DARK PARADISE - A Political Romantic Suspense

Dark Paradise

WINTER RENSHAW

COPYRIGHT 2015 WINTER RENSHAW

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio, LM Creations

EDITING: V. Clifton

All rights reserved. No part of this book
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or
mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case
of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not
assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This
ebook
is
licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s
work.

BOOKS BY WINTER RENSHAW

Never
Kiss a Stranger
(Never Series #1)

Never
Is a Promise
(Never Series #2)

Never
Say Never
(Never Series #3)

Arrogant
Bastard
(Arrogant Series #1)

Arrogant
Master
(Arrogant Series #2)

Arrogant
Playboy (Arrogant Series #3)

DESCRIPTION

There’s a name for girls like me: Sugar
Baby. I’m used to being passed around the sexually depraved, middle-aged
senators of Washington D.C. like candy, but when I meet him - the mysterious
man who buys my exclusivity for three months for price that should frighten me
more than his demands - everything changes.

He's younger than the others. His touch is
softer. His lips sweeter. His need fiercer. He has only one requirement...

A blindfold to protect his identity...and
to protect me from the danger I'd face if our affair leaked to the world.

No phones. No light. No real names. He says
I'm his dark paradise, and we have to keep it that way. He promises I'll thank
him someday.

But what is he really hiding? And what
happens if I find out?

DEDICATION

This one’s for my readers! I promised you this book earlier
in the year, and then it kept getting pushed back due to other projects. For
that, I’m sincerely sorry, but here it is!

You’re patient little lambs, and I heart you all.
xoxo

Camille

{Present Day}

Today’s the day I sell my soul.

“I believe I speak for an
entire nation, Ms. Buchanan, when I say we’re on pins and needles as we wait for
the release of your memoir. What made you decide to write this tell-all?” The
woman interviewing me cocks her head and offers a look that makes me want to
open up to her, but the concern in her eyes is for the viewers at home.

And she should be concerned. This
book is going to change everything for a lot of people.

I never wanted to write it.

But what choice did I have?

“Well, Denise, I believe it’s
important to know what goes on in our nation’s capital when no one’s looking.”
I keep a light cadence in my words just like I practiced all afternoon. My PR team
says to keep my interviews spry to counteract the bomb I’m about to drop. It’s
not every day that the carefully crafted images of an American blue-blooded
family are shattered.

This is my big moment. I’m
experiencing a historical moment in real-time. Clips of this interview will
play out on countless documentaries someday, and my name will forever be linked
to
his
. For better or for worse, I’ll
be unforgettable.

Just like I always wanted.

“I’ve had the privilege of
reading a few excerpts from your book, and I must say to the viewers at home,
there are some extremely heavy allegations.” She repositions herself before
resting her chin across the top of her hand. We’re just a couple of girls
having a conversation. Denise Stone makes it easy to forget we’re being filmed
for a nationally televised special, but I suppose that’s why she’s paid the big
bucks. “What would you say to the naysayers who might accuse you of looking for
a big payday?”

“We’re fortunate enough to live
in a free country.” I deliver my lines like I rehearsed and ignore the fact
that I’m melting under these hot lights. “No one has to read anything or
believe anything they don’t want to. The only thing I’d like everyone to know
is that my book, my memoir, is one hundred percent factual. Every word of it is
true.”

Camille

{One
year ago}

I look like Jackie. I make love
like Marilyn. It’s a dangerous combination in a city of power-hungry,
sex-starved politicians.

“Don’t take another step.” His voice
is low and void of inflection. The heavy hotel suite door slams behind me. My crystal-encrusted
heels anchor into the dense carpet, my body paralyzed by the assertion in his
command. The room is pitch black save for the sliver of streetlight breaking through
the heavy drapes. In the corner stands a man, or rather, the outline of a man.
I can’t see his face. “There’s a blindfold on the table to your left. Put it
on.”

“Why? Are you some kind of
monster?” I intend to sound lighthearted, but the second my voice breaks I show
my cards. My stomach flips as I take the blindfold from the table and place it
over my eyes. Satin. Maybe silk. Blackest black. “Where do you want me?”

The air conditioning kicks on,
bringing a quick chill to my mostly bare skin. The left strap of the little
black number I’m wearing falls down my shoulder.

“Leave it,” he says. “It’ll be
off soon enough.”

His voice is closer than it was
before. Licking my lips, I force a smile and ignore the warning sirens going
off in my head. Three deep
breaths
and I’m saturated
in his old-money scent:
vetiver
and leather with a
hint of cigar smoke.

The John’s arm grips the crook
of my elbow as he leads me over to the bed.

“Bronwyn,” he says. “Couldn’t
think of a better hooker name?”

“I am
not
a hooker.” I huff. There’s a difference between what I do and what
they
do. “And it’s my middle name.”

“Is it safe for you to be
giving out your real name to strange men?”

