“Oh Lord all mighty.”
My head pounds at having cried myself to sleep last night after a long hot shower and I roll over to face the unfamiliar voice. Hugging the towel to me, I sit up and squint up at the man.
He’s gorgeous.
Absolutely beautiful.
Not in a dangerous, sexy way like Braxton but more like a perfect GQ model kind of way. He wears nice, dark jeans that hug his muscular thighs and a tight, sky blue shirt stretches over his contoured chest. His biceps are huge and I want to touch them to see how hard they are.
“Never found one in the closet before. And that hair,” he whines, “Oh my God. That’s going to take some serious work. I don’t get paid enough for this. Well, I do, but you know what I mean. You’re lucky this is my passion.”
He outstretches a long arm toward me and I reach for it. He’s not all serious business like Dubois and Braxton. This man has kind, chocolate eyes and perfect dark curls all over his head. I find myself smiling at him even though he’s staring at me like I’m a science project gone wrong.
Once I’m on my feet, holding the towel precariously around me, I stare up at him. He’s as tall as Braxton, and despite being fit, he’s not nearly as broad. His scent is heavenly and expensive.
“I need clothes,” I say with a pout. “I’m Jessica by the way.”
He purses his dark pink lips together and I want to touch them too. It’s like he fell from heaven and I’m completely intrigued by him.
“Honey,” he says with a sigh, “I haven’t bought you any clothes yet. We’re going to measure you first. Then, we’ll exfoliate the shit out of that rough complexion.” He fingers my cheeks with his slender fingers and instead of shrinking away from this stranger, I close my eyes and let him touch me. I like his gentle nature.
“So I have to walk around naked?”
He laughs, the sound is rich and almost feminine in nature. “Nobody wants to see that, honey. Well, except for Mr. Kennedy. I brought you a robe to wear until I get you some clothes. The name’s Cartier. I’m your personal stylist.”
“I’m surprised Braxton hired you. You’re hot,” I blurt out. “Won’t he get jealous or some shit?”
His eyes widen and I’m not sure what offended him. “You’re quite a spitfire, aren’t you? I sure hope he doesn’t catch you using his name. He’s more pleasant when his toys don’t provoke him. Let me make you gorgeous and give you some pointers. I’ve been around long enough to know what he likes.”
He guides me out of the closet and I close my eyes once we enter the room. I hate this room. The color. The theme. The memories it incites.
Sucking in a calming breath, I open my eyes and instead train my focus on the good-looking man.
“Why were you sleeping in the closet?” he questions and points to the robe on the bed before placing both hands on his hips.
I swallow down my emotion and meet his gaze. Dropping the towel, I hope to rouse some sort of reaction from him that will distract him from his probing question. His eyes drag over my body but not in a lustful, appreciative way.
No.
He’s analyzing every curve and swell of my body. I can see him calculating sizes, patterns, and colors that would look best on me. I’m frustrated that he doesn’t find me attractive. It would be fun to make Brax jealous if I could. He pissed me off royally on the plane and I’m eager to get him back.
“Size four dress, thirty-four B, twenty-seven inch inseam, and size six shoe?” he questions, tapping his supple lip in a thoughtful way with his pointer finger.
I nod in amazement. It’s been awhile but those were my measurements when I could afford to buy clothes for myself.
He reaches forward with both hands and I gasp when his smooth palms graze over my breasts and along my belly. It’s far from sexual but to an onlooker, it would appear otherwise.
“You’re familiar with US sizes? Most of the girls don’t understand those sizes and I have a helluva time trying to convert their UK measurements,” he narrows his eyes at me when his palms reach my hips.
Dubois’ warning rings loudly in my ears and I bite my tongue from telling him I’m really from Georgia. “I’m familiar.”
Cartier’s thumbs run over faint ridges on my hipbones and he frowns at me. “How old are you?”
I push his hands away from my hips and cross my arms over my bare breasts. “Twenty-eight.”
He nods as if he guessed this correctly too. “Your hips are wide. Does he know?”
The room spins and I snatch the robe up. Shouldering past him, I rush toward the now open bedroom door. Once my feet are on the chilled marble, I suck in cold breaths of air. He comes behind me and takes the robe from me. Gently, he helps me put it on. After he’s tied it tightly at my waist, he comes to stand in front of me.
Kind, brown eyes meet mine and he swipes away a rogue tear that I hadn’t realized had even escaped. He smiles and presses a chaste kiss on my forehead before whispering words I need to hear.
“I won’t tell him and I won’t bring it up again.”
I swallow and nod my thanks.
“Now let’s go have fun, girlfriend!”
