Sinful Temptations Page 2

  And sex. Lots of sex.

  And Roman. Definitely Roman.

  Chapter Two

  I left my tiny loft with a spring in my step, ready to do something I’d never done before. Lingerie shopping. Not underwear shopping. Lingerie. And not at my local department store that was dedicated to providing cheap Chinese knockoffs. No, no, no. I, Daisy Chayne, was on a mission to give my breasts the quality apparel they deserved.

  I caught the train into London central. Despite being way past peak hour, it was still crammed full. But it wasn’t just work commuters. The moms and bubs were out in plague proportions. Was there some sort of diaper revolution or infant protest going on that I’d missed in the tabloids? It wouldn’t surprise me. Keeping up with newsworthy events was not my thing—way too depressing. A spaceship could land on the Tower of London and I wouldn’t know about it until six days into the alien invasion.

  Me and about a thousand pram-pushing women disembarked at Piccadilly Circus and, dodging around them, I raced toward the main street.

  For nearly three hours, I went into store after store in search of sexy lingerie.

  But what I’d thought would be a simple quest became as difficult as finding the holy grail on a snow-covered mountain with a heard of zombie werewolves on my tail. It seemed that designers didn’t consider size-F bosoms as a likely demographic for lacy braziers.

  Oh, there were bras in my size, all right. But ninety-nine percent of size Fs were beige, had straps thick enough to secure a shipping container in place, and required a small mortgage to acquire them. The other one percent were fucking ugly.

  A lovely young lady at Lace Luxury—whose breasts were the size of walnuts, thereby not requiring any bra at all, at least, not according to today’s T-shirt—had shown me six bras that actually fit, but were as unexciting as a little toe.

  Out of sheer exasperation, and without really expecting a helpful response, I asked, “Why are all the bras in my size so—”

  “Boring.” She finished the sentence for me.

  “Yes. Exactly. Just because I’m well-endowed doesn’t mean I don’t want to look sexy.” Go me!

  To my surprise, she smirked and leaned in to whisper, “I know exactly where you should go. But don’t tell anyone I told you.” She jutted her chin toward the older staff member whose updo hairstyle must’ve required scaffolding to fix it in place. “There’s a lingerie shop in London Bridge called Big, Bold, and Boobylicious.” She eased back, grinning.

  “Thank you. That sounds exactly like my kinda place.”

  Twenty minutes later, I found the nondescript street and halfway along, the tiny boutique was easily identified by the statue of giant watermelons wearing an equally giant lacy pink bra. Just the display in the front window confirmed I’d struck gold.

  The door tinkled as I stepped in and the lady who greeted me, Cynthia according to her name tag, was my boob-doppelganger.

  While I shied away from voicing the size of my bust, she announced, “Size F for Fantabulous,” with a cackle that could shatter crystal.

  The lovely Cynthia set me up in the generously sized changeroom and handed me dozens of sexy items that I simply had to try on. I squeezed my girls into everything from tiny teddies to full-body stockings.

  I tried on stunning corsets with intricate lace and hand-sewn bones, and teeny-weeny clasps that required way too much wrestling for my liking.

  The studded leather collection from the Biker Bliss range was way beyond my new adventurous streak.

  But Cynthia was as patient as she was persistent. I even allowed her to manhandle my tits into position a few times. By the time I walked out of her boutique, I had a range of lingerie that encompassed most colors in the rainbow and my credit card had taken one of the biggest beatings of its relatively short life.

  Considering I’d been alternating between the same two bras since I’d arrived in London five years ago, the expense was justified. Besides, me and my girls were worth every cent.

  But I didn’t stop my new adventurous streak there. The remaining nine days of my break would be a testament to my tour-guiding skills. I crammed in all twenty top tourist attractions in London, at least, according to the brochure I’d picked up at the train station. I strolled through Hyde Park, took dozens of photos from the top of the London Eye, joined the millions of tourists at Westminster Abbey and Tower Bridge, and checked out the crown jewels in the Tower of London. And I waited with the crazy royal-watchers outside Buckingham Palace, hoping, but really not caring if the Queen poked her head out and waved hello or not.

