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Rapture
Lynne Silver
About the Author
LYNNE SILVER has done nothing but work since her divorce a year ago. A trip to Rapture Spa seems like the perfect way to begin pampering herself and having some fun. But Catherine soon learns that Rapture isn’t like other spas, starting with her irresistibly sexy massage therapist, Hunter. His sensual massage turns too erotic, too forbidden to allow…but Catherine and Hunter’s attraction is too strong to deny. And luckily for Catherine, Hunter agrees that one session just isn’t enough…
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Chapter One
There was no warning there would be singing. One moment, I was studying the dessert menu, and the next, singing, tuxedoed waiters surrounded me, placing a flourless chocolate cake with a sparkler dancing on top on my plate. I glared across the table into the laughing eyes of my best friend, Lauren.
“I didn’t think restaurants like this sang ‘Happy Birthday,’” I accused her. I glanced around, embarrassed, and sure enough, people at the neighboring tables averted their eyes. They doled out some noncommittal polite applause when I doused my sparkler in my water glass but then returned to their meals.
Lauren laughed. “Catherine, relax! I just flirted with the head waiter, and hence…singing! Don’t be uptight. Five years ago, you would have stood on your chair to join the chorus. Since your divorce, you forgot how to have fun, which leads me to my next item on the agenda.” She paused dramatically, reaching into her purse.
“Voila! Your birthday gift,” Lauren said, sliding a large cerulean-blue envelope across the table to me.
I thought about protesting, but nixed the idea. Single girls learned to take gifts where they could get them, and Lauren’s envelope looked enticing. The envelope slid open with a snick as I slid a fingernail under the flap.
“Rapture Spa?” I asked. “You got me a massage?”
“Not just any massage,” Lauren corrected, “The best massage in New York City.”
“What,” I joked, “they offer Happy Endings?”
Lauren’s eyelids fluttered suspiciously for a second. “Just make the appointment,” she urged. “It has been a year since your divorce, and all you do is work. Even lawyers deserve some downtime.”
Lauren and I dug our spoons into the warm oozing chocolate cake and chatted about mutual friends. It seemed all our old friends from college were either procreating or divorcing. I fell into the latter category.
About a year and half ago, my ex, Alexander, decided he couldn’t take the pressure of Manhattan investment banking. He shed his suits and ties for granola and tie-dye and headed to the jungles of Guatemala, or Costa Rica, I forget which, to become an Eco-tour guide. He didn’t even invite me along. Not that I would have gone, but it would have been nice to have been asked. Especially after four years of marriage.
Divorce is a funny thing. It makes people think they have the right to say things they would never normally say.
Like “At least you didn’t have kids,” from my friend Sara.
Or “If you had been home taking care of him instead of working all hours at your law firm, he never would have left.” You could probably guess that came from my grandma Faith.
And the grossest response from Alexander’s office mate, Peter, “Wanna have a single-life celebratory rebound fuck?”
Well, maybe I wanted kids, and I love my job. And no, I most certainly did not want to sleep with Peter that perverted ass-wipe.
Aaron was my celebratory rebound fuck. He works in the West Coast office of my firm, and we had always enjoyed a little innocent flirting when he came to town on business. With Alexander gone, the flirting turned to a little bit more. Okay, quite a bit more, truth be told.
But the one time with Aaron had been the last time I’d slept with anyone. It was just easier to throw myself into work. Maybe Lauren was right. I was feeling a little drained lately. I looked down at my uneven, unpolished fingernails and then ran a hand through my unstyled hair. I could not remember the last time I had it colored. Or shopping? When was the last time I bought anything other than a boring suit for work? I used to love buying flirty, trendy dresses and impractical pocketbooks that held nothing more than a lipstick. Yes, Lauren was right. I needed to pamper myself, and a spa treatment was the perfect way to get started. I would call for an appointment as soon as I got home from lunch.
Chapter Two
“Thank you for calling Rapture Spa,” answered a female voice on the other end with an untraceable snooty accent. “How may I assist you today?”
“Hi, I received a gift certificate for a treatment for my birthday,” I informed the faceless voice. “I’d like to go ahead and set up an appointment for next Saturday.”
“Next Saturday?” I could hear her clacking away at a keyboard.
“We have an opening for 10:00 a.m. Does that time work for you?”
“Sure,” I agreed. I could get my massage and get some work done after.
“Have you ever been serviced at Rapture before?” the faceless voice asked. By now, I visualized one of those perfect model-type women with shiny, frizz-free, bouncy blond hair and flawless olive hued skin.
The Heidi Klum-clone continued as though reading from a script. “I need to ask you a few questions to ensure you are set up with the perfect technician for you. Please be assured all answers are kept strictly confidential. It will take a few minutes. Do you have time now?”
“Um, sure,” I responded, unsure of what would follow. Usually the only question was “male or female?”
“Would you prefer a male or female technician?”
“Hmm, men have stronger fingers don’t they? Better to reach my sore muscles. I’ll go with male.”
“Do you have an ethnicity preference?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” I sputtered, what kind of question was that? “Equal Opportunity massaging is my motto,” I told her somewhat indignantly.
“Would you prefer completely manual or is other stimulation desired?”
“Um, manual?” I ventured. I’d only been to a spa a handful of times and was not hip to all the lingo and treatments offered, but I wanted to play it cool with this one. I’d heard about Eastern treatments involving electrical stimulation and cupping, and it sounded a bit intense for a newbie spa-goer like myself.
“Ok, last question. For an add-on, would you like a shower treatment following the massage?”
I thought about it briefly, but turned it down. “No thanks, I’ll just shower at home.”
“We will see you next Saturday, October 2 at ten in the morning,” she confirmed and hung up.
My week flew by as it usually does with legal cases piling up on my desk. I’m a real estate attorney, and in New York City that means I know who paid what for multimillion dollar pads. I deal in seven-figure properties only, which means I rub elbows with some of the city’s finest and most notorious residents. Well, strictly speaking, my boss does the talking. I’m the helpful grunt in the corner of the room reading over legalese and highlighting where to sign.
One of Manhattan’s preeminent CEOs was voted down by his board this week and needed to off-load his apartment, ASAP. That meant I gained tired eyes every night poring over documents and disclosures, but at last it was Saturday: massage day.
I needed a map or a GPS device to find Rapture. A single wooden door and discreet gold plated sign were the only markers of the supposedly high-end spa in the heart of the Upper East Side. I missed the door at least five times in my quest to find the spa near 60th and Madison, and I had walked by here a zillion times on my way into the Anya Hindmarch store to satisfy my handbag addiction.
When I finally found my way into Rapture, I felt soothed by the place’s appearance. Comfort and luxury surrounded me as soon as I stepped off the elevator. Soothing classical music chimed harmoniously with the tinkling of a waterfall that fell in a sheet along one wall from the ceiling into a stone pool on the floor. I made my way across the natural mosaic ceramic tiles to the desk.
Heidi Klum-clone had the day off, because, rather than a five-ten blonde goddess working the reception desk, there stood six feet of muscular, masculine perfection. He smiled at me crookedly and pushed his chestnut hair out of his eyes. I noticed well-groomed fingernails and large, tan hands. Hands I envisioned running all over my naked body. I stood dazed, smiling at him like an idiot until he spoke.
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