Chapter Eleven
At the beginning I worked most nights. I shared a one-room apartment with Sutton, who arrived in Tanglewood more broke than myself. Every cent I earned went into investments, some throughout the city in real estate, others in the stock market. As my portfolio grew and my hourly rate got higher, I stopped working—except for Saturday nights.
Even with a large nest egg, the money I make in a single evening is worthwhile. My services are only for the elite women of the city, those who can afford to throw thousands of dollars at pleasure.
And I enjoy my time, usually.
The arrangement suits me, but not everyone is pleased. When a knock comes on my door Sunday morning, I know who it is before I check the security camera on my phone.
It is with great reluctance that I press the button to let her in.
I take a final swallow of espresso before I get up to meet her at the door. We exchange kisses on the cheek, superficial pleasantries before she attempts to stab me in the back.
“Come in,” I tell her genially, because I have much experience with pretending.
Melissande gives me a dark look because she knows this. “Beatrix Cartwright booked you again.”
I stroll into the living room and recline on one of the over-plush leather sofas. Everything here is luxurious and modern and completely impersonal. The furnished loft was only going to be a stepping stone after moving out of Sutton’s, but I’ve never seen any reason to leave.
“I thought you’d be pleased.” This is a lie. Nothing has pleased her for many years.
She sits across from me, crossing her slender legs, revealing the edges of her garters. Always dressed to impress, this woman. “Meanwhile the rest of your clients are clamoring for an appointment. This new girl is taking up all your time.”
“So give the night to someone else,” I say, pretending my throat isn’t tight at the thought of not seeing Bea again. But I’ve never minded who booked my time before. I’m not going to start now, especially when Melissande would see it for the weakness it is.
“Beatrix pays too well,” she says, looking annoyed despite the fact that she makes a neat forty percent for doing nothing but taking phone calls.
“Then why are you here?”
“You know why. Because you need to work more nights.”
“Non, I’m doing very well. You are the one who needs me to work more nights.”
A sneer forms on her pretty lips. “Are you having trouble keeping it up more than once a week? There are medicines that can help with that.”
It does not bother me, the insult. She used to be a whore before she became the madam. And like most women her hourly rates only went down and down. While mine only goes up. It is the curse of our genders, but I will not quibble over it. “I work Saturday nights. That’s all.”
At my quiet certainty, her face forms a pout. I’m sure that is effective on some men. Once it would have been effective on me, but I learned not to trust her a long time ago.
Her dark gaze takes me in, from my open collar to my fresh slacks to my bare feet. I am only beginning the day, still comfortable and crisp. Her eyes heat in that familiar way that once would have made the back of my neck warm. Now I’m left completely cold.
“Or perhaps I can remind you of what it felt like to have sex every night. Several times a night. You were quite skilled at that, once. Maybe that was only for me.”
“I was fifteen,” I say, my voice flat. “And horny.”
Rage flashes in her eyes. “Don’t be crass, darling.”
I manage not to flinch when she says that. Darling. That’s where I learned it, after all. A word to push someone away. “You know very well that I can leave you whenever I please and earn the same amount of money. More, probably.”
She smiles, probably not realizing how cruel it looks. “Then why don’t you?”
Melissande was a beautiful woman when I met her, in the finest designer clothes and with her glossy hair in curls. She had so much money, I could not have guessed that she was a prostitute for the wealthy men who came to the city. She took me into her penthouse suite and showed me what it meant to be a man—or at least what I thought it meant.
There was nothing keeping me in Tangier, so when she offered me the chance to come with her to America, I took it. Perhaps it should have alarmed me that we had to pretend I was her adopted son in the paperwork, but I was too eager to come. Too blindly in love.
My lips twist in a wry smile. “Perhaps because I still have feelings for you.”
Her cheeks flush, most likely with anger. She hates to be the subject of pity. But what else can I feel for her? When I realized she only wanted to whore me out, it broke my heart. There are no feelings left in that organ now. No love and no warmth.
“I’ll give you seventy percent,” she says flatly.
“Thank you,” I say. “I will be happy to accept seventy percent of what Beatrix pays for Saturday night. But no more than that. One night a week. That’s all you get.”
She narrows her eyes. “There’s something different about this girl, isn’t there?”
“Apparently she pays more,” I say, my voice dry.
“No, something else. Is her pussy extra tight? She did mention her little problem. The virginity thing. I told her you would take care of that. Did it feel special, Hugo?”
It’s been years since her digs could make me angry. And yet I feel it rising inside me now, the need to tell her not to talk about Bea. It would only give Melissande power.
“But no, I have not even fucked her yet.”
Her eyes widen, her surprise real instead of manufactured. “Why not?”
“Perhaps because I’m making her fall in love with me. After all, I did learn from the best.”