Yours for the Night

by Jasmine Haynes

  “How about dinner? You can talk, get to know the chick a bit, and see where things go.” Rising to round the desk, Harve clasped Chase’s shoulder. “And if it’s a no-go, that’s fine. I’ll just feel better if you get out of that apartment.”

  Okay. One evening out of his life. He could even tell Krista he had a date. She’d be pleased. Maybe she’d think he was getting over it, moving on, healing.

  “SO, MARIANNA”—THE WOMAN GLANCED UP FROM HER LEGAL pad—“why are you interested in this area of exploration?”

  Marianna wanted to laugh. Area of exploration? It was Wednesday, two days after Jewel had first mentioned it, and here Marianna was, hiring on as a highpriced call girl. It wasn’t exactly an “area of exploration.” It was desperation. But Isabel was completely serious.

  Marianna had taken BART into the city, and a cab from the station to Nob Hill. The establishment—or brothel, or whatever you called it—was nestled between two Victorians converted to law offices. Marianna thought it rather amusing. If anyone got arrested, they had lawyers on either side to choose from. The front lobby had been nicely appointed with buffed hardwood floors, dark paneling, a pretty receptionist, and Impressionist prints on the walls. She’d been shown to a small front room, which offered a fabulous view of Alcatraz between the buildings. The coffee was of the highest aromatic quality. Isabel had arrived just as Marianna seated herself on the expensive yet comfortable chintz sofa.

  “Jewel recommended your agency to me.” It didn’t answer the question, but Marianna needed to think through her reply. She hadn’t expected anyone to ask why, though Jewel had said they’d interview her to make sure she’d fit the organization.

  “We at Courtesans thank Jewel for that. But I’m interested in your thoughts.”

  Isabel tipped her head and smiled, like a psychiatrist wanting to put her patient at ease. Or a car salesman trying to unload a lemon. Somewhere in her forties, she was exceptionally well preserved. Botox, 23

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  surgery, Restylane? Her blond hair, a thick fall of it over her shoulders, didn’t have a trace of gray. Her artfully applied makeup enhanced her eyes and lips, and the wraparound skirt showed off toned calves. The woman obviously took care of herself, exercised, and watched what she ate. Instead of coffee, she sipped a glass of designer water she’d poured from a bottle out of the minifridge. Pretty? Attractive was a better word. She’d turn heads even if she was forty-five. Marianna wasn’t sure she could hold herself with such poise.

  “The money appealed to me.” She decided to get her reason out in the open. If Isabel wanted to turn her down, so be it.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to money.” Isabel wagged an elegantly polished fingernail. “You do realize, however, that we provide companions, and anything that occurs between you and your client is strictly up to the two of you.”

  The agency charged the client a fee for “matching” them to an appropriate courtesan, which made it sound like one of those on-line dating services.

  “If there’s an exchange of gifts, that is also within your discretion.” The

  “gifts” could be jewelry or cash. “We don’t get involved in any payment nor do we refer to whatever occurs between you as a service.”

  Isabel was very careful not to say Marianna would be paid to have sex, but Jewel had told her how it worked. Payment wasn’t required for any act performed, but if the “gifts” were consistently underappreciative of a courtesan’s time, the client was simply no longer matched to anyone.

  “I’m clear on that,” Marianna said because it was expected. Giving another of those charming smiles, this one a tad friend lier, Isabel arched her brow conspiratorially. “There’s nothing wrong with money, or thinking you’re worth it.” She put a hand to her chest above the cut of her form-fitting sweater. “I’m worth it. So are you.”

  Did Isabel go on dates, too? Interesting. “Jewel said there would be a couple of days of seminars I’d have to attend.” Marianna assumed they’d be about protection against disease and the proper blow job technique or some such thing.

  “It’s a two-day psychological intensive where you’ll hone your abilities to read people. Fantasy interpretation. Personality identification. Body language. You’re lucky.” Isabel smiled. “We have one beginning tomorrow.”

  Marianna raised one brow. “You teach us psychology?”