  I also went in search of some alternative attractions and visited Camden which is lauded as the body mod capital of the UK. Based on the amount of piercings, tats, and some of the frightening things that simultaneously took my breath away and made me nauseous, I agreed with that title. I saw men with horns growing out of their tattooed skulls, women with implanted fangs for teeth, and enough forked tongues to make me wonder if there was some kind of snake inbreeding going on.

  My whole life, I’d struggled with my body image and tried desperately to fit in. Some of these modifications were so extreme, they could do nothing but stand out. The only good thing about my body are my fingernails. With that thought, I decided to spend my last day getting a manicure.

  During a break in my search for a manicurist who didn’t charge a fortune and who actually had an available spot, I ducked into a chemist for condoms. I had never bought condoms in my life. William, my stupid-fucking ex, had taken care of that. He probably only ever did it once during our time together, and even then, he wouldn’t have used up the entire pack.

  Shoving that disappointing fact aside, I strolled each aisle in search of the condoms.

  I paused at the hair product section. When did shampoo and conditioner become so complex? It took me nearly half an hour to choose a set suitable for my curly red hair.

  With that sorted, I aimed for the condoms.

  Holy shit. The choices were extensive. There was latex, plastic and ewwww, lambskin. The next options were lubricated and non-lubricated. Apparently, it was an allergy thing. A mental image of a hideously swollen penis covered in puss-filled lumps had me gagging. Moving on to the fun ones, there was ribbed, glow in the dark, all sorts of colors, and even ones with flavors.

  I was reaching for a pack with smiley faces on it when a totally buff guy with a buzz cut strode up to me. He was so swift I jumped back, thinking I was about to be wrestled to the ground for choosing a pack that was beyond ridiculous. He nodded at me like my reaction was one he received from most women, then reached for the Trojan Magnum Large Size Condoms value pack. With a curt nod, he marched away.

  Deciding that Mr. Buzz Cut’s choice of rubber would at least flatter my next potential sex partner, I followed his lead, snatched two packets from the shelf, yay me, and strode toward the counter.

  * * *

  I started day one of my August tour with a smile on my face, pretty red fingernails, four rubbers in my day pack, and lacy lingerie beneath my Vacation Dreamz uniform.

  After saying hello to Tracy behind reception, and confirming that by some fucking miracle, Bruce had refrained from doing his creepy boob gaze at her, I strolled across the parking lot. I aimed for Roman who, to my surprise, had arrived before me. None of my previous drivers had ever done that. I ducked my head beneath the panel door and squinted into the luggage hold. Roman’s ass was right there. “Oh, hi.” I shot my gaze away.

  “Buongiorno, Daisy.”

  My first sighting of Mr. Perfect had blood pumping through my body like a jet stream.

  Jeysus. Why does he do that to me? Focus, Daisy. “How was your break?”

  He groaned as he stepped out into the sunshine with me. Roman was clean-shaven and smelled like he’d just hopped out of a long, hot shower. “It was manicomio.” He shook his head.

  I tried to translate but couldn’t. Looking up at him with a frown, I said, “Manicomio?”

  “Sorry. It means bedlam. Mamma’s crazy. She gives me so much work. Cooking. Cleaning. Gardening. It never ends.” He slapped his forehead. “I couldn’t wait to get here.”

  “I wondered why you were so early.”

  “Ahhh, no, that’s not why. My flight gets in at seven and I have nothing else to do so . . .” He shrugged. “So, I come here.”

  In all our time spent together on the last tour, I hadn’t even thought about how he travelled from Manarola in Italy to London. “Jeez. What time did you get up this morning?”

  He scrunched up his nose, as if my question required much calculation. “Actually, I started last night, at midnight. My brother-in-law, he drives me to Rome—that takes about four hours. My flight was at five-twenty and I landed at quarter past six. Got a cab straight here.”

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe you do that.” Here I am complaining about my two-station journey in a train that was so crammed full I’d had my face in the armpit of a man who had strangely smelled like lemons.

