“No,” Sarah answered, finding her voice again. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think I’m a charity case. Because I’m not. I’ll find a way to keep painting, no matter what my father does or doesn’t do. Or what he chooses to believe. So it’s really not your problem, okay?”
Joss’s grin was like a needle in Sarah’s heart, until she realized Joss was not making light of her situation at all, but rather the opposite.
“Then I think you should show him that you will not be discouraged. And I think maybe we can help each other after all.”
* * *
Joss offered to walk Sarah home before she had time to question what the hell she was doing. Or how the offer might be perceived.
She was not trying to be chivalrous, she told herself as the evening light faded and porch lights began to wink on. Nor was she trying to come on to Sarah. She was simply doing the polite thing in walking a woman home, because the truth was, she had little experience at romancing women and hadn’t the first clue how to do it. Hookups usually came at the end of a long conference day in a perfunctory and efficient acknowledgment over a drink in a hotel lounge. She didn’t know how one went about the dating dance, other than trolling the Internet dating sites and joining those speed dating events she heard the nurses regularly chatting about—things she wouldn’t be caught dead doing. In any case, none of it mattered. She wasn’t romancing Sarah or even flirting with her. And while what they were doing might resemble a date, it absolutely wasn’t. In fact, there was no mystery about their arrangement. No worrying about whether Sarah expected a kiss or flowers or more at the end of the night. No. As much as it pained her to admit her mother might be right, this actually was kind of perfect. Act as a couple at an event, then go their separate ways at the end of it. Sarah would be doing nothing more than providing a service, for which Joss would be compensating her.
And yet. The way she’d felt at the birthday reception with Sarah at her side—smelling like wildflowers in a cedar forest, looking elegant, charming people with witty and intelligent conversation, using her soft, graceful hands to emphasize a point or to touch someone in a friendly, almost intimate acknowledgment—had ignited a tiny spark inside Joss that she instantly recognized as something she thought she’d never feel in the presence of another woman. Next to Sarah, she’d come alive—slowly, but profoundly. She’d felt attractive, likeable, engaged—as though she too, by extension, was charming and witty and sociable. Sarah’s relaxed, genial demeanor had been contagious, to the point where others had remarked in knowing whispers how sweet and right they seemed as a couple. At the time it had horrified her, made her angry all over again at her mother. But now? Now she felt ridiculously pleased, although she wasn’t ready to admit it yet.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Sarah said beside her.
“Just thinking about the logistics,” Joss lied. Sarah—or rather, the feelings Sarah kindled in her—confused her. She needed to ground herself, get back to her comfort zone of clinical detachment. She was single for a reason, she reminded herself. She enjoyed an uncomplicated and regimented life that revolved around her work. She could and did come and go as she pleased, answering to no one.
“We don’t have to, like, sign something or be too formal about this, as far as I’m concerned,” Sarah offered.
Joss didn’t pretend to know how all this was supposed to work. She’d Googled the subject of paid escorts after her mother had first suggested it, but the search produced only ads for prostitution and porn sites. She’d need to improvise.
“How about this?” Joss said, the boldness in her voice a fabrication. “I’d like to pay you a retainer. Four hundred a week. If I require you more than twice in a week, I’ll double your fee. All your expenses will be paid…cabs, drinks, meals and so on. Clothes too if you need them.”
“That’s extremely generous.” Sarah stopped beneath a streetlight and eyed Joss. “Are you sure about all of this?”
Joss wasn’t at all sure about any of it, in spite of the ease with which she’d spouted off the details of the arrangement. But the idea of it made sense. Sarah clearly needed the money to support her art, and her presence at events like today’s would make Joss’s professional life a lot easier. Sarah would be able to divert much of the agonizing spotlight from Joss to herself at these things. Which would be a godsend, because the only place Joss wanted to be the center of attention was in the operating theater. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It wasn’t like she was asking Sarah to marry her. Or as if hiring Sarah was going to cost her her inheritance. “Yes. Are you?”
