Читать книгу Show & Tell - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 7

KNOX WEBBER ABSENTLY SWIRLED the liquor around his glass as he watched the naked couple displayed on his television screen gyrate in sexual ecstasy. They sat in a pool of fuzzy golden light, face to face, palm to palm, the woman’s hips anchored around the man’s waist. Her long blond hair shimmered over her bare shoulders. She threw her head back and her mouth formed a perfect O of orgasmic wonder. The video’s hypnotic narrator droned from the hi-fi speakers placed strategically around Knox’s plush glass-and-chrome apartment.

“Let the tantric energy flow. You’ll feel the power wash over you, through you and around you as your male and female energies merge. This wave of utter bliss will transport you and your partner to a new plane in sexual rapture, a new plane of enlightenment and awareness, where you’ll flow in harmony with your lover and the rest of the world. Synchronized, controlled breathing is essential…”

Sheesh.

Knox snorted and hit the stop button on his remote control. He’d seen enough. He’d watched the how-to video on one of the best home-theater systems money could buy—a fifty-five-inch digitally mastered screen with superior resolution, picture in picture, and quality sound—and he still thought the entire concept of tantric sex was a load of crap.

Regrettably, it was becoming an increasingly popular load of crap and it just might be the one story he’d been looking for, the one pivotal article that would give him an edge over his competitors. Knox currently enjoyed a top spot in the Chicago scene of investigative journalism, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted a Pulitzer. A wry smile twisted his lips. Granted, this story most likely wouldn’t win him the coveted award, but it could put him that much closer to his goal. The thought sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through his blood.

Call it journalistic intuition, all he knew was each time Knox caught the scent of a good story, he’d get a curious feeling in his gut, an insistent nudge behind his naval that, so far, had never steered him wrong. This sixth sense had propelled him into his current comfortable position with the Chicago Phoenix, had earned him a reputation for staying on the cutting edge of journalism and keeping his finger on the fickle pulse of American society.

The nudge was there now, more insistent than ever, prodding him into action. But for the first time in his life, for reasons that escaped him, he found himself resisting the urge to pick up the scent and track down the story.

Knox chalked up his misgivings to inconvenience. Naturally, in the course of his work, he’d been mightily inconvenienced and had never minded the hassle. It was all part and parcel of his chosen career path, the one he’d taken despite howling protests from his more professionally minded parents. His mother and father considered Knox’s career choice beneath him and were still clinging to the hope that he’d eventually come to his senses and use his Ivy League education for a more distinguished career.

They’d have a long wait.

Knox was determined to make his mark in the competitive world of investigative journalism, no matter the inconveniences. This wasn’t just a career; it was his identity, who he was. He was a show-and-tell journalist—he unearthed facts, then he showed them to the American public, told them in his own outspoken way and encouraged them to draw their own conclusions.

He’d hidden in small dark places and he’d assumed countless disguises, some of which were completely emasculating, Knox thought, shuddering as he recalled the transvestite debacle. He’d made it a point to befriend a scope of unwitting informants, from assistants to top city officials to the occasional pimp and small-time thug, and all species in between, creating a network of eyes much like the Argus of Greek mythology.

The idea of being inconvenienced didn’t disturb Knox—it was the form of inconvenience he was concerned about. Knox preferred to work solo, but for this particular story, that simply wasn’t an option.

He’d have to have a partner, and a female partner at that. A wry smile turned his lips. After all, he couldn’t very well attend a tantric sex workshop with a man.

Knox studied the glossy tantric sex pamphlet once more. This clinic—Total Tantra Edification—in particular was his target. While some workshops were probably on the up-and-up, something about this one didn’t feel quite right. Hadn’t from the beginning when this idea had first taken hold. The little brochure was chock-full of glowing testimonials from happy couples who had sworn that the workshop had saved their marriages, had brought their flat-lined sex lives from the brink of death via the energized, intimate therapy. Women, in particular, seemed to be thrilled with the results, citing multiple orgasms and even female ejaculation.

And why not? Knox wondered with a crooked grin. The whole technique seemed geared toward female gratification—a new twist in and of itself. According to his research, men avoided physical ejaculation completely, thereby prolonging their erections, and instead strove for full-body inner orgasms. The blast without the shower, so to speak, Knox thought.

Expensive tantric weekend workshops were becoming almost as common on the West Coast as surfers at the beach. While they hadn’t gained as much popularity on the East Coast, interest in the subject was nonetheless increasing. A popular cable music program recently polled eighteen-to twenty-four-year-olds, and when asked what sexual subject they’d most like to learn about, tantric sex topped the list.

