by Kira Barker
I hailed a cab and gave the driver my address, then counted the bills inside the envelope that I transferred from my coat pocket to my bag. Trust was one thing, business another. Brigitte would have my ass if I ever did it in front of a client, and she kept a security deposit from each of them in case they “forgot” to pay. I'd never had any problems regarding payment, but there had been a few cases of saucy details being leaked to the press in the past, even with photographs in one particularly sordid affair. The client paid for confidentiality as much as everything else, but that required money changing hands in the first place. And with the high profile most of my clients kept, none of them would have dared file for extortion.
Once that was settled, I twisted around under the seat belt to reach for the laces of the corset and undid as many of them as I could, grunts ensuing. When I got out in front of my building, I added a generous tip to the fare; the cab driver certainly hadn't minded getting quite the eyeful, but not even a stupid grin had betrayed him. Decency deserved to be rewarded, particularly by indecent folks.
In passing, I glanced at the two black SUVs parked at the curb, noting with a flutter of excitement that Adam must be back. True enough, as my heels clicked toward the elevator, I already had to run the gauntlet of black suits and caught a glimpse of his unruly black hair ahead.
“Hold the door, please,” I called, grinning brightly at the tall, dark-skinned woman viciously stabbing the button for the top floor. With the usual delay of the controls, I had time aplenty to scoot into the now-cramped cabin before the doors closed with a “ding.”
Adam answered my greeting smile with a wink, then stared straight ahead as I turned my back on where he stood in the back row flanked by two tall, muscled men in—you guessed it—black suits. I was certain that both could have gotten a very good look down the slightly gaping collar of my coat, but the gray-pants-suit-wearing harpy in front of them kept their eyes trained on much safer territory.
Her eyes glared bloody murder at me when I glanced at her, and I let the smile on my face slip into an obvious travesty of its former self, pointedly not looking away until the elevator started its slow ascent.
“So good to meet you again, Agent Smith. You look particularly lovely this fine day. I presume the weather in Eastern Europe was sunny?”
She didn't reply, just kept gnashing her teeth, making her resemble a bulldozer with a grudge. In the past, her resolve had faltered, but since then, she must have grown tired of growling, “That's classified!” over and over again at my prodding. Either that, or she'd gotten a sharp phone call from one of her superiors. Brigitte's connections ranged far higher than a lowly CIA agent, and she didn't like anyone harassing her girls who didn't pay for it well.
As much as I loved to bait her, I refrained from trying to make Agent Smith blow her gasket, at least until the elevator spilled us out on the top floor. Two men, both in suits but in lighter colors than the muscle surrounding Adam, stood beside the open door to his apartment. They both nodded at me, the older of them allowing himself a small smile. Even without looking at Agent Smith, I knew that her glower must have deepened at that, and I doubted that she missed it.
“Agent Farnsworth, Marshal Sully,” I nodded at them as I walked over to my own, thankfully closed, door, where I halted with my key in the lock. Turning back, I raised my brows questioningly at Adam. “See you in thirty?”
He shrugged, pointedly ignoring the glares the other woman on the landing was directing at him.
“A few minutes, give or take. We already had the debriefing on the plane ride from—”
“Sorrento!”
I doubted that he would have gone on even if she hadn't shouted angrily, but as it was, Adam's lopsided grin in Agent Smith's direction was speaking volumes of how much he liked goading her. With another wink at me, he made a grand gesture toward where his door stood open after the agents had searched the premises.
“Ladies first.”
I didn't wait to see whether she would take the lead and give him the satisfaction of letting him appear chivalrous, or wait until he went first to prove that she could be stubborn as a mule. I hoped they paid her well for her assignment, but I doubted it. More than money must keep her from quitting, because I couldn't fathom how Adam could be less aggravating in the field than in the few moments I got to play his sidekick.
After locking my door behind me, I put my coat away, then walked into my bedroom first to deposit the envelope in the safe at the back of my closet. A quick calculation had me put three of the bills inside a small, leather-bound notebook before I closed the reinforced door.
Nothing felt as good as shirking the corset, not even luxuriating in the shower afterward. Not for the first time, I asked myself why I didn't get a new one that left slightly more space for my rib cage. Others might have simply laced it less tightly, but when I did something, I did it to perfection, and keeping slack in the laces would have likely made the top gape instead of squish everything into the most appealing shape.
I took my time washing the residue of my appointment with Justice Ponter away, then spent another five minutes accomplishing what the dear judge hadn't. With some clients, I didn't need to take care of chasing away any unsatisfied horniness, and Ponter sometimes counted among them, but I simply hadn't been in the mood today. As much as I loved my work, sometimes it was just that—work—and like anybody else, my own needs had to wait until work was done.
Once dried off, I donned the least restricting clothes I could find and sauntered into the kitchen to make coffee. While I waited for my espresso machine to create the perfect wake-me-ups, I nibbled on what was left of the waffle I had been enjoying when my phone had so rudely interrupted my lazy day off, then went back into the bathroom to clean and sanitize the few paraphernalia I’d used today.