“I suppose so.” Sarah spread her hands out, and Joss had the urge to capture one of them with her own.
“Does it make you uncomfortable in any way? Because if it does—”
“No, it’s just…I’ve never done anything like this. I guess I expected it to feel a bit icky, but it doesn’t. It feels almost deliciously illicit.” Sarah’s eyes turned playful. “Like our own version of that old movie, Pretty Woman.”
Joss laughed, picturing herself as the debonair and smooth-talking Richard Gere, albeit much less of a self-important jerk. “Unlike the Julia Roberts character, you don’t have to sleep with me. And I’m no white knight in shining armor.” And I’m certainly not going to marry you at the end of it all, Joss thought.
“Hmm,” Sarah said, turning and walking again.
Joss waited for her to say more, but she didn’t and her mind strayed to thoughts of extending their little agreement to include sex. What would it be like to conclude one of their little functions with a good roll in the sack? Hmm, she thought, arousal unspooling inside her. What would Sarah be like naked? And what would she be like in bed? Had the other guests at the party concluded they were sleeping together? Yes, she decided, they undoubtedly had, and the thought secretly thrilled her.
“You okay?”
“Yes, fine, thank you. Sorry. How old are you, by the way?”
“Plenty old enough to be your…” Sarah’s forehead furrowed in confusion. She looked, Joss thought, adorable when she was flustered. “What exactly am I, anyway, since I’m something quite a lot less than your mistress?”
Joss thought about that. Something rebellious inside her quietly relished the idea of Sarah being her mistress, like in some old-fashioned romance novel where the shirtless man is leaning over the scantily clad, bust-thrusting woman. Not that Sarah seemed like the kind of woman who wanted to be dominated—sexually or otherwise—by anybody. And Joss wasn’t the controlling, domineering type anyway. But she liked sex as much as the next red-blooded lesbian, and the idea of no-strings, relationship-free sex with Sarah was a definite turn-on.
Oh hell, she thought. Who was she kidding? She’d never pay for sex, even if Sarah was the type to offer it up on a plate—which she undoubtedly wasn’t. Joss would never bring herself to allow their little arrangement to become that distasteful. Or that dishonorable. She would never put herself and Sarah in that predicament, fantasies aside. Her moral code and breeding were a definite libido killer in this instance.
“How about my professional companion?” Joss finally suggested.
“All right, that sounds okay. A damned sight better than paid companion. Or escort.” Sarah shivered at the word escort. “Ugh, that makes me think of fat, hairy men going to massage parlors. And I’m twenty-nine, by the way.”
Twenty-nine. That was a good number, Joss decided. Sarah looked young—her eyes were unlined, her skin as smooth and unblemished as porcelain—but she didn’t act young. She was poised and possessed a composure that suggested she was closer to Joss’s age.
“And you?” Sarah asked.
“Thirty-eight.”
“Wow. You don’t look that old, but being a surgeon, I guess you would be.”
“Old?” Joss laughed. “I don’t think I’ve been called old before.” If anything, in her world of teaching and performing complicated cardiac surgeries, she was young.
Even in the twilight, Sar
ah’s face noticeably colored. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just meant…You’re very attractive—”
“For an old person?”
They both laughed until Sarah stopped in front of a three-story walkup. They were only a few blocks from campus. Joss’s condo was also within a few blocks of Vanderbilt, but at the opposite, more moneyed end. This part of the neighborhood was clearly inhabited by students and probably some of the lesser-paid staff of the university.
“My apartment’s on the second floor. I share it with a roommate.”
Joss walked with her to the front door. Simultaneously they pulled out their cell phones and exchanged numbers. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Then we can figure out what’s going on next.”
“All right.”
Joss awkwardly stuck her hand out because she didn’t know what else to do, but Sarah ignored it, stood on her toes and kissed Joss’s cheek. “Good night, Joss McNab.”
Chapter Five
“So, that’s your sugar mama?”
