As Sweet: A Den of Sin Vignette Read online

  As Sweet

  A Den of Sin Vignette

  By Holley Trent

  As Sweet

  Rosalinda Gutierrez, the Hotel Beaudelaire’s night auditor, finds a beautiful bouquet of roses on her desk on Valentine’s Day. She quickly learns her secret admirer is someone she’s been quietly fantasizing about for several years. They’ve been two ships passing in the night: she works nights, and he works days.

  Trevor Reed tends the five-star hotel’s grounds, and in his free time cultivates flowers nearly as stunning as Rosalinda. The unsophisticated gardener is pleasantly surprised the white-collar girl is receptive to his advances, and when she escalates their friendly date to an erotic fantasy, he figures she’ll want him only for the night.

  Rosalinda has other things in mind. She likes men who can make things other than money, and Trevor’s quiet dominance pushes all the right buttons for her. She doesn’t care that he’s just a gardener, but now she has to make him believe it.

  Table of Contents

  As Sweet

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Other Den of Sin Titles

  About Holley Trent

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rosalinda Gutierrez brought the heavy bouquet to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply.

  The deep red blooms were gorgeously aromatic, and the flowers were beautiful, in spite of the few bruised petals. The arrangement seemed organically imperfect, and even a bit hastily bound, given the crinkled green wrapping paper around the long stems and the length of rustic twine wrapped around the middle. She’d never seen rose bouquets like that in stores, and figured perhaps they had come from a farmer’s market or wholesaler. They’d make sense if they had come from a wholesaler, given there were two-dozen of them, all long-stemmed with tight buds. They would have cost a fortune at retail. She knew this because the price of roses at Valentine’s Day sent her incurable romantic of a papi into a ten-minute tirade every year.

  She hoped whoever had sent them hadn’t spent that kind of money on her.

  Who would want to send her roses, anyway? No one thought she was that sweet, or at least, that’s what her dates told her. “With a name like yours, I expected you to be demure,” they said.

  Right.

  And then they wanted to bind her wrists or blindfold her while trying out their new toys.

  Sweet? Nope. They didn’t work hard enough for her to be sweet.

  She inhaled the heady aroma again, and scanned her desk once more for the missing card.

  The roses had been there when she’d stepped into her small office at the Hotel Beaudelaire that evening. As she was night auditor, she didn’t come on duty until eight. They could have been waiting there all day.

  Maybe they weren’t even for her—perhaps someone had left them there by mistake.

  “Just a mistake,” she murmured, and sighed.

  She cradled the roses tenderly in her left arm, activated her phone’s away-from-desk message, and strode down the short corridor connecting the business offices. She paused at the front desk and waited for the clerk to turn.

  Petra, with her right hand pressed to her chest, gasped. Her dark eyes, usually almond-shaped, went round. “Who sent you those? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

  Of course she wouldn’t know. It wasn’t like Rosalinda trawled for men at work, though she’d probably have more luck if she could. When The Beaudelaire held its Den of Sin weekends, all the freaks came out to play, and the hotel became a safe haven for them to do it. If she wanted non-vanilla fun, she had to go to the fetish clubs to have it.

  She was sick of the clubs and the pretentious, white-collar Doms that seemed to hone in on her like a bees to pollen. She always gave them too much lip, and they called her a brat for it. Lately, she’d given up the pursuit of an appropriate partner suspecting that what she wanted didn’t exist. She didn’t really want to be someone’s pet. She just wanted to trust a man enough to give over control to him when she needed to.

  She made hundreds of decisions every day, and in the bedroom, she didn’t want to think. She wanted to trust enough to just play. That rarely happened.

  “I’m not,” she said to Petra. “They were on my desk, and there wasn’t a note. You didn’t see anyone bring them in?”

  “No, and I’ve been here since five. Ms. Gibson and the new clerk were around before then. Ms. Gibson’s still here for the staff party, and Gail went home.”

  “Hmm.” Rosalinda shifted the bouquet to her other arm and nudged her unbound hair behind her ear. “Hey, I’ll be right back. I know we’re busy tonight with the Valentine’s Day festivities, so I won’t leave you hanging. You’ll probably get swarmed up here.”

  “Take your time. I’m dead curious about where they came from.”

  “You and me, both.”

  A smile pulled at Rosalinda’s lips as she navigated through The Beaudelaire’s ornate sitting room and toward the small ballroom reserved for the staff party. She rarely got to interact with the daytime staff. When she was coming on duty, many had already been gone for hours. Holiday parties were one of the few times of year where everyone was in one space. Well, almost everyone. The night staff still needed to attend to their duties, but were allowed to pop in and out in between their chores.

  She was particularly eager to learn if one member of the day staff in particular was in attendance. Even after years at The Beaudelaire, she hadn’t learned his name, and that made him all the more intriguing.

  She put her left shoulder against the heavy door and pushed it in.

  Upbeat New Orleans jazz piped into the room, and a few intrepid partiers clustered in the middle of the dance floor pulling some moves that would probably fit squarely into the Well, at least you tried category.