No doubt about it, it was a timely story. The nudge tingled behind his navel once more.

In this case, it was also a load of New Age baloney taught by aging hippies in unbleached hemp togas bent on feathering their retirement nests. Knox was sure of it. He glanced at the so-called instructors featured on the inside page. Drs. Edgar and Rupali Shea smiled back at him, the picture of glowing serenity and marital bliss.

Knox didn’t buy it for a moment.

Honestly? What self-respecting man would purposely deprive himself of an orgasm during sex and claim inner enlightenment was better? Knox snorted, knocked back the dregs of his Scotch. Not a real man. Not a man’s man, anyway. Sex with no orgasm? It was like a hot-fudge sundae minus the hot fudge. Hell, what would be the point?

Certainly, without ejaculation a man could keep an erection longer. But as long as one didn’t detonate upon entry, what difference did it make? As long as you didn’t leave your partner in the lurch—unforgivably lazy in his opinion—what was the problem with racing toward release? With grabbing the brass ring?

Absolutely nothing. While the concept of tantric sex had originated in India around 3000 B.C. and might have been genuinely used with a noble goal in mind, in today’s time the technique had simply become a new twist on an old game designed to milk desperate couples out of their hard-earned money. Greedy, marketing-savvy businessmen had taken the concept and bastardized it into a hedonistic, spiritual fix-all.

Knox firmly intended to prove it and he couldn’t do it alone. He’d have to have a partner.

Several possible candidates came to mind, but he systematically ruled them out. He didn’t have a single female acquaintance who wouldn’t expect his undivided attention, and this would be a business trip, not a weekend tryst celebrated with fine food and recreational sex. Complete focus would be mandatory in order to preserve the integrity of the story.

Knox liked sex as much as the next guy—he was a man, after all. It was his nature. And while the entire workshop would be centered around the technique of tantric sex, Knox knew better than to think he’d be able to do his job with any objectivity and be testing the theories at the same time. He’d have to have complete focus. So he’d have to take along a female who could appreciate the job he’d come there to do, and he could not—absolutely could not—be attracted to her.

Three beats passed before he knew the perfect woman for the job, and when the name surfaced, he involuntarily winced with dread—Savannah Reeves, his archenemy at the Phoenix.

The idea of having to share his byline with the infuriating know-it-all—honestly, the woman could strip bark off a tree with that tongue of hers—was almost enough to make Knox abandon the whole scenario, but he knew he couldn’t.

He had to do this story.

This story would change his life. He could feel it. Couldn’t explain it, but intuitively knew it all the same.

And if that meant spending a weekend with a woman whose seemingly sole goal in life was to annoy him, then so be it. Knox could handle it. All modesty aside, he could handle just about any woman. A quick smile, a clever compliment and—voilà!—she was his.

But not Savannah. Never Savannah.

She seemed charm-proof. Knox frowned, studied the empty cut-glass tumbler he held loosely in his hand. The one and only time he’d attempted the old routine on Savannah, she’d given him a blast of sleet with those icy blue eyes of hers and laughed in his face. His cheeks burned with remembered humiliation. He’d never repeated the mistake. It had been a lesson well learned and, while he didn’t outright avoid her—he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction—he’d made a conscious effort to steer clear of her path. She…unnerved him.

Nevertheless, he seriously doubted that she’d let her personal dislike of him keep her from jumping at the chance of a great story. Since she’d joined the staff a little over a year ago, she’d made it a point to usurp prime articles from him, to try to keep one step ahead of him. He’d never had any real competition at the Phoenix until her arrival. Though she irritated the hell out of him with her knowing little smiles and acid comments, the rivalry nonetheless kept him sharp, kept him on his toes.

Knox thoughtfully tapped the brochure against his thigh and once more reflected on his options…and realized he really only had one—Savannah. She was the only woman who fit the bill. Though he thoroughly dreaded it, he’d have to ask her to accompany him on the trip to California, to play the part of his devoted sex partner. A bark of dry laughter erupted from his throat. Oh, she’d love that, he thought with a grim smile.

Generally speaking, Knox was attracted to just about every woman of the right age with a halfway decent rack. Shallow, yes, but, again, his nature. He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t always act on the attraction—in fact, he was quite selective with his lovers—but it was always there, hovering just beneath the surface.

Regardless of his hyperlibido, Knox didn’t doubt for one minute that one icy look, one chilly smile from the admittedly gorgeous Savannah Reeves would wilt even his staunchest erection. Savannah was petite and curvy with short jet-black hair that always looked delightfully rumpled. Like she’d just rolled out of bed. She wore little makeup, but with a smooth, creamy complexion and that pair of ice-blue eyes heavily fringed with long curling lashes, she hardly needed the artifice. No doubt about it, she was definitely gorgeous, Knox admitted as he forced away her distracting image.

