Tempest - Book 1

- 17 -

We had arrived at the Schiphol air port in Amsterdam just as the sun began it's descent down the vibrant sky.

I had spent the last two hours tormenting him, watching the catch of his chest as my dress would ride up, or the linger of his eyes as I pressed my fingers to my lips as I thumbed through my Vogue Russia.

He sat reclined in his seat, tie loosened, erection extremely prominent. The fire in his eyes hadn't died down and I knew that it wouldn't be extinguished anytime soon.

I had all but bolted off the jet, being herded by men in black. The cold leather seats of our car tingled on my warm skin.

"Good evening Miss. Porakova. Welcome to Amersterdam."

Nodded my driver.

I watched as Luca disappeared into a white Range Rover.

"He's not coming with us?"

I asked, buckling my seatbelt.

Dark honey eyes met me in the rearview mirror.

"Sir has a few matters to attend to before settling in for the night. I've been instructed to take you to the hotel."

I pursed my lips. I could only imagine what business he had that was so desperately urgent.

Imelda and I had done a brief search of the Netherlands before our departure, and I had concluded that the Dutch were quite fond of little clodden shoes, marijuana and legal prostitution.

My expression soured at the latter.

"Ok."

I responded feebly.

As we slipped down the road from the air strip, the city seemed to breath a new resurrection into me. The lights whirled by and the scents and sounds enwrapped me in a soft pleasure.

This city was tall and glass, yet homey and cobbled. There were plethora's of waxy tulips, a rainbow of florals washing over every street vendor and front porch step. There was music and laughter. Exquisite food and a pungent sourness of cannabis that trickled by.

"Where are we staying?"

I asked, watching the lights dance past my wild blue eyes.

"Sir assured me that it will be nothing less than perfect for you."

This brought a soft smile.

I could hear the soft gurgle of water, and the demure lilt of chatter. One thing that I had been eager to see was the famed canals that bisected the city.

We pulled up to a grand building, it's many windows illuminated with the vibrance of life. It was ornate and antique, stretching endlessly into the sky. The gentle stream of the canal across the cobbled walk was mingling with the sweet tempo of a street musician working mercilessly with his rosin bow.

"What is this place?"

I asked, slinging my purse over my shoulder.

"Welcome to the Waldorf Astoria Amsterdam."

My driver replied, fetching my luggage from the hatch of the car.

"Sir has arranged for you to have the best room, with a water view and full amenities. Whatever you need, the staff will be at your service to provide. He does plentiful business with the owners of this hotel, so they tend to give back generously."

I was whisked into a stark white lobby of glass and marble, greeted by a slender blond woman wearing a crisp navy blazer. He spoke to her in soft Dutch, checking me in for our stay. I glanced around, taking in the captivating room. It smelled sweetly of chrysanthemum and linen. There were intricate design elements, inlays on the walls, vaulted ceilings and ambient gilded chandeliers. There was an Ivory staircase that wound up the building.