Armed with coffee and my pink day planner, I strolled out onto the terrace and slumped into the wicker chair that stood right at the partition wall to Adam's side. While I waited for him to get rid of his security detail, I penciled in today's appointment, and added two numbers to the tally at the last page of the book. It was about time that I paid Brigitte a visit, and my private banker, too.
Turning a few pages, I ran through the schedule for next week. My appointments were still spread pretty thin, but I didn't doubt that once I called Brigitte, that would change. My regulars were more than enough to keep me set up in style, but it had been some time since I took clients just for the money. Most of the other girls working for Brigitte did it to put themselves through college or escape other temporarily tight spots, but at some point along the way, I'd missed the day where most of them quit.
The sound of bare feet on concrete stopped my train of thought short before it could turn to less savory subjects—like retirement—and I held out the yet-untouched coffee cup. Adam accepted it with the hand that wasn't full of the greasy bit of fast food he was stuffing himself with, and sank into the chair that stood mirroring mine on his side of the partition.
“That was fast,” I remarked. “Do you think Agent Smith has a date, so she wanted to wrap things up quickly? After being cooped up with you for the better part of two weeks, she probably really needs to get laid.”
Gulping down the rest of what he claimed passed for food, Adam shrugged.
“You mean because of the latent sexuality that oozes from my every pore? I know—I’m irresistible.”
Grinning, I took a sip from my mug.
“I got a good whiff of you in the elevator. There was something entirely different than sex hanging in the air.”
“Didn't you say yourself it's only good sex when there's sweat involved?”
“Sweat, yes, but your body odor was a step away from being weaponizible.”
Thankfully, he'd taken the time to shower since then, making his hair stand up in wet spikes similar to what he usually achieved with lots of product. His roots were starting to show but still not enough to give more than a hint at his natural hair color. Besides his ha
ndlers, I was likely the only person who knew that he dyed it black, same as I knew that not all the tattoos that graced his body were real. The full sleeve right next to me was, though, and it only took one look to verify that another vertical bar had appeared across the list he kept on his right wrist. He inked them himself, one for every assignment he was “asked” to do. It was the twenty-third.
“I take it you got the bad guys?”
He shot me a humorless grin that was strangely reminiscent of Agent Smith on the rare occasion she wasn't ready to pull her gun on me.
“That's classified.” But he did look down at his wrist, which was confirmation enough.
“At least you got a tan out of it. I still need to hit the tanning bed for the summer season.”
Adam snorted as he looked at what was showing of my bare underarm.
“The health hazards your job entails? Really, you should ask for extra risk compensation.”
“That's included in the price tag, baby,” I cooed, gifting him my brightest smile.
“Is it? I might have to check for tan lines in the future. Is your rate still five hundred an hour, or is the economy affecting your profession, too?”
“For you, my special rate always stays the same,” I joked, then turned my head to look out over the city. “And as much as recession might have hit the country, the filthy rich still have enough to pay their whores.”
“Don't I know it,” he remarked dryly—though he was allowed to keep his clothes on during work.
We continued to sip our coffees in silence, enjoying the warm breeze as much as our companionable silence.
“What did I miss while I was doing classified in classified? Any new and exciting business opportunities? Tales of filth and depravity?”
Allowing myself a small smile, I looked back at Adam.
“You know that I don't fuck and tell.”
He snorted good-naturedly. “I don't care about the who. Tell me about the what.”
I shook my head, out of principle rather than conviction, but before he could weasel himself into my confidence, my phone went off. Not the black phone I kept for my clients, nor the red I used for the rare social call, but the gunmetal gray one that only one person had the number to.
Getting up and turning my back on a smirking Adam, I walked to the other side of the terrace before picking up.
“Brigitte,” I acknowledged needlessly.
“Penelope,” she replied, her sultry alto just a little breathy. From that alone I could tell that this was not a social call, but she was also not about to chide me for being a little late in handing over her cut. She wanted something from me, and would likely not let me decline. Really, she could just have sent me a text with instructions. The fact that she called was mere courtesy.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” I asked, engaging in our game of civility.
“A proposition, of course. One you simply cannot decline.”
Brigitte was too grand a dame to stress the “cannot,” but then she knew that she didn't need to.
“Now I'm intrigued,” I lied, and just for the heck of it tried to sound sincere. “Do tell.”
Her rich laughter made it obvious that while I might be good, she was still better, and had of course smelled my ruse.
“A new client is very interested in the services I offer. You are among the five chosen to present themselves to him tonight, at my place, eight o'clock.”
Irritation raced up my spine, and I felt myself go rigid.
“What the fuck? You know that I don't do lineups. Next, are you going to ask me to take on a stray walk-in, or what?”
Brigitte allowed herself a brief laugh at my outburst, but her voice was back to its previous molten-honey state as she replied.