“If it makes you feel better,
you can call me any name you want.” The corner of my lip curls into a teasing half-smirk,
though I doubt he sees it in the dark. My first name is Camille, but he doesn’t
need to know that. “My name isn’t all that important, and I’d hardly call you a
strange man. I’m selective with my clients. I chose you.”

Or, rather, I allowed him to
choose me. Same difference.

My best friend and roommate,
Araminta
, set this up, and she’s the only person on this
godforsaken planet I trust.

Which is why I’m here . . .

at the Melrose Hotel in
Georgetown . . .

minutes from having blindfolded
sex with a complete stranger . . .

while simultaneously
second-guessing my decision to come here tonight and reminding myself of all
those zeroes.

“Names are everything.” His
breath warms the back of my neck, his fingertips trailing down my spine until
they reach my zipper. The John’s voice is younger than I anticipated. He
doesn’t sound like a balding, pot-bellied senator or a silver-haired, meaty-knuckled
chairperson.

“Is that why you won’t tell me
yours?” I smile, finding this entire situation amusing the second I strip away my
fear.

“Yes.” He sighs. “All of this
should’ve been explained to you. Was it not?”

“I was told you were high
profile.”

Araminta
couldn’t tell me his name as she didn’t know it, but for seven figures, I’d
sleep with almost anyone. And that’s what this mystery man offered. One million
dollars for twelve short weeks, a miniscule blip on the timeline of my life.

Deep inside, beyond my shiny
chestnut hair, deep-set gaze, and bee-stung pout, is a girl dreaming of getting
out of here. Moving west. Making a name for herself.

The only thing I’ve ever wanted
in my entire life is to be unforgettable.

If you take away the elegant wardrobe,
the fancy dinners, the upscale apartment, and the ridiculously expensive hotel
rendezvous, I’m nothing more than a hustler with a dream. An actress inflicted
with merciless ambition. A highly skilled professional.

“And I was told you were the
best at keeping secrets,” he says. A quick pull on my zipper loosens my dress
before he tugs it farther, letting it fall to a soft heap at my feet.

“I cannot confirm nor deny
that.” Attempting to flirt while blindfolded feels silly. “So whose name will I
be calling out tonight?”

“John. Call me John.”

“Original.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“My mouth does a lot of things,
John
.” I’m testing him, feeling out
his sense of humor, which will give me an idea of what he likes. Fun and
feisty? Quick and dirty? Playful? Demure? I find that the vast majority of the
time, they fall into one of two categories: the ones who want Jackie and the
ones who want Marilyn. The sooner I uncover his preference, the better. Until
then, I’m playing a sensual game of chess.

Blindfolded.

His hand grips my chin from
behind. The soft pad of his thumb traces my lower lip, and like the trained
circus monkey
Araminta
has shaped me into over the
years, I snap into performance mode.

My hand lifts to his arm. He’s
in a suit, and the tight weave of the fabric beneath my palm tells me it isn’t
cheap. I trail along his forearm until I feel cool metal. Cufflinks. Square.
Probably platinum or gold. As soon as my hand finds his, I guide his fingertips
between my lips and into my mouth, sucking softly. My tongue flicks and rolls
over his soap-scented skin. He has the hands of a man with a desk job. Smooth.
Unworked. I imagine he shakes hands a lot. Meets lots of new people.

That or he’s a man with a
meticulous eye for details, not unlike myself.

Details are everything.

They tell me everything I’d
ever need to know about a man. The way he combs his hair tells me if he’s right
or left handed. The color of his tie tells me his mood that day. Red or blue?
He’s in work mode. Black? He’s feeling guarded. Plaid or checks? He’s too busy
to care what his tie looks like. Brightly-colored gingham? He buys whatever
looks good on the mannequins at the suit stores.

It’s the same with cologne. If
it doesn’t smell good on him, it was a gift and he wears it because he doesn’t
have time to shop for himself. If it smells cheap, he picked it up at the corner
drugstore chain the second he realized his wife forgot to pack it for him in
his carry-on. If it’s exotic, expensive, or nothing I’ve ever smelled before, I
know he’s well-traveled, a man with very particular tastes. Ordinary would
never be good enough for him.

John’s cologne is an exotic
blend of agreeable notes coming together in perfect harmony. They paint a
picture of a man whose face I so desperately wish I could see.

He moans, pulling his finger
from my mouth and slipping his hands around my waist. His lips press into the
skin just above my left shoulder blade, springing my body awake from the tips
of my toes to the top of my crown. Most men go straight for the goods: tits,
ass, or the Holy Grail between my thighs.

This one’s different.

But I already knew that.

His fingers dig into the front
of my hips, pulling my body against his. The hint of hardness through his pants
hits my lower back. Firm hands snake up my belly as he stipples fiery kisses
down the center of my spine.

My nipples wake and a gush of
delightful heat floods my core.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

I know.

And it’s not because I’m
conceited.

