The Masseuse

Book 1: The Body Work Trilogy

by Sierra Kincade

Genres: Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

First in the sexy and suspenseful Body Work Trilogy

Anna Rossi lives by one simple rule: don’t get attached, don’t get hurt. But Alec Flynn doesn’t play by the rules…

Anna never takes on a massage client without screening him first, but the paycheck offered by billionaire Maxim Stein is too good to turn down. Stein is the richest man she’s ever laid her hands on, and despite the risks, she trusts that she can take care of herself. After all, she’s handled difficult clients in the past. What she isn’t prepared for is getting caught in a compromising situation by Maxim’s tall, dark, and gorgeous bodyguard—or the desperate desires he awakens in her…

Alec is dangerous. The mysterious, hard-bodied man is completely irresistible and won’t be refused, no matter what walls Anna puts up to protect herself. But as Anna falls fast for his careful ministrations and mind-blowing skills, she begins to realize that giving herself over to a man with so many secrets isn’t just putting her heart at risk—it’s endangering her life…

Release date: December 2, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

One

Ichewed the straw sticking out of the plastic lid of my fountain Coke and inspected the sandstone wall, draped with ivy and fragrant white jasmine that curved around the street. It was 4:55 p.m., still over a half hour before my appointment. Typically I showed up a little early to get a feel for the place and set up, but on a first meeting, especially with a client like this, I wasn’t about to be late.

Maxim Stein was the richest man I’d probably ever get my hands on. When his assistant had called my personal cell phone to make the appointment, I’d done my research.

He came from old money, as my dad would have said. An international string of hotels and island resorts. Some professional sports teams scattered throughout the world. When his father died, he branched out into aviation—private jets, specifically. He was now the sole owner of Force, a company that manufactured custom airplanes for an exclusive international clientele. Forbesmagazine had called him “a Force to be reckoned with.” Too bad he was fifty and on wife number three.

Twice I’d driven past the guard station, just to make sure I had the address right. I’d never been there, but had lived in Tampa just long enough to know Davis Island was a mile above my pay grade. When I’d told my friend Amy about where I was heading, her eyebrows had disappeared beneath her curtain of platinum blonde bangs. Now I could see why.

With its extravagant bayside mansions and gated communities, Davis Island was a hidden refuge close enough to downtown to be accessible, but far enough away to feel like its own world. And it was a world I’d never experienced before—each multimillion-dollar house I’d passed seemed to come with its own gardener trimming the hedges, a security station at the end of its driveway, and a shiny black SUV with tinted windows. My little red Kia was going to get a complex if we stayed out on the street much longer.

The A/C was probably draining my gas tank, but I didn’t care. It was better than showing up drenched in sweat. I pointed all the vents in my direction and thought about how Baltimore, where I’d lived last, was probably covered in snow by now.

February in Florida was awesome.

Besides the constant buzzing of a lawn mower behind one of these mystery walls, the neighborhood was quiet. With a few minutes to spare, I rested my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.

And was scared half to death when a hard knock came at the passenger-side window.

“Shit!” I grabbed the cup I’d dropped on my lap and stuffed it into the holder before any Coke could spill.

A man was looking through the window at me. My throat tightened; I hadn’t even heard him approach. He stood and walked around the back of the car, placing one hand on the trunk like the damn thing belonged to him. As subtly as I could, I pressed the automatic lock button.

You couldn’t be raised by a cop and not end up at least a little cautious.

The man reappeared on my side and tapped again on the window with his knuckle. With the sun behind him, his face was shadowed, but I could tell he was wearing dark glasses that matched his black slacks and button-up shirt. From my vantage point he looked tall, over six feet.

And built. The way he filled out his shirt didn’t escape me. Lean, hard muscles stretched across his chest and shoulders had me wondering what he looked like beneath the thin, pressed fabric.

I cracked the window.

He chuckled and slid one finger slowly over the glass edge. “Is this supposed to stop me from getting in?”

I retrieved the mace spray from the pocket in the driver-side door and flashed it where he could see.

“No, but this should.”

