by L. D. Fox
“Data costs money, Cheryl. I don’t have either.” She took a deep breath, knowing she would regret telling Cheryl but this way, at least one other person in the world had to know where she was going tonight. It made sense.
More sense than actually going.
“The Plaza Hotel. I have to meet him at eight. He wanted to pick me up—”
“The Plaza?” Cheryl breathed into the phone. “Bazinga!”
“Whatever. Look, can I borrow those silver shoes of yours?”
“Sure. Should I drop them off or—”
“No. You’re on the way. I’ll come fetch them.”
Cheryl clapped her hands. Pearl drew her ear away from the phone until the noise stopped.
“— wearing the dress?” was all she caught of Cheryl’s babble.
“You sound like a ten-year-old.”
“You’re not even a little excited? I mean, this guy’s loaded, Pearl! You could charge him just for showing up! People do that, you know. Women escorting men around like arm candy and stuff.”
Pearl lifted her eyebrows. She hadn’t even considered that. It would definitely be the lesser of two evils.
“I mean, he didn’t even touch you or tip you when you were dancing, right?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean—”
“And you told me he was super good looking.”
“Serial killers can be handsome too, Cheryl.”
“Mmm…”
“Ugh. I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking right now.”
“No,” Cheryl agreed with a laugh. “You definitely don’t.”
“I have to get ready. See you later, you perv.”
She hung up while Cheryl was still letting out an excited squeal, wiggling a finger in her ear. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Definitely a dancer’s body: long legs, firm thighs, a flat stomach, and toned arms. Most of the definition came from pole dancing six days a week, three shows a night. The first few months had been absolutely punishing, but she was used to it by now.
Pearl studied her selection of underwear. Nothing seemed to suit the dress, and almost everything would show under the slinky fabric. Commando then. She showered, washed and styled her hair, and hesitated in front of her makeup bag.
Don’t wear makeup.
That command almost made her want to tip out her makeup bag and beginning slathering on cosmetics until she looked like the Joker… but she never wore makeup on her night off anyway, so what was the difference? She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her lips were light pink, her eyebrows, naturally thick, framed her blue eyes enough that they still popped without mascara.
She climbed into the dress, hitched it to her shoulders and did up the zipper by contorting her arms into several awkward angles.
Another look in the mirror.
God, it was sexy.
Taking a deep breath, Pearl turned to the door and froze.
Nope. Not going to happen.
She sank onto the edge of her mattress. Then she slid out of the dress and laid it on her bed. Pearl went to her cupboard and drew out a scarf she almost never wore, except when she went out and felt like being fancy. She wrapped it around her hair, lit another stick of incense, and rested her leg on the windowsill while she took a deep toke of what was left of her joint.
The alley was dark. A few of the windows opposite her were lit up, but no shadows moved beyond them. They never did. For all she knew, the apartment block next to hers held nothing but automated lighting. Maybe it was used as some kind of undercover hideout. Or a drug dealer’s hangout. That was more likely.
She took a last hit from the joint and blew the smoke through the window crack. Her nose wrinkled; the incense did little to disguise the stink filtering in from the alley below.
As Pearl reached up to grab hold of the window sash and drag the window down, she spotted movement. Her eyes swiveled, a cold worm of realization already burrowing into her spine.
There, four windows across and two down, a man leaned out of his window, investigating the alley below. Well, he had been investigating the alley below, now his head was tipped up and a pair of large brown eyes studied her instead. Stared, really. His mouth was even open a little bit.
Pearl squealed in the back of her throat and slammed the window closed. And then jerked the curtains closed. She stumbled back a few steps with a hand over her heart.
Then she laughed, pressing her eyes closed with the tips of her fingers as she bent over and wheezed.
His face.
She washed her hands, brushed her teeth again, and maneuvered herself back into the dress. It took a few minutes longer than the first time, but soon she was standing in front of the mirror again. She managed a determined nod, whipped the scarf from her head, straightened her hair with her fingers, and grabbed her purse.
