Bound To Him: Three Dates with a Billionaire (2 page)

But fuck, I wanted him to kiss me! What chance did I have, next to the hotties he dated? Especially when I was dressed for work and covered with Roman dust. I couldn’t torture myself like this.

To my absolute shock, he dragged me close and covered my mouth with his, kissing the fuck out of me. His tongue entered my mouth, taking what he wanted.

The unmistakable ridge of his erection pressed against my stomach. Was this man kinky, did he get turned on by dowdy museum interns?

I was too turned on to think of anything except what he was doing. I met his tongue with mine, caressed it, while I was mentally freaking out.
I was kissing Troy Cooper!

He grunted, a deep masculine sound of appreciation, and then pulled away, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “Thank you for showing me the pavement, Ms—”

Hadn’t we gone past surnames? “N-Norris,” I stammered.

He winked at me and pulled away. “I’ll see you again,” he said, and headed for the door.

At the exit, I turned and took a look back. Troy had chosen that exact same moment to turn his head, and our eyes met, just for a second. Heat seared me from head to toe and I just stood there while he turned away again.

What the fuck was that? Did he go around randomly kissing women? With his reputation, probably. Or was it his way of saying thank you?

Arrogant bastard.

*****

L
ater that evening I sat at my kitchen table and shook. Actually shook with rage and fear when I read the letter. I threw it down on the table, but it only floated there, as if it didn’t matter at all. I wasn’t even effective at hurling paper around.

Cindy, being Cindy, picked it up. She read it and whistled through her teeth. “Girl, that’s a lot of money.”

“Degrees don’t come cheap,” I said. Getting my dream degree at my dream university had cost a heap of money, and then some. I was in debt up to my eyeballs. I was almost sorry I’d done it. Now the reckoning had come. Maybe I shouldn’t have ignored the last few reminders, but I really thought I’d get a better job, or the tips would have worked out better. Or maybe I thought it would just go away.

Working as a curator was my dream job, but I had to work as an intern first, and wait for a paid job to open up. My waitressing job earned me money, but not as much as I needed, even though I worked as many double shifts as I could, and did temp work in bars and cafes. Broke was for rich girls. I was destitute.

After Steve had reprimand me in his office, warning me about dropping the tesserae, my day  only got shittier. Only one bright spark remained; the kiss. Troy probably enjoyed teasing women that way. He’d laugh about it, tell his friends about the numb look in my eyes as he left.

“How much do you have?” Cindy asked.

I shook my head. “I’m too poor to buy ramen noodles.”

She shook her head. She was on her way out, her hair done into tight curls and her face made up to perfection. She wore one of her little dresses, because she was working. “You’re gonna have to find it from somewhere. Go to the agency tomorrow after work,” she said, putting her carefully manicured hand over mine. Her smooth, brown skin contrasted painfully with my rough skin and bitten-down nails. “You’ve got no choice, girl. You need money. I told you before, it’s money for nothing, and you get a meal out of it.”

“Where are you going tonight?”

She named one of the most fashionable restaurants in the city. “My client wants to impress his boss, so I’m his girlfriend for the evening. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“You do.”

I’d heard her crying some nights. But Cindy wanted to be a model, and that cost as much money as me working four days for free every week. She did what it took.

Maybe I should follow her lead. “You’re sure this agency is on the level?”

“Sure it is. Madame X won’t have you doing anything you don’t want. The agency only pays you to be company for the evening. You’ve got to dress classy and look good. You’d clean up real well, if you let yourself. Tell you what. Tonight have a bath and wash your hair. Better still, use that color rinse you’ve always said you wanted to try. Find your contact lenses. Tomorrow I’ll lend you something to wear and ask Madame X to interview you, see if there are any jobs for you.”

I swallowed. Could I do this? Sure, there were escort agencies that were little better than brothels, but the one Cindy worked for wasn’t like that, or so she’d always claimed. I knew she’d slept with some of the clients, but she claimed she’d only done it when she was desperate for money, and if Madame X heard, she’d scalp her. Cindy always talked like Madame X was a saint.

Going to an interview wouldn’t hurt. I was on lunches this week at the restaurant, and I didn’t have to go to the museum until Friday. Just as well, considering the day I’d had. Steve might be in a better mood when I saw him again.