He laughed a little louder, a deep, smooth sound that made my skin tingle, and then he leaned down, hands resting on top of the car.

We were face-to-face through the glass, and for one drawn-out moment, all I could do was stare. Unruly waves of coffee-colored hair framed an angular jaw that was lined with dark stubble. His nose was the slightest bit crooked, like he’d broken it once, and though his sunglasses hid his eyes, I could feel the heat of his gaze holding me in place. He might have been younger than thirty, but there was a confidence and intensity in the way he moved that seemed older.

He was sexy in an I-don’t-give-a-fuck kind of way.

I was unable to look away from his mouth, curved in a teasing smirk, or from his full lower lip that I had the sudden urge to bite. I could imagine that mouth pressed against my shoulder, following the line of my collar and then lowering. Just the thought of it made my breath catch.

“Maybe this window’s thicker than I thought,” he said, giving the glass a little flick.

“What?” I gripped the wheel and tore my gaze away to look straight ahead. I didn’t know what had gotten into me. Men, even undeniably attractive men like this one, didn’t normally get me going like that. Clearly it had been a while since I’d gotten any.

“I asked if you were lost.” He was smirking again, and I nearly groaned. I’d been so caught up staring that I’d missed what he said.

Across the street, a woman walked her two Maltese. She was probably double his age with a pile of white curls on her head, and was shamelessly staring at his ass as he leaned over my car. He must have heard the dogs yapping, but he didn’t even flinch. It was like he knew she was looking and either didn’t care or was so used to being gawked at, it didn’t even faze him.

Probably the latter.

“No,” I said quickly. “I was just . . .” I pointed down the road, feeling the blush rise in my cheeks. “I have an appointment with someone.”

“In the street.”

Apparently he thought he was funny.

“No,” I said. “In their home.” Not that I needed to explain this to a stranger.

His tongue glided over that bottom lip, and I had to press my thighs together to stifle the sudden need burning low in my belly. He was gorgeous—mesmerizingly so. Never had I had such a reaction to someone before. Usually I was the one making others squirm.

His voice lowered. “When’s your next opening?”

“You don’t even know what I do,” I said suggestively. He wanted to play? Fine. Bring it on.

He kept running his first finger over the top of the window, making me wonder just what else those hands were capable of.

“You’re right,” he said. “But I bet it’s bad.” The growl in his voice sent a heated shiver through me. I rolled down the window another six inches.

“Why would you say that?” I licked my lips.

He leaned closer, like he was about to tell me a secret, and I scooted to the edge of my seat.

“You’re parked in a no-parking zone,” he whispered.

Oh.

His hand left the window to point at the street sign parallel to my spot. Some cop’s kid I was; I hadn’t even noticed it. With that, he tapped the hood of my car and stood. Whatever chemistry I’d sensed building between us snapped in half.

Who was this guy? Part of the neighborhood watch or something? I fell back in the seat, deflated.

“Right.”

I turned the key in the ignition, and the series of clicks from the engine immediately reminded me that the car was already on. Perfect. I checked to see if he’d noticed, and of course he had. His grin stretched wider.

I gave him a little wave. “Thanks.”

He took a step back as I put the car in drive and eased off the curb. He must have lived in one of the houses in this neighborhood. I was probably blocking his giant SUV from pulling out of his hand-laid cobblestone driveway through some hidden Batman gate.

Thanks? I asked myself, the sound of his laughter fading behind me. Nice one, Anna.

Still, I couldn’t help but admire his build in my rearview mirror—long legs; broad, sculpted shoulders. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest right where I’d left him in the middle of the street like he could stop traffic. Hell, he probably could. Maybe he was captain of the neighborhood watch, but he was seriously hot. I was almost sorry when he disappeared from view as I rounded the corner.

Two

Ipulled into the driveway I’d scouted earlier, and stopped at the guard station just before a tall wrought-iron gate. A guy with a buzz cut in a black suit jacket, way too heavy for today’s temperature, stepped out, making note of my license plate. I cleared my throat and sat a little taller, remembering that Mr. Stein’s assistant, Ms. Rowe, had said I would have to check in out front.

