He was in the shower when she woke. She pulled out fresh day-clothing from her overnight bag, then slipped into the shower with him, and sucked him off. They dressed together and discussed his trip to San Diego. His plane left at ten, so they didn't have much time for each other. She ate a light breakfast with him, focusing more on making him laugh than being sexy.

 

She read somewhere, back in her teens she believed, perhaps in a magazine or a trashy novel she was fond of reading, that people might not remember your name, or the facts you discussed with them, or your birthday, or what day you were with them, but they will always remember how you made them feel.

 

Nicole believed that; in fact, it was the basis of how she chose to act and when she chose to act during her performances with clients. Right now, at this portion of the show, as their time drew to a close, the sex was over. She had already fulfilled him, so being sexy right now was a wasted effort.

 

At this portion of the show with Max, she wanted him to remember she was fun -- fun, energetic, and a pleasure to be around. That would bring him back to her. It's what brought all of them back to her. She could pop their bubble and with her, life was fun.

 

She left after breakfast, giving him a quick peck on the lips, and skipping out and down to the elevator, as if she were his young lover, not his call girl. She kept this energy expenditure up until she was in the elevator and then became herself again.

 

Ruthlessly, she examined her night's performance and found it acceptable. She checked her purse, as a matter of course and found a tip of one thousand dollars folded inside. Closing her bag, she nodded her head. Apparently Max found her performance acceptable, as well. She was pleased with the tip, because she wanted to get in on a rush that was sure to happen with a biotech company this month.

 

When she came out of Max's building, her driver was waiting for her. He got out of the short limo and opened the door for her. She told him, "The bank, then home, and I'll be calling you this afternoon."

 

His amazing blue eyes held hers without a flinch of emotion, but she thought there might be fire back there anyway. Maybe she was just seeing what she wanted to see -- and she did want to see fire for her in this man.

 

Cole Porter was six-foot-four with thick, wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and extremely flat abs. His suit couldn't hide the thickness of his arms or his thighs. The large hands were marvels to look at, as well, and she had spent several pleasant trips in the back of her limo, visualizing those hands on her body.

 

But, how to cross the line.

 

Cole was not only tough; he was also intelligent and highly professional. He was the best driver Nicole ever had. When problems arose, which was extremely seldom and generally with new clients, he dealt with them politely and convincingly. His professionalism in that area allowed her to salvage a new client and now that client was one of her best tippers.

 

So, under no circumstances did she wish to lose Cole as a driver, but she definitely wanted him as a man, as well. The gnawing lust for him grew each time she sat in the back and watched his eyes in the mirror.

 

They also rarely talked with each other, which they both seemed to prefer. At least she preferred it that way with her other drivers. With Cole, though, she couldn't think of what to say.

 

It would have to be her, as well, to reach out. She had to breach the barrier if it was going to be breached. It was a violation of edict and professionalism for him to make the first sexual or personal move toward her, and he was far too good of a driver to consider that move. So, it had to be her. She had to start things.

 

Nicole crossed her long, vibrant legs and tossed her bright blonde hair a little away from her face. She knew men found her physically attractive. She wasn’t too tall, coming up to five-seven, perfect for heels. Her breasts were not too large and had a tear shape to them with pale nipples that hardened, displaying arousal at the slightest provocation – whether she was truly aroused or not. Her skin was creamy white and her eyes, deep water blue. High, expressive cheekbones and full lips tied up the sexual promise of her package with a face made for flirtation.

 

"Is that suit fitted?" she asked, deciding that, after three months, enough was enough. She had to start somewhere.

 

He glanced at her in the mirror. "No," he offered.

 

"You should have a few tailored. At least three, better with five. Perhaps Thursday we can stop by a tailor. I know a good one," she offered.

 

"If you think it's necessary to do my job properly," he agreed, conditionally.

 

"Probably not necessary for you, but highly desirable for me. Your arms and chest need more room, and your abs, much less," she described with a slightly lower tone in her voice while watching his eyes in the mirror.

 

It was a good performance with well-executed innuendos, especially with the addition of her low, husky voice. After she said it, though, her gut tightened and doubt descended brutally. Was that too much? Too little? Could he tell she was flirting?

 

"You are, after all, a reflection on me," she added after only a breath of hesitation, allowing her to retreat from the contrived flirtation back to the safer area of professionalism. She looked away from his eyes in the mirror and frowned. Shit, I can't even flirt with him! What am I? A schoolgirl?

 

"I understand," he nodded and began again to pay more attention to the road than to her.

 

Fuck! He didn't understand, not at all, she cried in her head. Three months of drooling over this man and her mouth became dry the instant she wanted to open up! How could she bed and woo powerful men, several men, in fact – hell, a different one every day -- and not be able to flirt with her driver?