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  “That’s what this is about.” Isabel crossed her legs and set aside her legal pad. “We pride ourselves on interpreting unexpressed fantasies. A client says he wants this”—she leaned forward and lowered her voice—“but he really wants something else entirely, something he can’t express, is afraid to voice, or doesn’t even know he wants. Your job is to ferret that out.”

  “I’m not very good at reading people.” If she was, maybe she wouldn’t pick the wrong jobs or miss opportunities.

  “It’s easier than you think. You interpret body language, facial expressions. You learn to read between the lines, look for the sub-text in what a person says. Sometimes it’s as simple as someone saying he doesn’t want to do something, and you realize you have to help him free himself.”

  Marianna laughed self-consciously. “I’m not sure I’ll be so great at it.”

  “Don’t be modest. Women are very good at reading a man’s signals. We’ll help you perfect that ability.” Isabel picked up her pad once more. “First we have to uncover your fantasies.”

  “My fantasies?” Marianna mentally gulped.

  “Yes. That’s how we learn to match you. We look at your desires and find a client we think will mesh well.”

  “But I don’t have any fantasies.” She thought of the limo scenario she’d played with two nights ago when Jewel first told her how she made extra money.

  “Everyone has fantasies. You just might not think of them that way. What do you imagine when you’re masturbating?”

  Marianna was glad she hadn’t been sipping coffee, or she’d have spewed it all over the chintz.

  Isabel correctly interpreted her look. “If we’re not frank, we can’t provide our clients with the ultimate experience. More important, we can’t give you what you need. This is as much for you as it is for them.”

  “I thought it was about—”

  Isabel put her finger to her lips, cutting Marianna off. “Courtesans was founded over two hundred years ago to give women a freedom they could attain nowhere else. That’s still our mission statement today.”

  They had a mission statement? Marianna experienced an urge to giggle. She held it in.

  “We encourage women,” Isabel went on, “to realize their full worth. We want to empower women, aid them in exploring their own sexuality, whatever that 25

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  may be and whether they get paid for what they do or they do the paying. It’s all about self-worth.”

  Marianna didn’t have a whole lot of that. Nor did she think Courtesans was going to give it to her, but she played along. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Good.” Isabel gave her a smile, one that had an almost feral cast to it. “Let’s talk about your ultimate fantasy. Have you imagined threesomes, foursomes, watching two men have sex . . .” She spread her hands and raised her brows. Marianna shuddered at things she’d never even considered. Did Jewel do any of that stuff? “I’d rather stick to me and one man.” Then she laughed and added,

  “How about finding Prince Charming?” It was only after the words were out that she realized it wasn’t so much of a joke.

  Her biggest and best fantasy was of taking over her sister’s life: a handsome husband with a secure job, a huge house, two darling teenagers, and a car without a crack in the windshield. Tina’s life was . . . normal. Their father was proud of her for her charity work and her well-mannered children. Like Beaver Cleaver’s mom, Marianna would have a made-from-scratch meal ready when her hubby got
home, a clean house, perfect kids, such a lady, but ooh, once the bedroom door closed, she’d morph into a whore for him, keeping their sex life spicy. He’d never stray. That was her fantasy. Isabel hadn’t said a word. A flush heated Marianna’s face. “I was just kidding.” She tried to smile it away. Then she dove on the next thing that came into her mind. “How about a little exhibitionism?” She shrugged. “Not so much being totally out there, but the possibility of being caught, doing it in risky places.” Like playing naughty out in the deep woods where you think you’re the only hikers around. Except you’re not. Oh yeah, she’d had that fantasy with her imaginary Prince Charming. “Or vice versa, walking in on someone, they don’t see me, and I watch.” She’d had that fantasy with her dream man, too, sitting out on their hotel balcony and looking straight into someone else’s room to catch them. Or an office building. An apartment house. Somewhere they could watch, and get naughty themselves.

  Isabel made a few notes on her tablet. “Very interesting. Risky places and voyeurism are universal fantasies. I’m sure we’ll easily find several matches.”

