A 21st Century Courtesan (2 page)

They can always tell, my clients. Even the most selfish, the most dense. They know right away that I'm into it, that my orgasms are the real thing. And these men are the sexual sophisticates of the world. They've had first-class ass in every corner of the planet: the pros in Amsterdam, Paris, Berlin.

I know I sound crude when I talk about these things, but this is a crude world. I'm not bitter, I swear it. I see the beauty in the world, too. I've spent far too much time around the rich and privileged to be blind to beauty, not to appreciate it. I love the ballet, could watch it for hours. I could wander every museum
on earth and never get enough. My current obsession is art history, and I've been taking classes off and on for the last few years, soaking it all up. This is something I do purely for me. I may be a classless kid from the Valley, but I've learned about the rest of the world, seen enough to develop a real appetite for the finer things in life. And for me, art has become a necessity.

There is the gritty side to my lifestyle, of course. Even the girls at the top of this food chain can get into trouble. There was Trina, a gorgeous girl, new to the business, who was kidnapped and taken to some godforsaken place in Southeast Asia and never heard from again. These things happen, and when they do, when we working girls hear about it, it scares us, even if we pretend it doesn't. This job, as luxurious as it is, is not entirely without risk. But we keep doing it anyway, don't we? Some sick part of me gets off a little on the cheap thrill, I'll admit to that.

I don't like fast cars, in particular, and you'll never catch me climbing a mountain. My thrills are all of a sexual nature. Which makes me the perfect woman for this job. I am embedded in this life for the long haul. It suits me to a T. It makes having a “real” relationship entirely impossible. But the circumstances of my life since childhood have made that impossible anyway, so I've never minded. What other sort of life would I have? What would I even want? No, I'm perfectly fine right where I am.

THE SUN IS BEGINNING
to lower in the sky as the cab exits the freeway and turns onto Grand Avenue. I love this time of day: the pale light turning the sky an ethereal shade of gold, like an iridescent film over the deepening blue. It's even lovelier
now, in the fall, when that bit of moisture in the air, that first hint of the coming cooler weather, adds a pearly glow to everything. But it's difficult to really enjoy it; it's after seven and I'm running late. I hate being late, especially to meet a client. It's unprofessional. But the traffic was horrible, as usual in Los Angeles.

We pull up in front of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and I pay the driver. My cell phone goes off as I step out into the warm evening.

“This is Val.”

“Val, it's Bennett. I'm not going to be able to make it tonight. A problem at the office.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. Shall we meet later?”

“No, no. This is going to keep me busy all night. But you shouldn't waste the tickets. It's opening night.”

“I do love
La Traviata”

This opera is the story of a prostitute. Why wouldn't I love it? And I've become a huge opera fan, thanks to Enzo's expert guidance.

“Enjoy it, then. I'll call you to reschedule in the next week or two.”

“I hope you will, Bennett. I'm so sorry you have to work tonight and miss this.”

“You can tell me all about it when I see you. Ah, there's my other line, I have to go.”

I flip my phone shut, turn it off, and get my ticket at the will-call window, feeling a lovely sense of freedom at having the night off. Being able to enjoy the opera without having to e on.

Of course, this also means no sex for me tonight. But for once, spending the evening on my own sounds even better. I realize I've been craving some time away from work lately.
Strange for me. But I have been doing this most of my adult life. I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise. When was the last time I even took a small vacation—three years? Four?

Inside, the theater is cool, lovely in its stark modernity. The lights are bright, making me blink. I really would love a cocktail, but nearly everyone is seated already; I'd hate to be locked out of the first act.

An usher, all gangly legs and leering eyes, shows me to my seat. Not that I mind. A woman in my position can't afford to be offended by male attention. And I wore this champagne bias-cut silk dress to show off my lean curves, my pale skin. I don't have much in the way of cleavage, but the boy eyes the low neckline, anyway. My nipples have gone hard from the air-conditioning, so perhaps there's something to look at after all.

I slide in, murmuring apologies to those already seated as I go. The seats are fabulous: third-row center. I settle in, leaning down to set my small bag at my feet.

And that's when I catch a scent in the air, something masculine, sophisticated. I sit up and turn my head to see who is sitting next to me. I'm trained to be attuned to men. I can't help it.

He smiles. A gorgeous smile. His face is beautiful. That fact is what I notice first, and it's a few moments before I see that his features are a bit irregular. But still beautiful, in the most masculine way possible.

He has dark brown hair with a few natural highlights, cut very short, a little spiky on top. Warm hazel eyes, a full mouth, a strong, clean jaw. Broad shoulders in his designer suit. Nice. And he's young, maybe thirty-five. Too young for my tastes. So why is my body heating up? Why do I want to touch his mouth, just put my fingertips to his lips?

Stop it.

I make an effort to smile back, then turn away, looking at my program. But I'm not really seeing it, the faces of the cast members, the synopsis a blur. I can't stop noticing him out of the corner of my eye.

He seems entirely relaxed, something you don't often find in a man of his age. This makes him all the more intriguing. And there is a strange sense of anticipation, of tension. It's almost as though I can feel the heat of his body next to me. And I am hyperaware of that scent. Crisp and dark at the same time, like the woods with a faint wash of citrus.

I roll my program up in my hands, my fingers tightening around the glossy paper as I look around the auditorium. Why can't I calm down?

Finally, he turns to me and asks, “Are you waiting for someone?”

“No. My friend had to cancel.”

“Ah, mine did, too. Well, my mother, not my friend.”

“Oh.” I don't know what else to say. I can always talk to men. It's my job to talk to men. Among other things. What on earth is wrong with me?

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude,” he says, mistaking my tied tongue for offense.