But looks weren’t everything.

Regrettably, Savannah Reeves had the personality of a constipated toad and never missed her daily ration of Bitch Flakes. Knox suppressed a shudder.

He definitely wouldn’t have to worry about being attracted to her. He simply wouldn’t allow it. And she certainly wasn’t attracted to him—she’d gone out of her way to make that abundantly clear. Also she’d likely appreciate being in on the job.

In short, she’d be his perfect partner for this assignment. And she was too glory hungry to let a little thing like personal dislike get in the way of a fantastic byline. If he really wanted to, Knox thought consideringly, he could make her wriggle like a worm on a hook.

The idea held immense appeal.

“NOT NO, BUT HELL NO,” Savannah Reeves said flatly as she wound her way through the busy newsroom to her little cubicle.

Knox, damn him, dogged her every step.

“But why not? It’s a plum assignment, a great story and a wonderful opportunity. What possible reason could you have for saying no?”

Because I don’t like you, Savannah thought uncharitably. She drew up short beside her desk and paused to look at him. She fought the immediate impulse to categorize his finer physical features, but, as usual, failed miserably.

Knox Webber had wavy rich brown hair cut in a negligent style that implied little maintenance but undoubtedly took several time-consuming steps to achieve. His eyes were a dark, verdant green, heavy-lidded, and twinkled with mischief and the promise of wicked pleasures. His lips, which seemed perpetually curled into an inviting come-hither grin, were surprisingly full for a man, but masculine enough to make a woman fantasize about their talent.

Even her, dammit, though she should know better.

If that weren’t enough, he had the absolute best ass she’d ever seen—tight and curved just so and…Savannah resisted the urge to shiver. In addition to that amazing ass, he was tall, athletically built and carried himself with a mesmerizing long-limbed, loose-hipped gait that drew the eye and screamed confidence. He’d been born into a family of wealth and privilege and the very essence of that breeding hovered like an aura about him.

Though she knew it was unreasonable, Savannah immediately felt her defenses go up. She’d been orphaned at six when her parents had been killed in a car accident. With no other family, she’d spent her childhood in the foster-care system, passed from family to family like a yard-sale castoff. Did Knox know how lucky he’d been? Did he have any idea at all? She didn’t think so. From what she’d observed, he seemed content to play the black sheep of the family—to play at being a journalist—until his father turned the screws and capped his sizable trust fund. And the hell of it was, Knox made it all look so damned easy. He was a talented bastard, she’d give him that. It was enough to make her retch.

“Come on, Vannah,” Knox cajoled, using the nickname that never failed to set her teeth on edge. He was the only person at the Phoenix who dared call her that and the implied intimacy of the nickname drove her mad. “This is going to be a helluva story.”

She didn’t doubt that for one minute. Knox Webber didn’t waste his time on anything that didn’t promise a front page. And he had to be desperate to ask her for help, because she knew he’d rather slide buck naked down a razor blade into a pool of alcohol than ask her for a favor.

Still, there was no way in hell she wanted any part of a story with him, phenomenal byline or no. She didn’t have to possess any psychic ability to know that the outcome could be nothing short of disastrous. An extended weekend at a sex workshop with Knox? The one and only man she didn’t have a prayer of resisting? The one she continually fantasized about? A vision of her and Knox naked and sweaty loomed instantly in her mind’s eye, making her tummy quiver with perpetually repressed longing.

No way.

Savannah firmed her chin and repeated her last thought for his benefit. “Forget it, Knox. Ask someone else.” She gave him her back once more and slid into the chair behind her desk.

“I don’t want to ask anyone else. I’ve asked you.” Knox frowned at her and the expression was so uncharacteristic that it momentarily startled her. Savannah blinked, then gathered her wits about her.

“I can’t believe you won’t even consider it,” the object of her irritation repeated stubbornly. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to have a go at this story.”

Savannah tsked. “I warned you about that. Thinking upsets the delicate balance of your constitution. Best to avoid the process at all costs, Webber.”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “smart-ass,” but Savannah couldn’t be sure.

Still he was right. Had any other male co-worker asked her, she wouldn’t have hesitated. In fact, it was almost frightening how much their minds thought alike. She’d been toying with the idea of a tantric sex article for a couple of weeks now and had been waiting for the concept to gel. She’d simply let him get the jump on her this time—a rare feat, because she’d made a game out of thwarting him.