  Marianna shivered. “You mean I’m hired?”

  “We don’t hire you, we don’t pay you, we simply match you, with the client 26

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  taking care of the matching fee. I’ve got a few more questions, about your personal preferences as to age of your escort, et cetera, but I believe everything will work out. I’ll supervise your first few matches personally.”

  Oh God. She’d just committed herself.

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  4

  THREE DAYS LATER, TWO OF WHICH SHE’D SPENT IN “TRAINING” AT

  Courtesans—she’d found it quite fascinating—Marianna surveyed herself in her vanity mirror.

  “You must be crazy,” she whispered.

  “You’ll be great.” Jewel popped her head around the bathroom doorjamb from where she’d been primping. “But if you do freak out, I’ll be there to talk you down.”

  “Sure, I’ll be just peachy,” Marianna muttered. She was scared spitless, but at the same time her panties were damp.

  A Saturday night party. In the city. A limousine would pick them up in half an hour. She’d read her date’s profile a hundred million times since Isabel sent it to her yesterday. Brock Ransom—the name sounded fake. He was midfifties, 165

  pounds, five-eleven, unmarried. Yeah, right.

  She gazed at his photo. At least she didn’t recognize him. And she had told Isabel she liked older men. “He’s not exactly Mr. America.” Or Prince Charming.

  “You can’t judge someone by the package they come in. While looks get a second glance, what’s really attractive is up here.” Jewel tapped her temple. Marianna hoped so. While she was given his picture, he did not get hers. The agency protected their courtesans’ anonymity. Isabel had even armed Marianna with a cell phone, paid for by Courtesans, so that her true name, phone number, or location would never appear anywhere for a client to track her down. It was her choice as to whether she used her real name.

  “If you’re not attracted, don’t do anything.” Jewel paired her words with a shrug.

  To match his height, Marianna had chosen black suede pumps with a twoinch heel. Short and flared, her sparkly black cocktail dress flirted with the lace of her thigh-high stockings as she twirled in front of the mirror.

  “You look perfect,” Jewel reinforced.

  Marianna was sure she couldn’t have done this on her own. She’d never even get into the limo. But Jewel wasn’t going to let her cry off, she knew. “I like your red velvet.”

  The dress was strapless, a plunging cowl neckline gracefully draping Jewel’s 28

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  ample breasts. Tight around her waist and butt, the velvet fell in sinuous lines to her matching high-heeled sandals. Jewel’s glossy black hair caressed her bared back, setting the dress off to perfection. They were opposites, Jewel’s dark hair to Marianna’s blond, her olive skin to Marianna’s peaches-and-cream, her voluptuous curves to Marianna’s slender figure. Marianna eyed her critically a moment. “Are you wearing panties?” Not a single line marred Jewel’s sleek gown.

  Jewel merely batted her lashes. “If you’re not wearing them, you don’t need the time to get them off.”

  The tips of Marianna’s fingers went slightly numb. For a moment, they’d been two friends dressing up for a night on the town. Now they were . . . “I’m wearing mine,” she said, “and I don’t care what you say.”

  Jewel tipped her head one way, then the other, her glittering ruby-colored earrings swaying in her hair. “You don’t have to sleep with him. You meet him, you decide. If you change your mind, he’ll take it like the gentleman he is.”

  Marianna sat heavily on the end of the bed. “Did you ever do that, tell someone no?”

  “I’ve turned down two men after I met them.” Jewel stepped back into the bathroom and raised her voice slightly to carry through the doorway.

  “Why?”

  “One of them had terrible breath. Call me small-minded, but I wouldn’t have sex with a man I couldn’t kiss because his breath bowled me over.”

  Marianna shook her head, allowing herself a smile. Bad hygiene wasn’t a small thing. Although some people couldn’t seem to help it. She flexed her ankles and pointed her toes, a nervous little tic because her skin felt jumpy. “And the other man?”