I rolled the window all the way down, and was hit by a blast of humidity and the sweet jasmine fragrance from the white flowers hanging over the gate. I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror—I hadn’t even reapplied my lipstick. Neighborhood Watch had seriously thrown me off. I consciously tried to push him from my mind, but my body still buzzed from the smooth sound of his voice accusing me of being bad.

If I wasn’t already booked, I might have turned around and showed him just how bad I could be.

No, it was better this way. He was arrogant, probably used to women bending over backward and doing whatever he wanted, just because he was so damn sexy. I didn’t mess around with men like that. I needed the upper hand, to call the shots. Anything else was too risky.

The guard approached my window.

“Hi, I’m Anna Rossi. I have a five thirty appointment with Mr. Stein.” I made a conscious effort to sound professional; people didn’t always take women in my line of work seriously.

The guard looked at me for the first time—his close-set eyes immediately dipped to my cleavage. I pulled up the collar of my black cotton V-neck subtly, used to people looking but not always welcoming the attention. I was a natural C cup, and curvy enough to draw a few stares. He gave a little snort, and I felt my mouth pull into a thin line.

“The masseuse.”

“Yes.” I forced a smile. This guy had a serious creep factor. It probably served him well in his position guarding this fortress of a house.

“Mr. Stein’s assistant is expecting you. You can park in the lot by the gazebo and ask for Ms. Rowe.”

The lot by the gazebo? How many lots were there?

“Great, thank you.” I pulled forward as the gate slowly opened to reveal a stone fountain, spraying water fifteen feet into the air. The driveway circled around it, taking me past one lot lined with the required black SUV and two tiny two-seater sports cars—bumblebee yellow and candy-apple red—and a slick Harley.

My mouth fell open as I passed the house. Carved from beige sandstone and surrounded by slender palm trees stretching all the way to the roof, it looked like something that belonged in the Mediterranean rather than the United States. Two white marble pillars framed the Venetian doors and held up a second-story balcony where ivy and bright purple flowers cascaded over the ledge. Ceiling fans spun lazily over the porch and the windows were round and made of bright blue glass.

I eased past the gazebo, a quaint wooden seating area between what I assumed was a guest lot and the main residence. Six empty spots waited for me and I chose to park right in the middle, facing a wall of lush greenery.

Quickly I pulled down my visor mirror and reapplied my lipstick. I had naturally bronze skin, but the Florida sun had made it even darker; Amy had completely changed my color pallette at the salon where we both worked since I’d moved here. My smoky eye shadow had held up in the heat, and my dark, wavy hair was still somewhat tame, despite the humidity. Apart from the lipstick, I looked pretty good.

When I stepped out of the car, I felt as if I’d entered some remote area of the world. None of the noises from the street could be heard, even the wall leading to the guard station was hidden behind the landscaping.

A little giggle built inside of me. Even if Mr. Stein didn’t like what I had to offer—and I was sure he would because I was good at my job—this was going to be one to remember.

Just as I popped the trunk open, an older man in a gray suit, complete with tails, appeared beside me. With a quiet nod, he motioned toward the back of my car.

“Do you need assistance, Ms. Rossi?” He was eyeing the portable table, folded in half within its black carrying case. It took up most of the room in the back of my car, even with the seats folded down.

“No,” I said, making a mental note to tell Amy about the butler. “I’m used to hauling this stuff around. Thanks, though.”

“I insist,” he said as I hauled the table out by its nylon handle. With a shrug, I passed it to him, feeling guilty when he bowed sideways to lift the strap over his narrow shoulder.

With a heave, I grabbed my matching black duffle and knockoff Coach purse and followed Jeeves toward the house.

“Thank you,” I said, waiting for an opportune moment to take back the table without wounding his pride.

“Of course, Ms. Rossi,” he said, and swung his leg awkwardly to accommodate the heavy load.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Stein?” I asked as we followed the stone path past the gazebo. Sweat was beginning to bead on his brow, and I felt the urge to make conversation to take the focus off the obvious fact that he had bitten off more than he could chew.

“Some time, I suppose.”

I was fairly certain he was trying to be cryptic, not just struggling for breath.