Lauren Douglas, Sarah’s roommate and best friend dating back to high school, was all over her the second she walked in.
“I wouldn’t quite put it that way. And what were you doing, spying on us?”
“I saw y’all out the window. Pretty sweet, walking you home and all. Do tell!” Lauren’s eyes shimmered with curiosity. She was an incurable romantic who had shelves full of lesbian romance novels and had watched Notting Hill seventeen times. Twenty-one times for Imagine Me & You.
“It’s not sweet. We were walking, that’s all.” Sarah stepped out of her heels, strode to her bedroom and, with the door slightly ajar so they could talk, stripped out of her dress and into jeans and a light sweater.
“She’s kinda hot from what I could see. Why didn’t you bring her up?”
“Because I didn’t want you to scare her away. Especially if you’re going to call her my sugar mama.”
“Aw come on. I wouldn’t do that. But I would like to know if she has a sister. Or a best friend who’s also a rich lesbian. God, I’m so jealous, Sarah.”
Lauren was a struggling musician and songwriter, trying to make it in Nashville along with the thousands of other aspiring young singers and songwriters who clogged the streets and honky-tonks with their beat-up guitars and their shiny enthusiasm. Unfortunately having talent was only loosely linked with achieving success around here. In Sarah’s opinion Lauren and her friends all seemed so talented, and yet few of them were able to make a living from their music. That was something to which she could totally relate. And just as she was doing part-time work to keep herself in paints, Lauren was working as a waitress at the Wild Horse Saloon to fuel her music dreams.
“Well, don’t be jealous. It’s going to be boring most of the time, all these stuffy receptions and dinners.” Sarah emerged from her room and sat down on a worn chair across from Lauren, who’d plucked a guitar off the living room wall and began picking out a tune Sarah didn’t recognize.
“So, like, is she paying you?” Lauren asked over the guitar notes.
“Yup.” Sarah was still getting used to the idea. Four hundred a week was generous. Probably more than she needed. Her broom closet-sized studio in a warehouse a few blocks away cost her four-fifty a month in rent. Her supplies added up, her occasional seminars with visiting painters too. And then there was the apartment rent she split with Lauren, along with food, clothes and keeping her crappy old car going. Her teaching job provided about twenty thousand dollars a year. Now, with the money from Joss, she’d be more than set until her paintings began to pay off. No more handouts from Daddy. Supporting herself was something she’d hoped to do with her art, but what the hell, at least now she was supporting herself, and that was worth celebrating.
Lauren stopped playing. An impish smile tugged at her lips. “Do you have to sleep with her?”
“Of course not! What do you think I am, a prostitute?”
“No, but a little on the side might be fun. Especially with a hot-looking doctor.”
“I’ll have my hands full as it is. I don’t need sex complicating things. Besides, what’s important is that she seems nice. And not the type to take advantage of me in any way.” She rhymed off the phrase with which she’d decided to characterize her and Joss’s relationship. “We’re just friendly acquaintances in a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Lauren made a face. “That doesn’t exactly have a nice ring to it. It would sound much better if the two of you were sneaking away from your little obligations and getting it on in the backseat of whatever fancy car she drives.”
Sarah sighed impatiently. “As much as it sounds like material for a movie or a song, it’s not going to happen. End of story.”
She would never admit it to Lauren, but she did find Joss attractive. She wouldn’t be human if moments ago she hadn’t enjoyed a fleeting fantasy about a proper kiss with Joss on the front porch, but that was all it was, a fantasy. Sleeping with her—not that it was ever going to happen!—would make Sarah no better than the young women she despised who slept with older men for the size of their wallets. No. This was a paying gig, same as teaching those eager freshmen twice a week. The only difference was the gourmet food and the expensive champagne.
Lauren began plucking the strings of her guitar again, and before long she was singing. “Sugar mama gonna make ever’thin’ right. Sugar mama gonna shine in my pocket, gonna shine in my bed too. Sugar mama gonna rock me all night.”