Her clunky boots — the only shoes with heels high enough for this dress — looked more than a little odd with the slinky fabric.
The sound of her door slamming closed reverberated through the empty hallway.
Pearl shivered, glanced around, and hurried toward the stairs.
* * *
Chapter Three: A Date with Mr. Armani
The Plaza’s lights dazzled Pearl. She ascended the red-carpeted stairs leading into the hotel’s main lobby, trying not to squint as she glanced around. Having only ever driven past the place — en route to more affordable entertainment venues — she had no idea where she would meet someone, or if she needed some kind of reservation to get in.
Hopefully not. Because she doubted that the reservation — if there was one — would be under ‘Mr. Armani’.
Why the hell hadn’t she asked more questions, like his name? Those infuriating initials on his business card? What the hell he wanted with her?
She was starting to feel way too sober to be dealing with all of this right now. The dope had worn off, taking with it that blissful cocoon of couldn’t-give-a-damn-but-I-could-really-use-a-cookie.
And the dress?
She’d never in her life felt this out of place, this conspicuous, this… unsettled.
“Hi, uh…” Pearl cleared her throat and tried again. The receptionist couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off Pearl’s shimmering waistline. “Is there a… waiting area? I can’t remember the name… I’m meeting someone there.”
“The Palm Court is right over there.” The receptionist pointed an imperious finger. “Who can I say—”
“No, that’s it. Palm Court. Thanks.” Pearl hurried away before the receptionist decided she had more questions or accusing stares to direct at Pearl’s dress.
She came to a halt a few feet from the entrance. A maitre d’ barred her way.
“Hi.”
“Evening, madam. Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m just waiting for someone.” Pearl pointed at the distant, palm-framed bar. “We’re meeting here at eight.”
“The name of the reservation?” the maitre d’ prompted.
Mr. Armani?
“Uh, I think—” Pearl began, taking a hesitant step back.
Someone brushed past her: the receptionist walked up to the maitre d’, glancing at Pearl as she whispered something into the man’s ear. The man’s eyebrow twitched and he gave a small nod. The receptionist gave Pearl a tiny, tight smile as she returned to her post.
“You may have a seat at the bar,” the maitre d’ said, gesturing.
“Thanks.” Pearl looked back over her shoulder, but the receptionist had disappeared behind a ridiculously huge flower arrangement.
Weird.
The Palm Court was just as brightly lit as the reception area, the air scented with wafts of unidentifiable food and cologne. Pearl headed for the circular bar in the center of the enormous room, Cheryl’s heels sinking into the carpet with every step. She collapsed onto the first available seat and let out the breath stagnating in her lungs since she’d stepped inside.
The name was highly original: the place had several potted palms stra
tegically placed throughout. Everywhere she looked, tables and chairs and chandeliers and orchids slapped her in the face. It was overwhelming, stunning, disorientating.
Chatter filled the room, seeming too loud to be coming from the tables clustered around the tall palms, or those so neatly arranged on the vast carpeted floor.
“Something to drink, ma’am?”
Pearl snapped her head straight, giving the bartender a wide-eyed stare.
“What’s good?” she managed.
The bartender eyed her for a moment, his eyes skipping over the silver-encapsulated mounds of her breasts, her hair, her makeup free face. Then he gave her a slightly frosty smile.
“Perhaps a Cosmopolitan?”
Determined not to get freaked out by the bartender’s psychic powers, she nodded mutely.
He swung around and went to work. She caught sight of a few of the bottles he emptied into her cocktail: Cointreau, cranberry juice. The bright-red drink he placed on the counter matched her hair.
Pearl sipped it gingerly and tried to study the room without gaping. Most of the people here were dressed quite sedately, in darker colors and full-length dresses in matte colors. No one wore silver glittering anything.