“This is my first time here,” I said. “My name’s Anna.”

“Yes, Ms. Rossi.”

“And your name?”

“Here we are,” interrupted Jeeves. We’d climbed the front steps of the building and stepped through the double doors into the main foyer. It was a house straight from the movies: Dark marble floors, surrounding an indoor pond filled with koi, were textured by tiles of carved wood. On the opposite side of the expansive entryway was a wall of glass, and though I was twenty feet away, I could see the pool with its stone waterfall and the bay behind it.

“Wow.”

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

I turned to find that Jeeves had vanished just as silently as he’d come and been replaced by a woman in her late thirties with a severe brunette bob and a killer French manicure. A phone earpiece hung from the collar of her snug red wrap dress. She made me more than a little self-conscious of my black yoga pants and matching T-shirt.

“You must be Ms. Rossi.” She shook hands like a woman who was used to doing business with men. “You came highly recommended from my stylist, Derrick.”

Derrick was the manager at Rave salon, where I worked during the day. He had assured me this would be a good connection, convincing me to break my usual rule of meeting the client at the spa first.

“Anna, please,” I said. “And you must be Ms. Rowe.”

“I am,” she said, making it clear I wouldn’t be using her first name. This didn’t bother me; Derrick had mentioned she was a little tightly wound. “Mr. Stein is still in a meeting, so if you’ll follow me upstairs, I’ll show you where you can set up.”

“Sounds great.” I was ready to get started. No wonder Mr. Stein needed a massage; I was stressed and I’d been here only five minutes.

Ms. Rowe departed without looking back, gliding across the floor in her red pumps as silently as she’d arrived. I picked up the table, crossed the strap over my chest, and followed her up the dizzying steps to the loft.

We passed an open seating area and a bar, and entered a wide hallway lined with antique mirrors and decadently framed oil paintings of landscapes. Track lighting on the ceiling highlighted each piece of art. I sucked in my breath, trying not to bang into anything with all my cargo.

“You’ll be meeting Mr. Stein here,” she said, exiting through a door at the end of the hallway onto a veranda, where we were greeted by the blue waters of the bay and the afternoon sun lowering in the pink sky. I dropped the fifty-pound table case to stretch my back, and walked to the railing, breathing in the sweet scents from the flowers hanging in red pots from the ledge and the chlorine from the pool below. Cool air misted in from the revolving ceiling fans, making the temperature comfortable.

“What I wouldn’t give for a view like this,” I murmured.

Ms. Rowe snorted. “You should see the house in Naples.”

“Naples, Florida?” I asked with a grin.

“No,” she said, clearly not a fan of sarcasm. “Italy. The Steins have six homes.”

At the mention of Maxim Stein’s wife, I turned. “Will Mrs. Stein be around this evening?” I was hoping to take her on as a client as well.

“Mrs. Stein stays at the flat in New York.”

From the sound of it, Mr. Stein didn’t join her there.

“There is a sink in the washroom just inside, and an iPod dock here if you need music.” She pointed to a beige box embedded into the wall.

I nodded. If I’d known that I wouldn’t have dragged my portable system from the car.

“Anything else you need?”

“Just a body.”

She smiled tightly. “You will, of course, be compensated for staying late.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, feeling a little guilty for cracking jokes. “Please tell Mr. Stein to take his time. I can be here as late as he needs.”

It wasn’t exactly true. I had my second date with Randall at nine, but I wasn’t too worried about canceling. He was cute enough, but he didn’t exactly do it for me.

Not like I was sure Neighborhood Watch could.

Ms. Rowe had judgment in her eyes. It was almost like she was reading my mind.

“Now, if you’ll just sign this.” She handed me a clipboard, and I felt my brows lift in surprise. “It’s standard for all of Mr. Stein’s employees, domestic or otherwise.”

“Domestic or otherwise,” I repeated, scanning the form. Is that what I was? A domestic employee? No one had told me I’d be signing anything besides maybe a tax form, and looking over the items on the list, I could see why.

“Um,” I said. “I’m not going to steal any of his things.”