I took a deep breath and glanced at the crumpled sheet of paper lying next to my coffee mug. “Okay,” I said. “Count me in.”

*****

T
rying not to tug at the skirt of the short blue dress I’d borrowed from Cindy I walked, or rather teetered, through the door of Madame X’s office. I had no idea what to expect. When I’d imagined her, I’d thought of a woman in her fifties, heavily made-up, dressed in something too bright and too tight.

I was wrong. Madame X was maybe thirty-five or thereabouts, dressed in sleek, elegant navy. Her silver necklace with a single blue sapphire pendant was obviously real, and her dark brown hair was sleeked back into a chignon. While she wore makeup, it wasn’t exaggerated, it was just there.

She put me in the shade, even though Cindy and I had slaved over my appearance for a full hour before setting out to visit her office in midtown, and that didn’t include my new cherry-colored hair rinse, which I’d applied the day before. I was still doubtful about that. The sidewalks were wet with a recent rain shower, and I’d had to take a lot of care in the sky-high shoes I wasn’t used to — also a loan from Cindy. My little silver purse was full to bursting with my contact lens stuff, some money and makeup. The makeup took the most space. And my metro card. No way was I getting a taxi home unless somebody else paid for it. Cindy had gone off on another job, so I was on my own. I nearly turned around and went home half a dozen times before I got there, but eventually I decided to go ahead. After all, I could always say no.

Before I sat, Madame had me turn around. I pirouetted, careful not to trip in the silver sandals. If my purse had been big enough, I’d have shoved some sneakers in there. But it wasn’t, and it was barefoot or these.

“Nice. You could do with losing a few pounds, but some men like curvy women.”

I said nothing.

“Sit down.”

I tried to look as if I wore four-inch heels every day, and sat. I remembered not to cross my legs, Sharon Stone style, but keep my ankles together. Mind you, unlike Sharon Stone, I was wearing panties. I’d even had to trim and shave my bikini line. I hardly ever did that, only when I was taking a vacation, and I couldn’t remember the last time I just lay on a beach.

In any case, in my line of work I’d be wondering what lay under the beach, and if the Romans had visited.

“Tell me about yourself.”

That was not the best way to start an interview, even I knew that. But I started with my prepared speech. I told her about my job, and my qualifications, and then she smiled and nodded. “Student loans?”

“That’s about it.”

She got right down to the nitty-gritty. “Are you a virgin?”

“No.” Who was, these days? But I hoped she didn’t ask about my experience.

“I want a woman who is comfortable with her sexuality. What’s your sexual orientation?”

I tried not to squirm. “Straight, I guess.”

She didn’t question that part. Good, because I wouldn’t have known what to say. “Do you have any conditions? Not just STD’s, but any medical conditions?”

I thought. “I’m short-sighted,” I said. “I wear contact lenses.” I blinked. I didn’t wear them usually, but I had a pack of sleep-ins for special occasions.

She made a note on her electronic tablet. Apart from a phone and a sleek, silver laptop, her glass-topped desk was bare. She held the tablet in her hand. She checked down her list. Age, height, dress size, natural hair color and so on. Then she took photos.

“These don’t go anywhere, do they?” I didn’t want my name and photo all over the internet. Steve would have a fit.

“Not without your permission,” Madame said. “Stand up and turn around.”

She snapped away with her camera, and then I had to smile. She coached me. “Stand side on and then turn your head. That’s it. Now face me. Stick out your chin.”

I started to feel like a model in a camera shoot. It was nuts.

“You can sit down now.”

I tried to smile.

She sat behind her desk again and fiddled with her tablet. “Okay, I can probably find you something.” Before I could say no, or wait, or I’ve changed my mind, she carried on. “You’re engaged to be company. Nothing else. You’re arm candy. Don’t be reticent, but never, ever put yourself forward. Don’t start sentences with “I,” and if you do, think about what you’re saying. My girls look good, but not vulgar, and they always wear hosiery.” She glared at my bare legs. I’d spent ages getting every little last hair off them and I felt a bit offended. But I’d put myself up for this. I swallowed back whatever I was about to say. “Anything else is extra-curricular.”

