The presidential suite was absurd in that exquisitely understated manner only the pinnacle of global hospitality ever dared — an ocean of quiet, breathing space so vast it pulled a soft, throaty laugh from the Madam the instant she crossed the threshold. Three separate sitting rooms melted gracefully into one another.
A dining area that could seat twelve without crowding. A bedroom larger than most luxury apartments, dominated by a bed that looked sinful enough to require both confession and penance.
Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped the entire outer wall, presenting the glittering nighttime sprawl of Hell's Paradise Island far below like a diamond tray carelessly overturned onto black velvet.
She had dismissed Catherine to the adjoining suite almost immediately.
She had earned three days of uninterrupted peace after the hellish month she had endured, and the Madam had no intention of keeping her on duty for a trip that was, in no meaningful sense, a work trip.