  Roman shrugged. “No other way to get here.”

  “Wow. You must really want this job.”

  A beaming smile lit up his face. “Last month was fantastico. I loved it. Hopefully, this month is the same.”

  “I’m sure it will be.”

  A group of four women strolled across the parking lot and I waved them over. “Come on in, ladies. Roman will store your luggage.”

  Roman struck up conversation like the five of them had shared a row boat together for a week or something. I admired him for that. Personal conversations were not my thing.

  Unless it was Roman—the cheeky bastard had given my comfort zone quite a beating last month. Usually, the idea of someone deep-diving into my back story would have me breaking out in hives. Roman, though? He’d managed to
weasel all sorts of personal stuff out of me.

  This month was his turn. I was putting on my wing-woman hat and tugging it right into place.

  He simultaneously manhandled the ladies’ heavy suitcases into the luggage hold, and said things that had them giggling like helium-affected schoolgirls. What on earth had his ex, Caterina, been thinking when she’d decided to sleep with that married man?

  I bet she regretted it.

  When he smiled at the ladies, and ran his hand through his hair in that way that had it bouncing right back into place, I had no doubt Caterina would regret it. Roman was a good catch.

  It was going to be so much fun hooking him up with some booty, as he called it.

  Leaving Roman to the giggling women who were clearly in no hurry to move, I climbed the steps into the bus. Everyone was seated. They were a fairly quiet group.

  With the microphone at my lips, I said, “Well hellloooo, gidday, hola, nǐ hǎo, bonjour, hallo, konnichiwa, and ciao.” I frowned at the South African twins. “Karabo and Bokamoso, did I say your names right?”

  Their faces lit up with brilliant white-toothed smiles. “Yes.”

  “Phew. How do you say hello in South Africa?”

  They giggled. “Hello.”

  “Oh.” I laughed with them. “That’s easy enough to remember. Did I miss anyone?”

  A young man with a nearly bald head and an enormous beard raised his hand.

  “Ahh, yes, Mustafa, I’m sorry but I don’t know how to say hello in Turkish.’

  “Merhaba.”

  “Merhaba,” I repeated. “Thank you. I learn something new every day.” It was another reason why leaving Europe, and in particular, this job was going to kill me.

  Casting that bullshit aside, I said, “Hello, everyone, my name is Daisy. I’m your dominatrix—whoops—I mean tour guide for this twenty-day European Vacation Dreamz tour. Welcome aboard the best party bus in the fleet.”

  A few people laughed. It was always a good sign. Sometimes I didn’t get a peep out of the tourists for days, like being with a bunch of strangers cramped their style. I could relate to that. It would take me a while to get them going. My job was to ensure they had a great time. I always did.

  I hung up the microphone and strolled along the aisle, counting the passengers. Twenty-five. We were still one passenger short. “Okay, we are just waiting for one more victim. Once they’ve had their public flogging, we’ll get on our way.”

  As I returned to the front, I overheard a comment about my bust size. It’d only been five minutes—my guess for this month had been ten. The comment had been an attempted whisper by Rory, the Australian man who’d sat toward the back of the bus with his wife, Dallas. Apparently, he wished I could share some of my abundant breasts with her.

  Asshole!

  I would’ve poked his eyeballs out. Dallas, however, playfully slapped him on the arm and told him to shush.

  That was what I didn’t get about men. They didn’t realize the encumbrances that came with mammoth breasts. They were heavy enough to cause back pain. They made it difficult to venture into sports like high jumping or beach volleyball. And during that time of the month, they pounded for attention like starving inmates at meal time.

  So yeah . . . having enormous breasts wasn’t all fun and games.

  Unless, of course, they were being licked by a sexy Frenchman.

  Or caressed by a stylishly tattooed millionaire with stunning smoky-gray eyes and an intense gaze.

  A smile crawled across my lips and I tried to reign it in, but couldn’t as I climbed down the steps and strolled toward the side of the bus.

  Roman poked his head out of the luggage hold and cocked his head. “What are you smiling at?”

  “Nothing.”