“As I said, you won't want to pass this one up. I'm not talking money, although there's lots of it to be had if you snare this hare. No, I'm talking connections, influence, maybe even a chance to catch a glimpse of some high-stakes games. This one could be the answer to your fretting in the middle of the night the next time you realize that you're not twenty anymore.”
The last bit stung, as she had intended, and after a moment I allowed myself to admit that she had me there. So much so that I did the unusual and asked for his name. Brigitte's reply came with another sultry, but now also triumphant, laugh.
“Darren Hunter.”
A frown was on my face before I could rein in my features, although no one was there to see it. Could she mean the Darren Hunter, one of the most eligible bachelors in town, maybe even the entire country? I had to admit, I was intrigued, but hesitant to show it too openly.
“I didn't know that he frequented such services as ours.”
For the first time in our conversation, Brigitte's tone turned condescending.
“That's because he looks for the same things in his company as his work—excellence and confidentiality. If you would spend a little more time perusing gossip magazines, you'd know that he's as prone to be seen with some socialite as a mystery woman.”
What she didn't need to clarify was that the latter were likely all following the same profession as I.
Hesitating still, I tried to make up my mind. What Brigitte had also divulged with that last statement was that Hunter likely didn't just look for a good lay on the side. It wasn't uncommon that men paid the same, and often much more, for sophisticated company on top of sex, but if Hunter had already made a habit of being seen with prostitutes, that meant a certain kind of exposure that I normally steered clear of. I wasn't afraid of being prosecuted. Even if he hadn't been one of the top litigators at one of the top law firms in town, I knew that Brigitte would keep me out of trouble. But was dealing with someone who had, without a doubt, charisma, intellect, and taste enough to intrigue me worth the public recognition? I'd lose clients just from finding myself in those gossip pages myself, and likely some more because Hunter didn't strike me as the guy who accepted scheduling problems.
Really, there was a lot that spoke against agreeing, but somehow I couldn't quite bring myself to hang up on this opportunity.
“I'll be there,” I said, surprised that now I was the one who sounded a little breathy. To cover that up, I giggled playfully, if insipidly. “Any advice you have for me how to wow and woo him?”
“Be yourself,” Brigitte repeated what was like a mantra to her. “Be yourself, and consider what woman he wants you to be.”
I thanked her, then stared at my phone for a moment as the display went dark with her cutting the connection. I was still deep in thought as I went back to where Adam was waiting for me.
“Looks like you won't have time to hang out with me tonight after all,” he offered, sounding the least bit surprised. I didn't bother confirming that. He knew well enough who called on that phone, and that it must be something interesting if she did so on a Saturday. Mostly out of curiosity, but also because I was very aware that this could be a client I might get burned by fast, I deviated from my usual MO of keeping my client’s identity under wraps.
“What do you know about Darren Hunter?”
Adam's eyes went wide, but after a moment he caught himself.
“Are you in any kind of legal trouble that you need a top-notch lawyer? And by ’any kind’ I mean ‘who have you murdered,’ because he's not the type who specializes in petty neighborhood squabbles.”
I couldn't help but feel like he was saying more with that than I should have heard.
“You mean high-profile cases? Neither of us would know his name if he was just some court-appointed lawyer.”
Adam shrugged but looked conflicted. I kept staring at him, and after a few tense seconds he relented.
“You remember that time I really shouldn't be talking to anyone about, that time I know Marshal Sully from?”
Witness protection, he meant, even though his case had long since evolved into a bigger clusterfuck; else he wouldn't get “asked” very nicely every few weeks to do God knows what hackers all
over the world dreamed about. At my slow nod, he scratched his neck.
“I'm really not sure about this, and it might be pure coincidence, but while I was waiting in the office that one time, I heard two of the junior Marshals complain about some guy they knew was guilty as fuck but pretty much out of reach of the law. When Hugh called me into his office, I saw that he had Hunter's file on his desk. He closed it quickly and pretended that it hadn't been left there, but I know what I remember. Doesn't mean anything, but considering the cases his law firm takes on, he might have been part of the prosecution as much as the defense, but that's not the sense I got.”
“You mean he's dirty?”
“Likely. And I don't mean corrupt, or morally ambiguous. The guy fucks prostitutes after all. I mean mob connections, something of that scale.”
His words gave me pause, but only for a moment. He must have seen my conviction in my eyes, but before he could launch into a litany of me looking out for myself, I forestalled him with a gentle smile.
“I'll be careful. You know that I'm a good judge of character, else we wouldn't be sitting here, drinking coffee. If anything doesn't add up about him I'll drop him like a hot potato. Just because I provide almost every service money can buy doesn't mean I can be bought.”
Adam seemed skeptical, but then he tried to make light of his doubt.
“Maybe you can drop my file into his lap once you're done riding him? I swear, they totally rigged my trial, and the right lawyer could free me of this prison sentence!”
“Like you don't deserve to be locked up for the rest of your life! The stunts you pulled that they caught you for could have easily destabilized a small country. And as much as you might gripe at your house arrest and ankle monitor, you love that they now cart you off to do exactly what you love doing, and that on a regular basis.”