She stared at me. I nodded. I knew what she meant. “However,” she continued, “You’re not paid to do that. I can’t legislate against it, because if I do most of them will do it anyway. Your basic pay is fifty dollars an hour, plus expenses. If you’re good, that will rise fast. My best girls earn a lot more than that.” Good, because I needed more than that, but it was a helluva lot more than I earned from waitressing. I earned just under ten dollars an hour, with another ten in tips, if the customers were feeling generous. I didn’t work at the kind of place where they waved hundred dollar bills just to get the wait staff’s attention.

“Keep your receipts. I pay all reasonable expenses. You’ll be employed for a certain number of hours, so anything after, you’re off the clock. Once a client has used the agency, everything short of marriage has to be paid for. Private dates are not allowed. Ever.” Wow, I’d never thought of that. Of course, a girl could make her own list and then bypass the agency.

I found my voice. “What do you provide?”

“Hmm? Support, if you need it. If you get in trouble, if he wants more than you’re willing to give, you get a number on speed dial. Just hand the phone to the client, and I’ll deal with him. You get the money, and the security of someone knowing where you are and what you’re doing. But you don’t get a free ride. After every date I’ll contact the client and get a report. Your score will ensure more clients and bonuses, as well as pay rises.”

I’d entered a new world. I had no idea how I could cope with all this, even if she wanted me to work for her. I’d probably stay on the books forever.

“You’re intelligent, which is important. You’re presentable. I can use you.”

“What kind of clients do you get?”

She smiled, a wry twitch of her lips. “The rich kind. Men might genuinely want company at dinner. Some businessmen just don’t like to eat alone. Theater companions to others. Sometimes a man will want to show off a woman, to say to his business rivals, ‘look what I can get.’ It’s up to you to assess the situation.”

“I see.” I could probably handle that. I could cope with social situations. “I can dance. I mean I can waltz and do some simple ballroom dances. Nothing fancy.” I’d learned that at school.

“Can you two-step?”

I smiled. “Yes.” Although I wasn’t from the south, I didn’t know anybody who couldn’t.

“Good, because we get cowboys coming to town. The kind that own oil wells.” She gave me a studied glance, then checked her tablet. “It’s just coming up to eight. I have a job tonight, as it happens. It starts at eight-thirty, so you just have time to put on some pantyhose and get to the venue. The client is a regular, Mr. Witley. He’s from an old New York family, and he wants a companion to attend a gala evening. He will introduce you as a young relative.” She raised a brow. “I swear this man has more nieces than God ever meant for a man to have. From the reports, he can be grabby, but he takes no for an answer. He’s a regular, but his usual girl isn’t available tonight. I’ll text him and tell him to expect you. He likes curvy blondes, but this is short notice, so he’ll have to make do with a bottle redhead.” She flicked me a glance.

I sat there, numb with shock, listening to something I should never have gone for. But I had, and if I refused, she might take it out on Cindy, since she recommended me. Madame X only took girls by recommendation.

“He’ll be wearing a red rose in his lapel and he’ll wait for you by the bathrooms in the entrance hall. You’re to go up to him and say, “I’m here, sir. It’s so nice to see you again.” Word for word, mind. Then he’ll know I sent you. He wants a girl until midnight, then you’re free to go, but do it tactfully. If the evening is still going on, say you have to go, not that you’re off the clock and you’re going home. Agree with anything he says. He likes that. He’s a good tipper. After the job, I’ll bill him your basic rate. That comes to me, and I’ll pay you by check, or a bank transfer. I don’t usually deal with cash.” I could guess why.

Wow, there was so much to this escort shit. I might as well try it out. It wouldn’t cost me anything, after all. The hotels uptown had balls and galas almost every night, so the work would be steady. Most would include food, so that was one less thing to do. I could really do with the money. An evening’s work, even without a tip, would give me enough to keep the bank happy. My crisis would be averted. Although my heart was beating double time and my mouth was as dry as a desert, I could do this. As long as I didn’t fall over. I could get a cab and charge it to the agency. Just one thing. “How fast do you pay?” I didn’t want to appear desperate, but I had to know. “You see, I have a payment on my student loan due...”