I spent most of the morning after Cartier visually measured me, in the sauna and pool. Christine, an adorable older lady, brought me a tray of fruits and pastries, as well as, cup after cup of hot tea. Brax was right, I took to her right away. Something about her greying dark hair reminded me of my mother and the need to connect was strong. She told me cute, funny jokes and stories about Lake Sammamish. By the time Cartier came to fetch me after his shopping excursion, I was in love with her and didn’t want to leave.
She’d promised to bring us something for lunch in the salon and that was the only reason I left without argument. Cartier seemed pleased with his purchases—clothes I had yet to see—and he babbled on and on about the sexy salesman that helped him. Discovering he was gay wasn’t a surprise but my heart did ache a little for all the women in the world. Cartier is hot and I’m jealous of whichever man gets to touch the angelic body at night.
“What does he do for a living?” I ask once he’s settled me in a leather stylist chair in the sleek, tiny, yet modern salon.
We’d passed his office door but it was locked—I’d tried to open it despite Cartier’s swatting. Braxton’s dark, delicious voice rumbled on the other side and I wasn’t sure if he had a client or he was on the phone.
“Honey, my place isn’t to educate you on what Mr. Kennedy does. My place is to mold you into what he wants—something that will please him,” he says, blowing me off.
Despite Brax’s abusive and bizarre nature, I am still attracted to him. He riled up my body so easily in the airplane and I craved his touch. If I can learn to keep my mouth shut and go along with his weird antics, I think I could enjoy my six months here. It might seem more like a vacation rather than work.
As Cartier cleverly changes the subject and rambles on about how he and “Sven” flirted and how “at least someone isn’t afraid to openly show how much he likes him”, I stare out the window that overlooks the lake. I’d spent so long in Bolton and the other surrounding towns outside of London, selling my body to the dirty side of the population that lived there, that I’d gotten used to the shitty side of life. It’d been a long time since I appreciated gorgeous architecture or picturesque views.
“I’m going to get some color on this hair first and then we’ll work on those hands and feet,” he tells me.
For the next several hours, Cartier returns my hair to a dark, mahogany color that only serves to brighten my green eyes. He softens my hands and feet with paraffin wax treatments and treats me to a foot massage that nearly gives me an orgasm. His slender fingers work expertly to file and buff my nails smooth and paints on a nude color that I find myself in love with. I hadn’t been pleased when he announced he was going to wax me “everywhere” but having the gorgeous man touch my pussy, even in a non-sexual way, was worth the pain of letting him strip me bare of hair there. Once my hair was blown out, he then worked on giving me a wavy style. My makeup was last and he frowned the whole time in concentration as he worked on my face.
I find myself laughing, truly laughing, for the first time in a long time. Cartier is flamboyant and hilarious. He has stories that’ll make a prostitute blush and I can tell that his heart is as pure as the heaven I still claim he was dropped from.
“Voila!”
Pride shines in his eyes as he swivels the chair around to the mirror. A familiar woman, a woman I long tried to forget, peers back at me. She no longer looks hopeful or happy. Her green eyes are harder. Wiser. This woman has seen things. Endured a terrible past. She has no future.
“You did a great job,” I praise and award him with a smile that doesn’t touch my eyes.
Thankfully, Cartier doesn’t notice and glides over to one of the sacks he brought in from his shopping excursion. While I took a break for lunch and chatted some more with Christine, he said he stocked the empty closet upstairs with my new clothes. It felt kind of nice to get pampered and spoiled. I sure hope I don’t grow accustomed to this treatment. It won’t last forever.
He fishes out a pair of sleek, black peep-toed Louboutin’s from a box inside the large sack and places them on the floor. I watch with interest as he places a lacey pair of black panties and matching strapless bra on the chair.
“Mr. Kennedy will love that,” he tells me with a wicked grin as if we’re girlfriends and this sort of thing is normal.
I can’t help but smile back because Cartier draws out happy emotions from me despite my situation. “I bet he will,” I groan playfully.
He pulls out a dress and the old me claps with glee inside my head. I most certainly approve of the stunning dress, and for a moment, I forget who I am now. For one second, I’m the woman from before. The woman who wore things like this dress easily and with pride.
Being a prostitute, I have no modesty and drop the robe without hesitation. I’ve worn tattered rags for so long that I’m eager to don something exquisite. Cartier helps me dress and when he guides me over to the mirror, I gasp in shock.
The nude-colored, fitted strapless dress hits me just below the knees and fits like a dream. My dark hair falls in front of my shoulders and the push up bra helps my breasts seem fuller and perkier. I’m another few inches taller in the black shoes and I can’t help but stare at my reflection in awe.
I’m beautiful.
Some sick part of me can’t wait to show Braxton. I want him to see that I’m not some ugly toy. But then I remember his promise. That he’d make Cartier transform me—restore me. It sickens me that he was right.