Sarah pitched a cushion at Lauren, hitting the guitar and nearly knocking it out of her hands.
“Hey, careful, or I’ll use your precious paintbrushes to clean the toilet next time.”
Sarah laughed, feeling more in control of her life than she had in a very long time. Her father was no longer pulling her strings. She was financially independent for the first time in her life. About all that was missing was a gallery showing interest in her work, but one thing at a time, she cautioned herself. One thing at a time.
* * *
The inside of the Bridgestone Arena was a sea of yellow hockey jerseys and T-shirts sporting the Nashville Predators logo. When the Chicago Blackhawks were in town, it was always a spirited tilt, and the fans were restless waiting for the opening whistle.
Joss stood in a private box more than halfway up the arena at center ice. Nathan Sellers, who owned a successful statewide chain of high-end furniture stores with his wife, had invited Joss to the game along with the dean of the medical school, the hospital’s cardiac surgery chair, the director of cardiovascular medicine, six hospital board members and the chairs and co-chairs of three different hospital fundraising campaigns. The evening was for spouses too, which meant Joss had asked Sarah along. The gathering represented the blue bloods of the hospital and medical school’s cardiology services, an echelon that Joss didn’t truly belong to—yet. But Sellers had been a big fan of her father, who’d performed life-saving bypass surgery on him two decades ago. It was only because he was a major donor to the hospital and the medical school that Joss felt compelled to accept his invitations, even though she’d rather be doing almost anything else. At least the game provided a welcome distraction.
Sarah looked lovely in a tight taupe skirt, white ruffled blouse and a tailored, dazzling blue jacket that nicely matched her eyes. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, revealing simple yet classic sapphire earrings. I could buy her jewelry, Joss thought before quickly dismissing the idea as a bad one. She was not Richard Gere and Sarah was not Julia Roberts.
Sarah had shown no nervousness or apprehension about mixing with such notable guests, which surprised and pleased Joss, who at this moment wasn’t far from upchucking her dinner. She never knew what to say to these people that didn’t involve talk about work. She’d welcome a discussion about the latest advances in heart valve replacement, but this was not the time or place. The occasion was mostly for Sellers to brag about his business and his latest six-figure donation to the hospital and medical school. He was a self-c
entered, pretentious bore, but everyone tolerated him because they adored his money.
The hockey game started, giving Joss something to concentrate on—when she wasn’t keeping half an eye on Sellers and the lecherous attention he was showering on Sarah like confetti. He long had had a deserved reputation as a skirt chaser, which was probably why his wife stayed mostly at their Memphis property. Predictably, he’d quickly cornered Sarah and was plying her with mint juleps. Joss wasn’t especially worried. Sarah seemed like the kind of woman who could handle herself appropriately, meaning she could keep Sellers in line without having to kick him in the balls. Joss imagined a core of toughness behind the magnetic smile and the intelligent eyes, but by the second intermission and Sarah’s second mint julep, she decided it was time to intervene. She didn’t pay Sarah enough to have to put up with the likes of Sellers, who was fluttering around her now like a moth to a flame.
“Darling, we’ve got a very early day tomorrow,” Joss said, clamping an arm around Sarah’s waist. “Perhaps we should think about saying our good-byes?”
“Oh, but your lovely companion was telling me all about her paintings,” Sellers enthused, moving close enough to Joss that the reek of bourbon hit her like a wall.
“They sound spectacular,” Sellers continued, fishing a gold-embossed card from his pocket. “Young lady, I’m out of town for the next couple of weeks, but I want you to contact my executive assistant.” His voice turned syrupy, and a long bony finger snaked out to touch the top of Sarah’s hand and lingered there. She had the good grace—and the patience of Job—not to recoil at his touch. “If your paintings look anywhere near as good as you, I’d like to acquire some of them to hang in our furniture stores. And to use for staging homes.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” Sarah said coolly, but her eyes had widened with surprise. “I’ll be sure to do that, Mr. Sellers. That’s very kind of you.”
By Mutual Consent Page 4