  He wriggled his brows. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

  “Okay, it was something, but you don’t need to know.”

  “Ahhh, so that’s how it is going to be, huh?”

  “Maybe.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Someone’s in a happy mood.”

  “Always.”

  “You had a good break then? What’d you get up to?”

  “I did a lot actually. I checked out a heap of London attractions, did some shopping, and I even got my nails done.” I waved my pretty red nails for his scrutiny.

  “Nice. Glad to see you’re happy. Better than the grumpy bitch we started with last month.”

  My jaw dropped. “Grumpy bitch?”

  “Yeah, for the first couple of days anyway.”

  Rolling my eyes, I caught sight of one of the passengers climbing down the steps. I walked toward her. It was Laura, the only British passenger on this tour. Laura had a cute pixie haircut and an honest face. The kind of look that was suited to a morning news anchorwoman where viewers would trust every word she said.

  “Hey, Laura, is everything okay?”

  She picked at her fingernails. “Yes, ummm, no, maybe not.”

  “You need the restroom?”

  “No. No. It’s not that.” She looked about as uncomfortable as someone who’d sat on an ant nest.

  I eased in beside her. “It’s okay. Just tell me what’s up.”

  “I, ahhh, I was just wondering if the passenger you are waiting for is Richard Bartholomeus.”

  “Yes, it is actually. Do you know where he is?”

  “Well.” She cleared her throat. “He’s my fiancé. No, ummm, well he was my fiancé. Until last week. We broke up. I wasn’t sure if he’d still come on this trip.” Her face morphed into utter sadness. “I guess he’s not.”

  The sorrow in her expression could have melted even the toughest biker. “It’s okay. Don’t worry. Leave it to me and I’ll sort it out. Go on up and take a seat, and I’ll ask the office to call him.”

  She lowered her eyes and for a second her chin quivered but she clamped her jaw, fighting it. “He’s not likely to answer his phone. He never does.”

  I touched my hand to her shoulder, feeling her trembling bones beneath. “I’m glad you still came. You’re going to have a wonderful time. It’ll be his loss. I promise.”

  A tiny smile appeared and vanished from her lips in a nanosecond. Nodding, she looked at me with tears pooling on her lower eyelids. “Thank you.”

  I wanted to pull her in for a hug, to tell her everything would be alright. But her emotions were already rampant. She didn’t want awkwardness adding to them. Rubbing her shoulder instead, I said, “You’re welcome. It’s going to be okay.”

  Laura climbed back up the stairs. She was almost moving in slow motion, as if every muscle hurt. I knew exactly what was hurting her—a broken heart. If they’d only separated a week ago, she would still be so raw. The poor love.

  I vowed there and then that I’d make sure she had the best holiday ever. For twenty days, she could forget about her ex and enjoy herself. Maybe she’d forget about him forever.

  I strolled back to Roman. His dark eyebrows drilled together. They were so perfect; it was like he groomed them. William had spent a ridiculous number of hours in front of the mirror attending to his facial hair. I hated the idea that Roman did too. Maybe, like everything else about him, they were just naturally perfect.

  Roman let out a sigh as I reached him. “Wow, she didn’t look happy. Is she okay?”

  Shoving that pointless eyebrow-observation aside, I said, “She will be. I’m going to the office to make a call. Back in a sec.”

  “Righty-ho.” He did that thing where he curled his hand through his hair and every strand slid back into position like he was workin’ it for the cameras.

  Silently cursing Mr. Perfect, I turned on my heel and trotted toward the office.

  As I crossed the expanse, it reminded me that I hadn’t confronted my boss about what he’d told Mother. This was my chance. I picked up my pace. With each stride, my boobs gave my new sexy lingerie its first real challenge and my mind slammed between what Mother had demanded of me and what I was going to demand from my asshole boss.

  By the time the glass doors parted for my entrance, I was clenching my fists so hard my newly manicured fingernails were digging into my palms.

  At reception, as I waited for Tracy to finish up a phone call, I tried to hear if Bruce was in his office. As usual, his door was shut. I never had understood why he did that—it wasn’t as if his work was top secret.