Roland DeForrest - The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

“What if he checks your passport?” he demanded suddenly.

“I’m leaving all my ID here. A terrible misfortune, losing it all, is it not? I just can’t imagine what happened to it-one minute it was in my purse, the next it had disappeared. Thieves, perhaps?” Honey smiled knowingly and started for the door.

“Wait,” Dirk said urgently, and moved to her. “I still don’t like the smell of all this. You are putting yourself needlessly into danger.”

She paused, one hand on the hall doorknob. “Dirk, relax. It’s all part of the game, no? I didn’t graduate summa cum laude from Wellesley for nothing. Smarts I have. Now if our luck holds, we’ll have Kolina away from him before dawn.” She stood on her tiptoes and bussed him lightly on the lips. “I love you.”

“Damn, I wish I could go with you,” he said sourly.

She laughed. “You he’d recognize for sure. Now stop stewing. I’ll be fine. I’ll be back as soon as I know anything.” She blew him a kiss, opened the door, and stepped out.

In the elevator on her way to the top floor of the grand old hotel, Honey herself had a brief moment of concern, but then brushed it aside; there would be no way for Bouscaral to know that the false-bearded face he had glimpsed in the Convent of the Sisters of the Moon was indeed the same as Claudine Fortel.

Her knock on the penthouse door was answered by one of the bodyguards she’d serviced in the Jockey Club’s first-aid room. Introducing herself with the bogus name, she surveyed his face, trying to determine whether he suspected anything. Other than an approving leer as he gave her the once-over, there was nothing to indicate that he was onto her disguise. He ushered her into the sitting room of the huge suite and told her to wait, before disappearing through an inner door. Moments later he reappeared and told her Monsieur Bouscaral would see her now.

Sedately she walked into the master bedroom and stopped. Henri Bouscaral turned to face her. Tall, thin, elegantly dressed in a black velvet suit, he was disgustingly handsome in an almost sinister way-neatly trimmed black mustache, carefully coiffed but thinning hair, steely black eyes that studied her in a coldly detached manner. No smile of welcome, no greeting to set her at ease, just a frozen mask of decadence. At once he began questioning her in French: Where was she from? Did she have any immediate family? Where was she educated? Had she ever taught before? What was she doing in Hong Kong? Was she free to travel?

To all these questions and more, Honey replied in fluent, flawless French, supplying answers that were close enough to the truth, yet artfully concealed her background. She said she was the only child born to now-deceased French parents in the United States, reared and schooled in Switzerland, that she had taught for several years at a private girls’ school in Canada and that she had come to the Orient to broaden her horizons. Bouscaral observed her carefully through half-lidded eyes, offering no encouragement, nothing but a coldness that bordered on the sinister. She inquired about the salary, the duties she would be expected to perform, and who her pupil would be.

To this he replied, “The daughter of my brother who died last year in Africa.”

“How unfortunate,” she said in French, with a sad bow of her head. “Will you be staying in Hong Kong for a while?”

“No,” he said abruptly and picked up the phone receiver. In rapid English he asked the front desk to have his bill drawn up, and then hung up, returning his steely gaze to her. “The position is yours.”

“ Merci ,” she said, and silently congratulated herself on a successful subterfuge. “When do I begin?”

“Immediately. We leave at once.”

“Leave?” she asked in surprise. “For where?”

“That is none of your business.”

She hesitated, stalling for time. “I must return to my room for my things.”

“That will not be necessary,” he replied sharply. “I will furnish all you need.”

“But that is impossible,” she protested. “I have many-”

“ If you desire this position,” he interrupted sharply, “you must do everything I say, without comment. Is that understood? I will not tolerate disobedience.”

“But my personal belongings…”

“I will have them sent to our next destination.” Abruptly he turned and threw open the door, calling to one of his men for the bags to be carried down.

Within all too short a time, Honey found herself being hustled out of the hotel by a rear entrance and into one of the several chauffeured Rolls limousines parked with motors idling. With a guard on either side of her, she was able to catch only a glimpse of Kolina slipping into the front limo along with Bouscaral. With one last, regretful look back at the Shangri-La Hotel, Honey was whisked away. Their departure had been so swift, she had not had a moment alone to notify Dirk of the sudden turn of events. A clammy uncertainty gripped her.

At the Hong Kong International Airport, she was placed aboard Bouscaral’s private Learjet in a rear compartment with the guards, isolated completely from Kolina, up front with the decidedly decadent Frenchman. The jet took off with a powerful whine of its twin engines, and soon the city’s lights had faded far behind them.

The flight was long, with several fuel stops along the way. Throughout, Honey sat between the two guards, who dozed on and off and, when they were awake, rarely spoke to her or acknowledged her presence. Occasionally she would drift off to sleep, only to wake with a pounding heart. Once one of the guards tried to fondle her and she had to put him in his place by threatening to report him to his employer. That threat seemed to work, for the other guard roundly berated him for taking liberties. Thus a silent, tense truce was formed, and she refused to speak with either of them after that.

Then, just as dawn was spreading its glorious colors in the east, the Learjet landed on a green island of moderate size. There she was placed in still another limousine with the two guards. Their limo followed Bouscaral’s through the quaint town, and at once she recognized the place as Papeete, Tahiti.

Far beyond the outskirts of town, the limousines pulled off the main road and into a walled compound set on an isolated peninsula. A series of pink stucco bungalows ringed by towering, swaying palms bordered a broad expanse of golden sand. She was shown to her quarters-a separate building that lay some distance from the main house. Exhausted by the tense flight she was told by the guard who accompanied her that she would have until four that afternoon by herself. Grateful for the solitude, she collapsed on the bed and promptly fell asleep.

She was awakened by a soft tapping on her door. A native servant greeted her with several flat boxes and brought them in before withdrawing silently. The boxes contained several changes of clothing, demure in style, somber in color. After bathing, Honey tried on one of the dresses, a simple suit of dark gray, and found that it fit almost perfectly, if a little tight through the bustline. Reluctantly she once again forced her breasts into the small bra, dressed, and left her bungalow shortly before four. The tropical beauty of the locale and the beach’s balmy breezes did little to assuage her nervousness as she walked to the main house.

Her knock was answered by Henri Bouscaral, wearing loose white beach clothes, who icily led her to a small, book-lined study, the windows of which overlooked a portion of the stunning beach. He sat behind a large desk and began speaking in officious, pompous tones: “There are several rules you must agree to obey before I will let you start teaching my niece. One, you must never, ever ask her a personal question. Two, you must force her to work hard. Kolina is a very lazy girl and needs strict discipline. Three, if her French has not improved measurably within the week, you will be dismissed. Do I have your agreement on these?”