“The guests will be here soon for dinner,” Cartier says as he gathers up the empty bags. “Mr. Kennedy wants to speak to you about your agreement before they arrive. I’ll take you there.”
He flashes me a flirtatious grin that would make any girl grow weak in the knees and offers me his elbow. I bat my long lashes at him and return a sexy smile to him.
“Damn, girl. If I didn’t like plowing the opposite sex and didn’t have a brooding, sexy-ass boyfriend, I’d take you for a spin,” he teases. “You’re the prettiest toy Mr. Kennedy’s ever bought.”
I nod my thanks as he escorts me to the office next door, silently swallowing down my discomfort at having been reminded I’m only Brax’s toy. He’s about to knock when the door swings open and a tall, black man gapes at me.
Dubois.
Eat your fucking heart out.
“Hello, miss,” he says quietly as he quickly surveys my appearance. His eyes stray over to Cartier’s briefly and with one gaze he thanks him for his hard work before turning his attention back to me. “You look lovely.”
I smile at him and this time it does touch my eyes. “My, you’re quite the gentleman,” I tease with the southern drawl he loves so much.
He scowls and storms away from me.
“You’re trouble, honey. Act right because I don’t want all my work going to waste. He’ll ruin all of this,” Cartier says as he waves at my outfit with a hiss, “in one second. Be nice and behave.”
I roll my eyes at him but nod that I will. Cartier worked all day on making me pretty. I don’t want Brax to have a repeat from last night and strip me out of the gorgeous clothes. Or worse yet, to make me cry and ruin all of my makeup.
“May we come in, sir?”
“Just her. Thank you, Cart,” Brax bellows from inside the office.
Cartier gives me a sweet kiss on the cheek before striding away. I gulp in a lungful of air before stepping into the office. My eyes sweep over the room and I’m instantly in love with it. No surprise there. Every single room aside from the one I have to sleep in is breathtaking. This one is floor to ceiling dark woods. Books line the shelves and his massive desk that sits in front of the wall of windows is adorned with expensive technology. In his suit, behind the gigantic desk, looking gorgeous as ever, his stature screams power and money.
His eyes are focused on the screen in front of him and his brows are pinched together in frustration. I can tell he’s tense and stressed about whatever it is he’s working on. If I actually liked the guy, I’d give him a shoulder rub to ease the tension there.
But I don’t like him.
And I’ll do the bare minimum to get me paid.
He ignores my entry as he continues his work, so I take the free moment to inspect his framed achievements on the wall.
RK Enterprises.
Fortune 500 Company.
News articles about Brax being one of the top forty under forty successful people in the United States. Pictures of him shaking hands with celebrities and other wealthy, well-known businessmen. College degrees and other framed awards line the walls.
Success, success, success.
“What do you do?” I blurt out.
I turn my attention back to him. He’s still glaring at the screen. “I do lots of things, Bunny. What don’t I do?”
“Wise guy,” I grumble. “What is RK Enterprises?”
In a bored tone, as if he’s explaining to a boardroom full of investors, he rattles off what seems rehearsed as he types away on his computer. “RK Enterprises was founded sixteen years ago after I graduated from college with a degree in finance. I’d taken over a successful brick and mortar toy company owned by my father, based in Los Angeles but it was a sinking ship. I analyzed the company’s profits and losses, researched the market, and helped his dying company evolve into a more sustainable corporation. RK Enterprises launched Kennedy Toys, a subsidiary, a few years ago to which parents and educators all over the globe can customize their toys for their children via our user-friendly web-platform.”
“So you’re rich from making toys. You’re like the mean, sexier version of Santa Claus.”
He chuckles at my summation of him, never turning my direction. “RK Enterprises and Kennedy Toys only make up thirteen percent of my earnings. The other eighty-seven percent belongs to Fet Toy Luxe. FTL is a booming web enterprise that joins people with similar sexual tastes. Fet ‘Toys’ can advertise their services and can even add customizable options such as hair color, eye color, demeanor, dress style, voices, etc. ‘Luxers’ search these classified type ads on our site and can order their toys based upon their preferences and the amount they’re willing to—”
I interrupt him. “Isn’t that illegal or something? I mean, I know I’m not one to talk being a prostitute and all, but how are you not in jail for this?”
He sighs as if my question is annoying. “It is illegal except for in the state of Nevada which is where FTL is headquartered. All transactions take place at an FTL owned hotel there. The Luxers fly their toys out there and play with them until they run out of money or vacation time. Everything is completely legitimate and I pay my taxes like a good US citizen. Don’t worry your little heart out.”
Finally, he swivels in his chair, a smug grin decorating his handsome features. But the moment his gaze takes in my new appearance, his features dissolve and become angry.
Well, shit.
I’d been hoping for a pleased reaction, not a murderous one.