They say Michelangelo saw David
in a slab of marble and carved away until he set him free. What I did is no
different. My baby smooth skin. My toned body. The strategic dabs of Chanel
perfume on my pulse points. The full face of tasteful
Chantecaille
makeup. The breast implants. The subtle
rhinoplasty
to remove the bump. I’ve created a work of art, something a man can cherish and
appreciate on a superficial level because a man soliciting my services doesn’t
care what’s on the inside.

My heart could be the blackest
black and none of it would matter.

Men are simple creatures, and
I’m not ashamed to use that to my advantage. Show me a man who claims to be
complicated, and I’ll make a liar out of him in ten seconds flat. I both love
them and hate them for that reason, but they can’t help themselves any more
than the sky can help being blue.

“Thank you,” I whisper, as if
I’m ashamed of my beauty. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I appreciate
the hard work it took to create my outward appearance. I plucked, peeled, and
scrubbed myself raw to get here. I went to bed hungry more times than I can
count. I walked into the most intimidating of clothing boutiques with my head
held high and ignored their snobby glares. I walked through fire to become the
woman I am today. But there’s nothing sexy about a vain woman. We’re supposed
to be equal parts humble and confident, and there’s a fine line between the
two.

John’s touch isn’t rushed like
most of the men I’ve accompanied. His fingers slip down my sides, tugging my
lace thong down the curve of my ass. A finger enters me from behind, gliding in
with the aid of my wetness. A second finger follows a moment later. In and out,
gentle and slow. He’s not a sex-starved man, or if he is, he does a good job of
masking it.

Most of the men who request my
company are sexually depraved, middle-aged politicians who buy my exclusivity
until the excitement wears off and we go our separate ways.

Judging by his carefully
crafted maneuvers, I’m confident John is a connoisseur of the female body, not
an easy feat even for the most experienced of gentlemen.

I spent five months screwing an
older man a couple of years ago. Not one orgasm for me. The man was thrice
divorced, and his pillow talk consisted mostly of boastful stories of all the exotic
women he’d bedded during his decades-long career in foreign policy.

But the man couldn’t find a
clitoris to save his life.

Dry fucking isn’t my thing, so
I let him down gently. I raised my rates exponentially until he couldn’t afford
me and had no other choice but to pass me on to someone who could. And that’s
how I met my last client, Trey Bancroft, a forty-year-old senator from South Carolina
with a disarming smile, green eyes that sparkled like polished emeralds, and presidential
aspirations.

In my business, referrals are
everything, and getting ahead in life is always about whom you know. In this
little world, my connections are strong, rivaled only by
Araminta’s
.
Plus, my services more than speak for themselves, and what middle-aged man doesn’t
want a twenty-four-year-old honey on his arm with teardrop DDs, bee-stung lips,
and a body made for sin?

Every politician in this city
wants his own personal Marilyn Monroe, and that’s where we come in. But not everyone
can afford a six-figure guilty pleasure habit.

I don’t think of myself as a
prostitute, and I never have. As far as I’m concerned, I am a sexual concierge
for the well to do and influential. I’ve screwed men who’ve saved lives. I’ve
screwed men who’ve voted for wars. I’ve screwed men with more power in their
pointer fingers than kings in small European countries.

“How’d you hear about me?” I ask
as every nerve ending in my body sparks with life.
Araminta
said he was a friend of her current client.

“Not at liberty to say.” His
finger leaves my wetness, and the fragrance of my arousal mixing with my
gardenia perfume saturates the air around us. Emptiness passes through me for a
second, but I take comfort in knowing that minutes from now, I’ll be filled with
something to replace that void.

“That’s too bad.” I sigh. “I
wanted to thank him for sending such a skilled man my way. I don’t always get
to spend my time with men who know their way around the female body.”

“The flattery is unnecessary.”
He unhooks my bra before taking a handful of my breasts, caressing them as he
breathes me in. A moment later, his palms graze across my hardened tips before he
spins me to face him.

I’m blanketed in his warmth and
weighted by his presence. His cinnamon breath grazes my forehead as I stand,
waiting for his command. I’m guessing he’s at least six inches taller than me,
which puts him over six feet.

I reach for his lapels,
trailing my fingers up and down his buttons to get a sense of his physique. His
chest and abs are smooth and flat, and through the thin fabric of his dress
shirt, I make out the chiseled grooves of toned muscles.

Soft hands. Ripped body. Sexy
voice. Seven figure payday. I’ve hit a jackpot I never knew existed in the city
of old money and new influence.

“Are you smiling?” His question
disrupts our moment, and sexual tension is left suspended in midair.

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

My cheeks warm, and I tuck my
chin. It’s easy to forget that although I can’t see him, he sees every inch of
me.

I’m normally quick on my feet,
but his question catches me off guard. My answer can’t be the truth; it has to
be laced with the kinds of things he wants to hear. If I could see his face
right now, I’d be able to know what that might be.