  “Oh, to be so carefree,” she murmured as she scanned the room for Seraphina Gibson. The General Manager knew almost everything going on under The Beaudelaire’s roofs and inside its gardens. If there’d been a delivery earlier, she would have probably seen the log the delivery agent had signed.

  She stretched up onto her toes and craned her neck to see over the crowd.

  “Shit.”

  There she was at the bar with Henri Beaudelaire, the hotel’s owner.

  Rosalinda almost never had to interact with the enigmatic man, and she liked it that way. He was a man with a mysterious past, and she wasn’t close enough to his inner circle to be privy to why Henri did what Henri did. She really didn’t care to know, either. He’d headhunted her after Hurricane Katrina when much of his staff had been forced to relocate, paid handsomely to uproot her from her hometown of Corpus Christi, and left her alone to do her job as she saw fit.

  It was the damnedest thing. She hadn’t had a conversation longer than four sentences with him in seven years. He raised one of his dark eyebrows upon her approach, and she drew in some air.

  He was like some kind of living statue for how striking he was. He had the sort of good looks men who only got better with age had. Why hadn’t he re-married after his wife died, anyway? It’d been years, and some woman should have pinned him down by now.

  “Ms. Gutierrez,” he said, acknowledging her with a nod and a slight raising of his drink tumbler.

  “Good evening, Mr. Beaudelaire. It’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”

  “It’s such a rare occurrence, I should consider it a treat.”

  Her cheeks burned hot and she lowered her head, inwardly berating herself.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t take off for tonight,” Ms. Gibson said.

  When Rosalind
a looked up, she found the other woman’s forehead furrowed. Ms. Gibson twirled her cocktail straw in her drink.

  “I think you’ve been here longer than I have. You have enough seniority you could have requested it off. I would have approved it.”

  “Maybe so.” Rosalinda shrugged again. “Unfortunately, I didn’t have alternate plans, so it would have been a waste of my vacation time.”

  “Really? You’ve got someone sending you flowers like that and yet you had no plans?”

  “Well, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. They were on my desk and I thought you’d have some idea of who delivered them.”

  Ms. Gibson shook her head. “No. They couldn’t have been an outside delivery, and if the person had access to your office, that means they’re from a member of the staff or someone who knows a staff member.”

  “Huh.” Rosalinda turned her back to the bar and sighed as she noted the room’s occupants. The Beaudelaire’s staff was large enough that there were personnel she wouldn’t recognize on sight, and if they only worked days, they might never have crossed paths except for events like these. She kept scanning for her man. At the very least, she’d learn his name tonight.

  Behind her, Mr. Beaudelaire cleared his throat.

  She turned.

  “Do you know anything about roses, Ms. Gutierrez?”

  “Beyond the fact my father named me for them? Very little.”

  “Hmm.” He trailed his thumb’s pad over one of the slightly bruised petals and pulled his gaze up to her. “Some varieties are quite rare. I recognize this one because it’s the only variety we’ve been placing into our VIP rooms for at least thirty years. I know the man who cultivated it, and I consider him a friend.”

  “But why would they be on my desk?”

  “We could dance around the subject, and I could sprinkle clues here and there.” He leaned back and swirled his drink. “I suspect you’d rather me conserve my words.”

  “You’re a wise man, Mr. Beaudelaire.”

  “The wisdom is acquired, Ms. Gutierrez. Anyhow, that master florist has a son. He works here and tends the grounds.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Could it be?

  Her nameless man hanged back sometimes to put furniture and decorations in place for nighttime events. The first time she’d encountered him, he was stringing twinkle lights up in the gardens. He’d dropped one of the clips he was using to affix the lights to the pergola rafters, and she’d picked it up and handed it up to him.

  The smile he’d given her in return had warmed her down to her frosty toes on the cool day. He’d said, “Thank you, sugar,” and pinned her in his gaze.

  She’d stood there still as a statue, and waited for his dismissal while her heart pounded in her ears.

  He’d nodded, and her cheeks had burned hot before she hurried away. He’d managed to dominate her more than any of the “pros” she’d played with, and had done it without even without touching her or putting an edge to his voice.

  He’d done it just by seeing her. He was a natural.

  And, fuck, he was gorgeous. More than once after that, she’d turned up early for work hoping to catch a glimpse of him in the gardens. She wasn’t a shy woman by any stretch of the imagination, but figured a man like that had to belong to someone.

  Her luck had never been that good, but what if he’d been the one to send the roses?

  “I believe Mr. Reed is here tonight?” Mr. Beaudelaire queried Ms. Gibson.

  “Mm-hmm. I wouldn’t expect him to stay long. He never does.”

  “Why would he give these to me?” Rosalinda asked. Even as the question passed her lips, she felt it was a dumb one. She was a woman of nearly thirty behaving as if no man had ever paid attention to her before. It wasn’t true. She was just tired of men in suits and khakis who didn’t make anything except money.

  She’d dreamed of that man—Mr. Reed, if he were the same man Mr. Beaudelaire referenced—for many nights after their brief encounter. She’d dreamed his hands against her body would be calloused, but gentle. He’d have a bit of dirt under his nails, and the skin beneath his work clothes would be sun-burnished because he worked outdoors and not under fluorescent lights all day.