“You don’t know what it is, do you?” Wearing an infuriating little grin Savannah itched to slap off his face, Knox leaned his incredible ass against her desk.

“Know what what is?” Her eyes rounded. “Sex?” With an indelicate snort, Savannah booted up her laptop and did her best to appear unaware of him. “Granted, I might not have as much experience as you—I’m sure you’d give the hookers in the red-light district a run for their money in the experience department—but I’m not completely ignorant, for pity’s sake,” Savannah huffed. She cast him an annoyed glance. “I know what sex is.”

Though it had been so long since she’d had any, her memory was getting a little fuzzy about the particulars. If she didn’t get laid soon, she’d undoubtedly be declared a virgin again simply by default. Or out of pity. Twelve-to fourteen-hour workdays didn’t leave much time for romance. Besides, after Gibson Lyles III, Savannah didn’t put much stock in romance, or in men, for that matter. She sighed. Men were too much work, for too little reward.

“Not just sex,” Knox said. “Tantric sex. Do you know what it is?”

Savannah loaded her web browser, busying herself with the task at hand. “Sure. It’s a complex marriage of yoga, ritual, meditation and intercourse.”

Alternately, he looked surprised then impressed. “Very good. See? You’re perfect.”

“Be that as it may, I’m not going. I have work to do. Go away.” Savannah smoothed her hair behind her ears and continued to pretend he wasn’t there. No small feat when every single part of her tingled as a result of his nearness. Which sucked, particularly since, for the most part, she couldn’t stand him. “Go away,” she repeated.

Knox continued to study her and another maddening twinkle lit his gaze. “I see. You’re scared.”

Savannah resisted the urge to grind her teeth. “Scared of what?”

“Of me, obviously.” Knox picked an imaginary fleck of lint from the cuff of his expensive shirt. “Why else would you refuse such a great opportunity when it’s painfully obvious that you’ve been considering the topic as well?” Something shifted in his gaze. “That…or you’re into it.”

“Ooh, you’ve found me out. Good job, Columbo. And don’t flatter yourself. I am not afraid of you.” Savannah chuckled. “I’ve got your number, Slick. Nothing about you frightens me.” Savannah figured providence would promptly issue a bolt of lightning and turn her into a Roman candle for that whopper, but thankfully she remained spark free.

The silence lengthened until Knox finally blew out an impatient breath. “Won’t you even consider it?”

“No.”

His typically amiable expression vanished. “This is a great opportunity. Don’t make me play hardball.”

Exasperated, Savannah leveled a hard look at him. “Play whatever kind of ball you want, Knox. But you won’t make me play with you. I’m not one of your newsroom groupies. Now get out of my cubby—you’re crowding me.”

Wearing a look of supreme frustration, Knox finally stalked off, presumably to ask another female to do his bidding. Good riddance, Savannah thought, though she did hate the missed opportunity.

But even had she been inclined to accept the offer, she really wouldn’t have had the time to pursue the assignment—groveling to Chapman, her diabolical boss, and covering all of the demeaning little stories he gleefully threw her way were taking up entirely too much of her time.

Savannah and Chapman were presently embroiled in the proverbial Mexican standoff, neither of them willing to budge. The problem revolved around a libel suit that had been filed against the Chicago Phoenix as a result of one of her stories. To Chapman’s extreme irritation and despite various threats, Savannah stood by her story and refused to compromise her journalistic integrity by revealing her source. Chapman had bullied and blustered, wailed and threatened everything from being demoted to being fired, but Savannah simply would not relent. Her credibility would be ruined. To give up this source would ultimately wreck her career.

Besides, it was just wrong. She’d given her word and she wouldn’t compromise her integrity simply for the sake of the paper. That’s why they employed high-powered attorneys. Let them sort it out. She’d only been doing her job, and she’d done it to the absolute best of her ability. She refused to admit any wrongdoing, and she’d be damned before she’d claim any responsibility.

Savannah had been educated in the school of hard knocks, had been on her own since she’d turned eighteen and was no longer a ward of the state. She’d put herself through college by working three grueling jobs. Sure, covering the opening of a new strip mall was degrading, but if Hugh Chapman thought he could get the better of her by giving her crappy assignments, then he had another think coming. She stiffened her spine. Savannah was certain she was tough enough to take anything her mean-spirited boss could dish out.

Don’t make me play hardball.

A premonition of dread surfaced as Knox’s parting comment tripped unexpectedly through her mind.

She was wrong, Savannah decided. She was tough enough to take anything but a weekend sex workshop with Knox Webber.