eight countries every month, seeing amazing attractions, getting to know excited guests ready for adventure. But breaking in a new driver was not one of them. Vacation Dreamz drivers didn’t last long. Not that I blamed them. Other than juggling giant suitcases, their job comprised of sitting all day and wrestling the bus through traffic mayhem in major European metropolises. Most of the time, they didn’t even vacate their seat.

  Not my problem though.

  Roman had applied for this job, so he had better know what he was doing.

  With the last passenger onboard, it was time for me to do what I did best. I left Roman with the remaining luggage and climbed the steps. After a quick squirt of my favorite triple-strength, lemongrass-scented hand sanitizer, I grabbed the microphone and stood in the middle aisle between the driver’s seat and mine. “Morning everyone, my name is Daisy, and I’m your punisher, whoops . . . I mean, tour guide for the next twenty days.”

  A few people laughed. So we’re off to a good start.

  “Look at the size of those tits.” Tiffany, the woman who’d made the comment to her sister, was young—I’d guess about twenty-two or -three. Her platinum blond hair spilled over her shoulders. She had very long, fake lashes, wore loads of makeup, and was chewing gum.

  She’d said her statement in a negative way. Not, something sympathetic like That poor woman, she’d have to lug those things around all day.

  Or, man, imagine the unwanted scrutiny she’d get with breasts that size.

  Lexie, Tiffany’s equally blond sister, glanced at me over the chairs, then leaned in to her sibling. “They’d have to be fake. Don’t you reckon?”

  I’d heard the fake boob comment in its various forms a thousand times. According to the bulk of the population, size-F boobs, on someone as tiny as me, couldn’t possibly be the result of nature.

  If I wanted to be mean, I could seat Warren, one of the American boys, who was currently sitting up the back, right next to her. While appealing to the eye, Warren reeked of stale beer. And I’d already pegged him as one of those people who’d remove his shoes without considering those around him.