Training Her Curves - London (A BBW Billionaire Domination & Submission Romance) Read Online Free PDF Page A

cellophane wrapping. I was starting to hate the cerise that I had coveted for three long months.
    Chest constricting with dread over what more I might discover, I peeled open the seal on the makeup towelettes, tugged one out and gave it a sniff. Fresh oranges, one third of my rope master's signature scent. I wiped a careful line under each bottom eyelid with the cloth then used it to remove any oil that had gathered on my fingers before using my fingers to smooth any smudges in my make-up.
    All of the cellophane wrapped goodies bore the same unfamiliar brand mark. I unwrapped the body soap, brought the bar to my nose and inhaled. The fragrance revealed itself in layers -- orange, walnut...oakwood.
    Staggering back from the sink, I plopped down on the toilet seat so hard I thought I would shatter the porcelain. No escaping the conclusion that Simon and the rope master were one and the same. I'd done something incredibly stupid, enjoyed the hell out of it, fantasized about it for months afterward and now I was going to pay hell for it a hundred times over.
    I pushed onto my feet, my whole body shaking. Taking one last glance in the mirror, I started for the outer room. I opened the double doors, expecting to see him sitting in the guest chair. The chair was empty. I stepped closer to the desk, my head turning as I did.
    No sign of Simon.
    The suite's floor plan ran through my mind. There was a galley kitchen off the entrance and I headed there. Still no sign of Simon. I approached the far end of the narrow slice of room knowing that the door at the end led to the suite's second bathroom.
    I raised a hand to knock then thought better. I was already embarrassed enough. If he was in there, I'd be even more embarrassed to interrupt him in the middle of whatever he was doing.
    Leaving the kitchen, I remembered Simon's arrival, particularly the way I had dismissed him, thinking he would leave when I did, and how he had set the security latch in place to guard us against any interruption. My head swiveled, a mix of relief and disappointment swirling inside me as I saw the latch was off again, proof that he had left. I flipped it back in place and walked on wobbly legs back to the desk.
    A sheet of paper had been placed dead center of the surface, Simon's elegant handwriting mocking me.
    Pudding,
    I will text you precisely at eight with directions on retrieving your package. In the meantime, I suggest you relax and take nourishment. The hotel has the best tea service in all of England.
    Simon
    I read the message again and started on my third read when I finally realized why my thoughts were hiccuping on the note.
    ...retrieving your package...
    My head jerked left.
    The painting was gone!
    How the hell had I not noticed that?
    Groaning, I buried my face in my hands and wondered how I could have been so dense as to accept Rick's last minute change in terms and to have remained clueless as to the mystery guest's identity for three months.
    I wanted to call Jo-Jo, but knew I couldn't. I could trust her not to say anything, but there was no way to have the conversation with her without Dylan becoming aware of what had happened. He disliked Simon already. This event would just send him over the edge and distract him from finding Mishka, just as it would distract Jo-Jo. Same problem with talking to Jake. I wasn't close enough to Alexa to call her about something so personal and I didn't want to ask her to keep secrets from Jake, at least not for my selfish reason of needing to vent and whine and be told I had done nothing wrong and was the victim.
    But I did know whom I could call -- Simon's accomplice in this entire charade.
    Rick Wells.
    ********************
    "What do you mean, you haven't started the painting yet?" I asked, fresh terror in my voice. "I opened the package, I saw enough to know that it was me even if I didn't see the face and why the hell would someone else send me a nude portrait?"
    Silence followed my question, the void