There were a dozen more items equally as offensive, almost laughable. I guess they had all made the list for a reason, but I was still shocked to see that I couldn’t pick any plants without written permission from the landscaping crew or take photographs of any of the art.

She placed a hand on her bony hip. “You can have your lawyer review it, but I assure you . . .”

“No,” I said, reading through the rest of the list and signing on the dotted line. Ms. Rowe had offered $300 for this hour, three times my usual house-call rate, and I wasn’t about to blow it. “It’s fine. But if you’d like to contact my references, they can assure you I’m professional.”

“I already have, and they already have.” She snatched back the clipboard as soon as I was done. “I’m glad you understand.”

The earpiece hanging around her neck lit up blue, and she placed it in her ear.

“Mr. Stein will be up as soon as he’s done. Make yourself comfortable. His meetings have been known to run long.” She said the last words through her teeth, obviously annoyed.

I sighed as she closed the door behind her, glad she was gone.

“Somebody needs to get laid,” I said to myself, realizing I wasn’t in much better shape after the way I’d reacted to Neighborhood Watch outside. Then, resolving to enjoy this beautiful house and a big fat paycheck, I started setting out my supplies.

The table, a gift I’d bought myself after I’d finished massage school, was the Cadillac of tables—big, plush, and expensive. When I’d decided I wanted to do work in people’s homes, I’d taken the plunge and made the purchase. It was worth every penny; more than one client had told me it was softer than their bed.

After that, I laid out my oil and three bottled aromatherapy scents for Mr. Stein to choose from. Lavender, cinnamon, and sandalwood. I preferred the last—it was soothing; I even had sandalwood-scented shampoo—but few clients chose it. I could almost guarantee Mr. Stein would choose cinnamon. Men usually did. It made them think of sex.

It made me think of Christmas, but whatever. I wasn’t a guy.

After setting up my iPod and laying out the sheets, I filled a silver basin with water from the washroom and set a towel and a bamboo box of salt scrub for Mr. Stein’s foot treatment beside it. People generally felt pampered by the extra service, but the truth was, I preferred knowing their feet wouldn’t stink like four-day-old socks when I went to rub them.

Mr. Stein had yet to make an entrance when I’d finished. For a while I admired the view, awed by the setting sun and the explosion of pink and orange lighting the horizon, but as the sun disappeared, I went to check the watch I’d left in my purse—6:10 p.m. He was forty minutes late.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I walked the length of the veranda, coming to a descending staircase at the far end. I glanced over my shoulder, but there was still no sign of my client, and since exploring wasn’t explicitly forbidden in the contract I’d signed, I made my way down.

Maybe it was because the grounds were so quiet, but I found myself trying to keep each step silent—not hard to do in the leopard-print ballet slippers I was wearing. When I reached the bottom, I followed the stone steps to an adjacent cottage, fashioned in the same open, airy Mediterranean style as the house. I listened for movement from upstairs, and hearing nothing, I moved a little closer, spotting an entrance cut through the house to a deck over the bay.

“Just a quick look,” I told myself, feeling a little reckless.

I walked through a small courtyard with another smaller stone fountain, straight out to the deck, taking in one last view of the sunset. Behind me, long white linen curtains blew in the breeze, and below, the water lapped against the pier. The place was truly incredible. I could only imagine what some of Mr. Stein’s other houses were like.

I was just about to turn back when I heard something behind me: the distinct, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin, and a woman’s throaty moan.

Three

“Harder,” she ordered.

I ducked without thinking.

“Yes,” she said. “Like that. Don’t slow down!”

The slapping sound quickened and was accompanied by her cries of pleasure.

I swore silently. What had I been thinking, coming down here? This wasn’t my house. I hadn’t even met the owner yet. And now I’d just blindly walked into someone’s fuckpad. There was no way I was making it out of this one without getting caught.

I hid behind the wall like some teenager trying to sneak out her bedroom window, and leaned out around the corner to see if my exit was clear.

The courtyard was no longer empty. A woman with red hair, completely naked and angled away from me, was bent over, gripping the smooth white stone of the fountain while a man in only a white collared shirt rammed into her from behind. Just past them, the door of a room had been flung open, and scattered across the ground were articles of clothing.

