Show & Tell. Rhonda NelsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
out of existence.
Knox blinked. Felt his fingers curl into his palms. “If you didn’t have any plans, then what the hell is the problem?” he asked tightly.
“I could have had plans. It’s just a lucky coincidence that I don’t.”
Knox blew out a breath. “Whatever. When would you like to get together and see to the details of this trip?”
She snorted. “Never.”
“Vannah…” Knox warned, feeling his patience wear thin.
“Savannah,” she corrected, and he could have sworn he heard one of her teeth crack. “You can brief me on the plane. Until then, get away from me and leave me alone.”
“But—”
She glanced up from her computer. “You might have won the battle, but you certainly haven’t won the war. You’ve forced my hand, but that’s all I’m going to allow. Do not speak to me again until we’re on our way to California or, Chapman’s edict or no, you’ll be making the journey solo.”
A hot oath sizzled on Knox’s tongue, but he bit back the urge. He’d never met a woman who infuriated him more, and the desire to call her bluff was almost overpowering.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t afford the risk. This story meant too much. He knew it and he needed to keep the bigger picture in focus.
Instead, though it galled him to no end, Knox nodded succinctly and wordlessly left her cubicle.
SAVANNAH HAD SILENTLY PRAYED that Knox would screw up and talk to her so that she could make good on her threat, but he didn’t. Per her instruction, he hadn’t said a single word to her until they boarded the plane. Since then he’d seemed determined to treat this assignment like any other, and even more determined to ignore the fact that she’d been an unwilling participant.
A typical man, Savannah thought. If he couldn’t buy it off, knock it down or bully it aside, then he ignored it.
They’d flown out of O’Hare at the ungodly hour of five in the morning and would arrive in sunny Sacramento, California, by nine-thirty. At the airport, they would rent a car to finish the journey. The Shea compound was located in the small community of Riverdale, about fifty miles northwest of Sacramento. Barring any unforeseen complications, they should arrive in plenty of time to get settled and attend the Welcome Brunch. Classes officially started at two.
A volcano of dread erupted in her belly at the thought, but rather than allow it to consume her, Savannah channeled her misgivings into a more productive emotion—anger.
She still saw red every time she thought about Chapman’s hand in her humiliation. Quite honestly, she’d been surprised that he hadn’t taken every opportunity to belittle her in front of her co-workers—to make an example of her—and could only assume he acted on the advice of the paper’s attorneys. Chapman seemed the type to feed off others’ misfortune, and, frankly, she’d never liked him. She wasn’t the least bit surprised that Chapman had sided with Knox. Knox was the golden boy, after all.
But the Phoenix had an unparalleled reputation, and she would have been insane not to accept employment at one of the most prestigious papers in the States. She had her career plan, after all, and wouldn’t let a little thing like despising her boss get in the way. Though she assumed he’d never give her a glowing recommendation, her writing would speak for itself.
As for Knox’s role in this…she was still extremely perturbed at him for not taking no for an answer. Without a family or mentor to speak of, Savannah relied solely on gut instinct. She had to. She didn’t have a choice. In the absence of one perception, others became heightened, supersensitized. Just as the blind had a keener sense of smell, she’d developed a keener sense of perception, of self-preservation. When Knox had walked up and asked her to share this story with him, her knee-jerk gut reaction had been swift and telling—she’d almost tossed her cookies.
Going on this trip with him was the height of stupidity. Savannah could be brutally honest with herself when the need arose and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this attraction to Knox was a battle she could not win. If Knox so much as touched her, she’d melt, and then he’d know her mortifying secret—that she’d been lusting after him for over a year.
Savannah bit back a wail of frustration, resisted the childish urge to beat her head against the small oval window. She didn’t need to be here with him—she needed to be back in Chicago. Investigating the missing maintenance hole cover Chapman would have undoubtedly assigned her next. Watering her plants. Straightening her stereo wires, her canned goods.
Anything but being here with Knox.
Though she’d been making a concerted effort to imagine him away from the seat next to hers, Savannah was still hammeringly aware of him. She could feel the heat from his body, could smell the mixture of fine cologne and his particular essence. The fine hairs on her arms continually prickled, seemed magnetically drawn to him. Savannah surreptitiously studied him, traced the angular curve of his jaw with her gaze, the smooth curve of his lips. A familiar riptide of longing washed through her and sensual fantasies rolled languidly through the private cinema of her mind. She suppressed a sigh. No doubt about it, he was a handsome devil.
And due to some hideous character flaw on her own part—or just plain ignorance, she couldn’t be sure—she was in lust with him. The panting, salivating, wanna-rip-your-clothes-off-and-do-it-in-the-elevator, trisexual—meaning “try anything”—type. Had been from the very first moment she’d laid eyes on him the day she joined the staff at the Phoenix.
Of course, he’d screwed it all up by opening his mouth.
Thanks to Gibson Lyles III, Savannah recognized the cool, modulated tones of those born to wealth. There’d been other signs as well, but initially she’d been so bowled over by her physical reaction to him that she hadn’t properly taken them into consideration. The wardrobe, the posture, the polish. It had all been there once she’d really looked. And one look had been all it had taken for her to delegate him to her hell-no list. Since then she’d looked for flaws, probably exaggerated a few, and had not permitted herself to so much as like him.
Savannah knew what happened when rich boys took poor orphans home to meet the parents. Her lips twisted into a derisive smile. The rich boy got an all-expenses-paid tour of Europe…and the poor orphan got backhanded by reality.
Thanks, but no thanks.
Frustration peaked once more. Why had he demanded that she come? Why her, dammit? There were other female journalists employed at the Phoenix, other women just as qualified. What had been so special about her that none of the others would do?
When Savannah contemplated what this extended weekend would entail, all the talk of sex, having to share a room with him, for pity’s sake, it all but overwhelmed her. How on earth would she keep her appalling attraction for him secret during a hands-on sex workshop? What, pray tell, would prevent her from becoming a single, pulsing, throbbing nerve of need? How would she resist him?
She wouldn’t, she knew. If he so much as crooked a little finger in invitation, she’d be hopelessly, utterly and completely lost.
Savannah knew a few basic truths about the art of tantric sex, knew the male and female roles. Knew that the art of intimate massage, of prolonged foreplay and ritual were particularly stressed themes throughout the process. But that was only the tip of the iceberg. There were other, more intimidating—and intimate—themes prevalent as well.
Tantrists believed that humans possessed six chakras—or sources of energy—and that during life, these energy sources got blocked due to the traumas humans suffered. But once these chakras were unblocked, and energy was free to move as it should, then when the male and female bodies merged, these energies merged as well, creating a oneness with a partner that transcended the physical and, thus, turned sex into a spiritual experience.
But how could a person take it seriously? Take some of the lingo for instance.