  He’d remind her of all the hardworking men from back home, and not the smooth-talking executives she was more likely to encounter nowadays.

  And she could tell by the way he’d looked at her that day that he could probably put her in her place when she needed it. Usually, she didn’t need it…but sometimes, she wanted it.

  “Mr. Reed…” she whispered, looking from face to face in the crowd in search of his.

  “If I were to speculate,” Mr. Beaudelaire said, “Mr. Reed is like his father in many ways. He appreciates older customs. If he sent you roses, it’s likely because he admires you.”

  “Admires me? He doesn’t even know me.” Hell, he never paid any attention to her after that first time. As far as she knew, he hadn’t saw her out in the gardens where she watched him working from her favorite cast iron bench.

  “Perhaps he’d like to repair that condition.”

  Finally, she locked her gaze with the man she sought across the room.

  He sat with the night maintenance worker, who really needed to get back to his job as there was a flood in one of the second floor bathrooms, and stood to acknowledge her attention.

  He started walking, as did she, and they met halfway in the middle of the dance floor.

  They both spoke at once.

  “You left me these?” she asked.

  “I should have left a card,” he said.

  It took her a moment to untangle his words from hers, but then she nodded. He cracked the grin he’d been holding in reserve, and his silvery-blue eyes twinkled with his amusement.

  “The roses probably weren’t very creative. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  “Not at all. No one’s ever sent me flowers, so you set a pretty high bar.” She righted the bouquet and looked down into the tight rosebuds. “Thank you, Mr. Reed.”

  “Trevor.”

  So, that was the name of the tall, broad blond who kept the grass so green. Trevor. “Thank you.”

  A hand pressed to the small of her back made Rosalinda turn, and the newly arrived Ms. Gibson leaned in and whispered near her ear, “You need to use your vacation time, or you’re going to lose it at the end of the benefit year. Take the rest of the week off.”

  “I should be working right now,” Rosalinda whispered back.

  “Let the new girls earn their stripes. I’ll see you on Monday.” She walked away before Rosalinda could further rebut.

  Trevor’s fingers skimmed hers as he wrapped them around the stems and transferred the bouquet to his own arms. “Have you had dinner?” he asked.

  “No. I usually order something from the kitchen at around ten and eat at my desk.”

  “I know a little place that shouldn’t be too busy tonight, if you’d like to go. It’s not fancy, but I promise, it’s good.” His expression was repentant, as if already he suspected he’d disappointed her somehow.

  Well, he’d have to work a little harder to disappoint her.

  She inclined her chin, indicating the exit. “Are we walking or driving?”

  His shoulders relaxed, seemingly with relief. What did he have to be afraid of? “Driving. It’s on the other side of town.”

  She held her elbow out to him, and he slipped his arm through it, pulling her closer. He smelled of earth and aftershave, and the sinfully decadent combination made her breath catch. He might have washed off the dirt, but the undercurrent was still there—part of his constitution.

  Her papi was the same way, and she’d come to associate that aroma with sunshine and hard work. There was something so sexy about a man who wasn’t afraid of a little grit.

  She looked down at her shoes and suddenly was able to find her words again. “I…took the streetcar and bus. You’ll have to drive me.”

  “It’d be my ple
asure.” He started her toward the door, and she could feel eyes on her neck from all the staff watching their departure. She straightened her spine, and pushed her hair from her face. What the hell did she have to be shy about? She was a grown woman, and even if the night ended in the way she hoped, that was no one’s business but hers and Trevor’s.

  “I apologize in advance for the state of my truck,” he said when they’d stepped into the quiet hall. He broke the link of their arms and pressed his palm at the small of her back, guiding her toward the side exit and staff parking area. “You’re probably used to better stuff.”

  “You’d be surprised what I’m used to.”

  He gave her an inscrutable look as they stepped into the breezy night air, and shifted his hand to her waist, pulling her in even closer as they traversed the lot.

  She hoped he wasn’t going to be tentative all night, because that look he’d given her in the garden that day had been anything but. He’d looked at her like he wanted her, though it was a brief consideration. He’d gone right back to work.

  Now, he looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Why was she grinning like that?

  The last time Trevor had taken a woman out for what was, by most accounts, a pretty sorry excuse for a meal, he’d never heard from the chick again. But, what had he expected, anyway? He suspected he’d get dumped after a night. That’s what Den guests always did. Technically speaking, he wasn’t allowed to consort with The Beaudelaire’s clients, but for all intents and purposes, the moment they checked out at the front desk, that relationship was severed.

  Women had come right off of their sinful weekend retreats only to hook their talons into the very first hot-blooded male they saw. They were never ready for their fantasy weekends to end, and occasionally he’d oblige them on their quests to extend them. The hamburgers at the end of their “dates” were always his little way of bringing them down from their highs. They’d always seemed to expect champagne and caviar when he was through with them, but he believed in setting realistic expectations. He was a greasy-white-sack guy, not a silver-platter one.