Halfway through the cocktail, Pearl smuggled her cellphone out of her clutch purse and checked the time. Eight. How the hell had she managed to get here so early? Then again, why wasn’t Mr. Armani AKA Rich Creep not here yet?
Okay, that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything to deserve being called a creep, had he? Other than stalking her, correctly guessing her dress size, and making her wait in a hotel that probably charged more for this cocktail than it would have cost to buy all the different ingredients in bulk to make thirty of the damn things.
She forced another deep breath into her lungs. The bartender had moved away but kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye. He was young, perhaps only a few years older than her.
A bracing scent filtered into her nose: sandalwood, leather, something sweet. The fine hairs on the back of Pearl’s neck rose as goose bumps broke out over her arms.
“Punctual Pearl,” Mr. Armani purred into her ear.
His breath washed over her earlobe, the side of her cheek. She stiffened, her fingers tightening around the rim of her cocktail glass.
Air jostled around her as Mr. Armani slid into the seat beside her, eyes fixed on the bartender. His scent washed over her, more of the same but with a bit of ginger thrown into the mix.
“Sazerac,” Mr. Armani called out, lifting a finger in the direction of the bartender.
The man turned to her, one arm on the bar counter, the other resting on the back of his tall-legged chair.
Pearl was still frozen, air trapped in her lungs, fingers glued to her cocktail glass. Mr. Armani’s eyes touched her mouth, lingering until she wet her lips. Then his gaze roved down her neck, her breasts, her thighs. They settled for a moment on her heels. He smiled, and his gaze raced back up her body, fixing with unsettling fierceness on her eyes.
He reached out for the tumbler the bartender brought over, taking a swig without his eyes leaving hers.
“You’ve never been here before,” he said.
Pearl managed a shake of her head.
“Overwhelming?”
She remained frozen. His eyes finally left her, allowing her a moment to breathe as they settled on her drink.
“You didn’t make it very far.”
Pearl’s hand lifted, bringing the cocktail to her mouth without involvement from her brain. She tipped the remainder into her mouth and set the empty glass down. Booze stung her throat, and she barely managed not to wheeze.
Holy fuck, his eyes were mesmerizing. They were so lustrous, so green: a forest pool coated with duckweed. And whatever the hell kind of cologne he wore had pressed every rusty button she had.
She crossed her legs, hoping to stem the warmth blossoming inside her. She hadn’t even tasted the last of that cocktail. His smell had corroded her nasal passages, rendering every subsequent taste and smell worthless.
“Are you a mute?” Mr. Armani asked, taking another sip of his amber drink.
Pearl summoned words from deep within her constricted stomach.
“No. Not usually. I mean—” she broke off, wetting her lips instead of making sense.
“You seem nervous.” Mr. Armani ran his eyes over her again. “Someone in your profession should surely be comfortable around strangers.”
She inhaled sharply but paused. Was that supposed to be an insult? Thoughts were slippery, elusive things that vaguely resembled oiled eels.
He tipped back the rest of his drink and turned away to study the bartender. As if they had some psychic connection going, Mr. Armani tapped his fingers twice on the bar counter, and the bartender nodded.
Then those hypnotic eyes were back on her.
“Follow me.”
He stood, his leg brushing hers as he moved out from behind the bar.
In a dryer environment, anything flammable would have caught fire from the spark that leaped between them. Pearl jolted. Mr. Armani didn’t seem to notice; he strode toward a different exit, moving effortlessly between the guests.
Pearl wobbled when she came to her feet. She caught the bartender’s eye as she turned to grab her purse. The man’s smile had evaporated. Instead, a small crease had appeared between his eyebrows. He stepped forward, mouth opening as if to say something. A patron called out behind him and the bartender closed his mouth again, nodding his head in resignation and turning away from her.
Pearl’s hands trembled as she followed Mr. Armani through the Plaza Hotel.
Where the hell was he going?