The tempo increased. Slap, slap, slap, slap.

I ducked back around the corner, trying to unsee the man’s clenched white ass, and the woman’s hard, fake breasts that barely moved as he fucked her. I was sure they hadn’t seen me, or at least if they had, they didn’t care, because he began to grunt, and she began to shriek, and as strange and wrong as it was, it made me hot as hell.

For just a flash, I imagined myself bent over that fountain, but instead of this guy, it was Neighborhood Watch and his hard body behind me. His hands gripping my hips. His teeth nipping my ear while his hard cock speared into me over and over.

“Goddammit, I said harder,” demanded the woman.

I snapped out of my trance and searched for a way out. The man had to be Maxim Stein. Who else would be having sex out in the open on this property? I’d caught a glimpse of his silver hair—I recognized that from the pictures I’d seen of him online. The woman was clearly not his wife, though. Maxim’s wife was petite, blonde, and in her midfifties, not nearly ten years younger with red hair. Besides, according to Ms. Rowe, Mrs. Stein was in New York.

I blew out a tight breath. I was probably going to get arrested. Or sued. There went my massage license. There went my three hundred bucks for rent.

To my left near the end of the deck was a door, and I crawled toward it, praying it was unlocked and that it would lead me out of there unnoticed. Rising to my knees, I tried the handle. Apparently I was luckier than I thought. The door pulled outward with just a slight whine, and I crawled within, checking carefully first to make sure the room was empty.

It was an office; an antique mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, backed by a wall of bookcases filled with hardcovers and trinkets. I made my way across the room to another door, but this one was unfortunately locked.

“Shit.” I was going to have to wait it out. Hopefully, when they finished, which should be soon, I could sneak back to the veranda and wait for Mr. Stein.

If Ms. Rowe hadn’t already come searching for me.

I padded quietly over the plush carpet, glancing over the contents on the desk. There was a slim leather file case and a pile of papers, spread over the glass top. It looked like the design of an engine. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. My father liked to rebuild car engines, so I was used to seeing schematics like this from time to time. The layout of this one was obviously different—I assumed the design was for a plane engine, not a car, since that was the business behind Maxim’s considerable wealth—but they were similar nonetheless. The bottom of each document was stamped with a narrow emerald leaf, standing out in contrast to the black and white designs, and the words GREEN FUSION.

They were still going at it outside, so I made my way to the shelves to look at the framed pictures. It was definitely Maxim Stein in the courtyard. Maybe I hadn’t seen his face, but I could tell from his hair and build that the man I saw and the man holding a fat silver perch on a fishing boat in this photo were one and the same.

There were other pictures here as well. Maxim receiving awards. Maxim giving speeches.

Maxim with his arm around the shoulders of a handsome man half his age with dark chocolate hair and a cocky little smirk.

Neighborhood Watch.

I moved closer to the photograph, careful not to touch it. The man I’d met in the street was pictured wearing a black leather jacket, looking away as though being called by someone. He was younger, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, with shorter hair but more scruff on his jaw. Though he was still undeniably sexy, there was a tightness around his eyes, a wariness he was trying to hide with that grin. It wasn’t obvious, at least not to a beaming Maxim, but I could see it. The mark of someone who was waiting for the other shoe to drop—a look you disguised so that no one asked why. I’d perfected that cover. It was how I’d survived for as long as I could remember.

It looked like they were on a college campus somewhere. Maxim was probably a donor there.

I spun as the locked door clicked, and then slid inward. My chest tightened. I nearly considered running back outside, but held my ground, knowing running would just make it worse. I was so busted.

Then, as if I’d conjured him with my thoughts, I found myself face-to-face with the very man I’d been lusting over since my arrival.

“I should have pegged you as someone who liked to watch,” he said, that smooth voice rich with sensuality.

He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses now. His eyes were dark blue like the bay, and just as intense as I’d imagined. I was pinned to the spot by his gaze, cheeks heating from being caught, skin growing damp from the hard look of his body. My