  Jewel gave a snort of disgust. “He was hot as hell, very doable, a little older than us, tall. He really had me going. I was wet and ready. But then he did this really asshole thing.”

  Marianna rose and leaned into the bureau mirror, checking her makeup once again. “What?”

  “We were dining at the Carnelian Room, and the waiter brought him the wrong drink. He made a scene, raised his voice, told the guy he was an idiot and threatened to have him fired. It was unnecessary, not to mention embarrassing.”

  “What did you do?”

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  Jewel popped around the doorjamb again, her top lids lined, the lower lids still bare. “I leaned in close, told him I didn’t fuck dickheads, then picked up my purse and walked out.”

  “You’re kidding. What did he do?”

  “I think he stayed to finish the replacement drink his waiter brought, because he sure didn’t follow me outside while I hailed a cab. The next morning”—she waggled her fingers like the Wicked Witch and smiled—“he called Courtesans and told them to fire me.” She stopped dramatically. Which of course made Marianna demand, “And?”

  “Isabel fired him, in a manner of speaking. She told me any further requests from him would be politely denied.” She spread a hand. “See why this place is so great? They take your word over a man’s.”

  Marianna wished she hadn’t gotten ready so quickly. It left her too much time to think, which is why she kept Jewel talking. Nerves. She was so damn jittery about the date, about meeting Brock Ransom, about what he’d expect, measuring up.

  She glanced at her watch. “Are you ready? The limo will be downstairs in a couple of minutes.”

  Stepping out of the bathroom, Jewel caught Marianna’s wrist. “Take that off.”

  “My watch?”

  “Clients don’t like to know you’ve got an eye on the clock.”

  Brock Ransom had hired her for the party. She could do anything she wanted. Or nothing. She could have fun or she could choose to castigate herself. She undid the band, tossed her watch on the bed, and followed Jewel out the door.

  Dammit, she was going to enjoy herself at a big gala with delicious food, the best wines, and scintillating conversation. She’d worry about what might happen later in the evening . . . later.

  CHASE TOOK KRISTA OUT TO DINNER. HE HADN’T GONE SHOPPING. Besides, he didn’t have enough cookware in the apartment. If he’d even known how to cook decently. After Rosie died, he’d sold the house and gotten rid of all the furniture. S
he was imprinted all over it, and he couldn’t live with the reminders. He now had a small, utilitarian apartment—basic two bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen, and one long room that passed for living and dining—with 30

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  naked walls and cheap, bare-minimum furnishings. Krista had never said a word about it, but he realized it worried her, his lack of interest in anything, not even the creature comforts of a home.

  The restaurant he’d chosen was a homey Italian place with cheesy red checkerboard tablecloths, noisy families, and the scent of tomato paste and garlic permeating the air.

  “You look tired.” Krista leaned in to be heard over the buzz of voices and a burst of laughter from the next booth.

  “I’m fine, sweetie.” Which was what he’d said to Harve, minus the sweetie. At least Krista had waited until dessert to say something. She had tiramisu, he a coffee, and the waiter had left the check by his elbow.

  “You always say you’re fine, Dad.”

  “That’s because I am.”

  Her brow creased. Krista had her mother’s curly dark hair and brown eyes, and his square jaw. She wasn’t a traditional beauty, but she shone like a star in a dark night. Her college boyfriend Andrew didn’t know what a gem he had, and sometimes Chase wanted to knock the kid upside the head. Then again, he wished Krista had more self-esteem than to allow herself to be disre spected. But kids, they didn’t listen. Any more than he listened to Krista when she ragged on him about getting out more.

  “It’s not like I’m saying you should date. But you should do something to get out of the house.”

  “We’re out tonight.” He smiled.

  She wasn’t buying it and lowered her voice. “I miss her, too, Daddy.” She called him Daddy when she was trying to wheedle her allowance out of him early, or when she was worried about him.

  “I don’t know any women I want to date,” he said, still trying to avoid the subject.

  “It doesn’t need to be a date. You always liked the symphony. You could ask that couple you and Mom used to go with. I’m sure they’d love it.”