* * *
Mr. Armani led her up a staircase sided with elaborate iron fretwork. What few people had previously been milling around thinned to none. They passed three uniformed hotel employees, all of whom gave Mr. Armani only the slightest bow of their heads when they spotted him.
A man wearing white gloves and the hotel’s uniform gestured toward an elevator barred by an intricate grate.
“Hector,” Mr. Armani said, with an amiable nod in the man’s direction.
Pearl’s stomach tightened: would she finally hear a name for her mystery date?
“Good evening, Sir.”
Nope: no illumination yet. Hopefully, sometime before the end of the night she could stop calling him Mr. Armani.
The elevator was large, quiet, and had no controls on the inside. What if it got stuck? How the hell would you call for help? Did this mean it only went to one floor? A private suite?
She tried to keep her feet still, but they refused her orders and shifted anyway. The elevator walls were covered in dull golden mirrors that reflected a darkened version of her face back to her.
Mr. Armani studied her reflection. Here, his green eyes weren’t that bright. The silver pinstripes in his otherwise demure charcoal suit didn’t gleam. He looked serious, intimidating. Her stomach fluttered and she gripped her purse with a white-knuckled hand.
The silence inside the elevator eventually got to her. She half-twisted toward the man, trying not to let the opulence of his suit distract her.
“Who are you?”
He didn’t turn to her, choosing instead to watch her reflection.
“We will dispense with formalities after dinner.”
“Exchanging names is a formality?”
Then he did face her, and she wished he hadn’t. His eyes bore into her, freezing her where she stood. His facial muscles hadn’t twitched in the slightest, but the intensity in his gaze gave his deadpan expression sinister overtones.
“That is not how this works.”
“What is this?” Pearl asked, wishing her voice was steadier.
“This is me inviting you to a dinner prepared by a world-renowned chef.” He cocked his head. “But if you’d prefer to dine on something bought from a street vendor …”
Pearl watched him for a few seconds and then shook her head. He gave
a nod as if he’d known that would be her answer before straightening toward the elevator doors.
On cue, they opened.
* * *
Extravagant was a severe understatement. The lights, at first dim enough that she couldn’t make out anything more than the vague suggestion of furniture, bloomed into life as Mr. Armani walked through the front door. Apparently without any intervention on his part, except his presence. They illuminated a dizzying arrangement of furniture and ornamentation, one of which a chandelier of long crystals set in a rectangular base high on the vaulted ceiling.
Music — a lilting orchestral score — wafted out through an unseen sound system. The air was warm and heavily scented with lilies and vanilla.
She had no idea what floor they had arrived at — well, until she could force her gaze past the lush furnishings to the wall of windows beyond. When she saw the view, it became apparent they were right on the top of the Plaza Hotel, at least twenty stories above Fifth Avenue.
A moodily lit Central Park stretched out below, contained by a wall of uneven skyscrapers.
Pearl’s eyes slid back to the living room as Mr. Armani walked ahead, sliding out of his suit jacket and throwing it over the back of a long, rectangular sofa upholstered in silver suede. Two purple armchairs faced her, separating the set of silver sofas and their leather-topped coffee table. Her heels sunk into a plush white carpet, its fibers shimmering as light shifted over its surface.
But her eyes kept being drawn back to that vast jungle of foliage, black-green, lit by scattered lighting.
“Evening, Sir. The usual?”
Pearl forced her head to turn, watching as Mr. Armani met with a white-gloved butler, both coming to a halt beside a sleek grand piano.
“Yes. And a Cosmo for the lady. Tell Duran to set out a selection of Rollios in the dining room with iced coffee and sweets after.”
Instructions received, the butler left without acknowledging Pearl. Mr. Armani turned to her, fingers working at his cuffs.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing with a turn of his outstretched hand toward a sofa.
Pearl complied, putting her purse on the coffee table. The sofa happily swallowed her ass — despite its stiff-looking shape — as she wriggled into the myriad of silver and purple throw pillows behind her.