“Oh, no, it's fine. I'm sorry, I was … distracted. It's lovely that you come to the opera with your mother.”

“She loves the opera. I've learned to enjoy it, although it's taken years. But I like
ha Traviata.
I like the tragedy of it.”

“Most operas are tragic,” I say.

“Yes, but no one does tragedy like the Italians.”

I smile. “True. Unless it's the French.”

We sit quietly for a moment, and that's when I notice he's looking right at me. I don't mean that in any sort of romantic
terms. But I'm used to men seeing me as an object. That doesn't offend me. It's a requirement of my occupation. But when a man really looks at me, sees
me
, I notice.

This man is obviously far too nice a guy to be talking to a woman like me. Not that my clients aren't good people. But this nice man thinks he's flirting with a nice woman. If he only knew.

But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it, does it? Just an evening of innocent flirtation. It's fun being a bit of a tease now and then, something I rarely get to do. When you get paid for sex, everyone knows up front what you're there for, even when a client simply wants me to be arm candy at an event. Of course, even those evenings usually end in sex. It's far too easy for the guy. I'm right there, paid in full. Why wouldn't he want to have sex with me? Or a quick blow job in the car, at the very least. I am every bit as good at being a companion as I am at sex. But it's nice to play at it for a little while. To simply be myself, to savor this sort of attention.

The house lights dim, go dark, and the orchestra begins. I let the music wash over me, trying to ignore this man seated only inches away. This man who I have no business flirting with.

The opera is wonderful, the woman singing the part of Violetta is beautiful and incredibly talented, a lovely, pure soprano. But I'm unable to become lost in the story. I am much too aware of his scent, his presence. I swear I can feel the heat emanating from him like an invitation.

I glance over at him, looking for a moment too long, and he turns and smiles at me.

I look away, flustered now. Embarrassed.

When was the last time a man managed to fluster me?

I force myself to focus on the music, on the costumes. It
really is a wonderful production, the sets colorful, dynamic, the costumes gorgeous. And the singing is superb.

Hours later, or so it seems, the lights come up. Intermission. God, I need a drink. I rise quickly and make my way to the lobby bar.

It's crowded, as it always is during the intermission. Voices, laughter, mingled with the clink of ice in glasses, the flash of jewelry. I look around, scanning the crowd. I realize that I'm looking for
him.

I realize that I have turned into some sort of foolish schoolgirl. I shake my head in disgust.

A voice just over my shoulder.
His
voice.

“It's impossible to elbow your way to the front at these things, isn't it? Let me order a drink for you.”

“Oh, no, that's not necessary.”

His gaze catches mine. I can see flecks of green and gold in his eyes in the bright lights of the lobby. He's taller than I'd thought.

“I'd like to buy you a drink.”

I feel momentarily stunned. Whatever is wrong with me? “Well. Alright. I'd appreciate it. A Tanqueray and tonic.”

“Don't go anywhere,” he says, giving me a wink.

I watch as he makes his way to the bar, shifting into the crowd. Utterly confident. Polite. Graceful.

There is a certain kind of man who moves that way. Men of power. Men who are entirely assured of themselves. A small shiver runs through me.

He returns in only a few minutes, handing me the drink and a paper napkin. I notice he's drinking scotch on the rocks. I can smell it, a nice blend.

“Thank you. I'm Valentine Day, by the way,” I tell him, giving him my full name. My clients know me only as Val. Only
Enzo gets to call me Valentine. Only Enzo knows my last name. But my name is
mine.
I have to draw the line somewhere.

He takes my hand in his. “I'm Joshua Spencer.”

A current flashes up my arm, shafting deep into my body. Heat. Desire. I pull my hand back, trying not to do it too quickly, trying not to appear rude.

“So,” I ask, pausing to sip my drink, covering my discomfort, “what do you do besides taking your mother to the opera?”

“Professionally? As in ‘what do you do’?”

He's grinning, but there's nothing mocking in it; he's just being nice.

“Professionally, personally. Whatever you'd like to tell me.”

“My job is fairly boring. I'm in real estate development. A family business.”

“I don't think that's boring at all.”

He shrugs. He has the broad shoulders of an athlete. Nice. “It doesn't make for exciting discussion unless you're also in real estate. Are you?”

I can see he's teasing me, but I like it. “No. I'm definitely not in real estate.”

“Ah, good. Because I really hate to talk about work.”

“Tell me something else, then.”

“Something else?” He pauses. “I play hockey twice a week. I'm on a team. I run sometimes in the mornings. I don't have time for much else. The occasional play. Or the opera with my mother. Or without my mother, as the case may be.” He flashes a boyish grin. “And I love art. I like to go to the Getty at least once every couple of months. I'll see whatever's there.”

“I love the Getty.”

He steps closer, his voice lowering, as though we're having
a private conversation. Perhaps we are. Another shiver runs up my spine, long and slow and warm. Exactly as I imagine his touch would be.

He says, “Let me guess. You like the Impressionists. Paintings from the more romantic eras.”

“I do like the Impressionists, especially those who came into the game a little later. But I'll admit what I really love are the Neoclassicists. Leighton, Alma-Tadema, Collier. Waterhouse, of course.”

“Ah, but still romantic.” He gestures with his drink, then takes a sip. I watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.

I smile. “Yes, I suppose they are. But I'm afraid my taste in art isn't very sophisticated. I like it to be pretty.”

“A feminine trait. Not necessarily a bad one.”

He moves in a step closer, a few inches, really. But I feel as though we are in our own bubble, apart from the crowd around us.

“What about you? I'd guess you like something completely masculine, the more modern artists. Pollack? de Kooning?”