by Serena Grey
Contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
The Hooker
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Connect
Books
SERENA GREY
www.serenagrey.com
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
THE HOOKER
Copyright © 2014 by Serena Grey.
All rights reserved.
Raven§Press
To each and everyone of my readers.
You have changed my life.
Also Teri Thomas, Jamie Peacock, Eliza Isaac.
You’re the best.
The Hooker is a short book featuring the characters from Drawn to You: Swanson Court series Book 1. It is told from Landon’s point of view and includes the events of the first few chapters of Drawn to You.
For more information on Drawn to You, go here.
For more information on Addicted to You, the sequel to Drawn to You, go here.
Across the table from me, Aidan is finishing the last bits of what used to be my salmon. He’s silent, focused on his food. He must have been ravenous, I decide, frowning in concern. He wolfed down his food in record time before starting on mine.
The new play he’s directing must be taking too much of a toll on him. When he was a teenager, whenever he was focused on anything, exams, a school play, a girl, he would forget to eat. I shake my head and take a sip from my wine. Everybody calls me heartless, and yet, here I am, worrying like a mother hen about my twenty four year old brother.
Aidan drops his fork and picks up his glass of wine, taking a long sip as he leans back on his chair. His gaze goes to glass wall of the restaurant, from which the city lights can be seen shining like decorations on an endless Christmas tree. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. When we have these dinners, verbal communication is not usually the priority.
My thoughts are interrupted by a waitress, young, with long black hair and honey toned skin. She’s slender as a bone, but adequately filled out in all the right places. She walks towards our table, holding a bottle of wine with a napkin at the base. I watch as she passes by, detached in my assessment of her assets, but as she crosses Aidan’s line of vision, I see his interest perk, and he sits up, only a little, but enough to make me smile in amusement.
“You can’t have grown tired of all the talented girls on Broadway already,” I say with a small smirk.
“Impossible,” Aidan replies matter-of-factly, “New ones keep arriving every day.” His eyes are still on the waitress, who’s behind me now, but right in his line of vision. With obvious reluctance, he turns his gaze back to me. Looking at him is like looking in a mirror, at a younger, more carefree reflection. “I’m allowed to appreciate beautiful women,” he says with a shrug, “even the ones who can’t sing and dance.”
“Appreciate away,” I chuckle. “I’ve been hearing good things about your play.” It’s his first time directing a play on Broadway. Off Broadway, yes, a couple of successful ones, but this is his first big outing, and while I have no doubt that he will be do great, I want to be sure he feels the same way.
“There’s just been one viewing. Nobody knows anything yet.” He frowns. “I don’t want to talk about the play. How’s the hotel?”
“Running.” The Swanson Court is our family legacy. The multi-story hotel was built in the forties, soon after the war ended, by my great-grandfather, Gabriel Swanson. A few years later, he almost lost it, but my grandfather, Alexander Court, saved the hotel and used his money to turn it into a world-class name in luxury. He also married Lily Swanson, Gabriel’s daughter, and changed the name of the hotel to the Swanson Court Hotel.
I own it. Most of it anyway, Aidan has his shares, but it’s mainly mine, and I run it too. In the ten years since my father died, I’ve expanded the brand across the country and made the Swanson Court name synonymous with luxury living.
“I’m sorry I forgot.” Aidan says suddenly.
I know what he’s talking about. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I couldn’t care less if it’s my birthday.” I remember the headline from one of the news magazines I’d seen in the morning, ‘Hotel Magnate turns twenty nine!’ It had screamed in bold font, with a picture of me leaving some society event. Hotel Magnate. When had that become my name? “I’m just glad we’re having dinner together.” I continue, as Aidan empties his wineglass, “Next week I’ll be in San Francisco, and you’ll be knee-deep in the murky depths of perfecting your play.”
“You’ll be here for opening night though,” he asks. Suddenly he looks like a child again, hopeful. Is Daddy coming back?
I blink, then chuckle, banishing the memory. “Of course.”
He grins, “If it bombs, at least you’ll be there to take me to a place where I can get well and truly wasted.”
“Let’s just hope it doesn’t bomb.”
“Well if it does, I want to wake up in a suite in Vegas with no memory, and at least three call girls who won’t care that I’ve forgotten their names.”
“If everyone got that after a bad show,” I say with a laugh. “I think we’d see more of them.” I pause, and watch as Aidan’s eyes find the slender waitress again. “Call girls though,” I remark. “You must be losing your touch.”
He turns back to me and grins. “Maybe I’ve learned that the only women who understand the term no-strings-attached are those who expect to get paid.”
He may have a point, I concede, my mind going to Cecily. Cecily Fenstein, curator at one of the bigger private galleries. We’d met through mutual friends, and she assured me that she didn’t want commitment either. That had only lasted three months before the usual questions began. Where are we going with this? Where do you see our relationship going? And finally, the ultimatum. She’d asked me to commit to her or lose her, so I’d gone with the second option. I don’t like hurting women, and the sheen of tears in her eyes when she told me that she hoped she would never see me again still feels like an indictment.
But she’ll get over it. For women like her, it’s not the man that matters, but what he represents. The money, the prestige, and the diamond ring. Some other guy will tick those boxes for her soon enough, and as for me, I’ll find someone else, and enjoy what I can get before the demands for commitment get unbearable.
“You have a point,” I tell Adrian. “At least with a hooker everyone gets what they expect.”
He chuckles, and when he looks at me, there’s a familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll get you one as a birthday present,” he suggests.
I wouldn’t put it past him. “Thanks,” I say firmly, “but I’m sure I can manage.”
He just shrugs. “Whatever you say.”
My apartment is at the top of the Swanson Court. Three thousand square feet of space that I don’t need, spread out over two floors. It’s vast and silent, and the sense of solitude it provides can be overwhelming to others, but I like it. I’ve never been the kind of man who’s afraid to be alone.
Outside, the city is a mass of shapes and light. Up here, I can’t hear the sounds of cars and people, but I can hear the wind, whistling and forceful. Forceful. The word dances around in my mind. Forceful, Ruthless, Single-minded. The words the Press love to use when they describe me. Cold, heartless, unfeeling. The words the women prefer. All the words that reduce me from Landon Alexander Court, brother, friend and whatever else I am, to just ‘Hotel Magnate.’
Do I mind? I never did before. Not in the years I s
pent planning how to expand the scope of what my father left to me. Not in the years I worked to engrave the name of Swanson Court in every mind interested in luxury living, and even those who were not. I have expanded what my great-grandfather built and made it greater than either him, my grandfather or even my father ever dreamed.
So I am single minded, I am forceful, I am determined, but I rescued Swanson Court from the brink of bankruptcy when my father died, and I am pushing further than even he had ever dared to imagine. If being ruthless is what it takes, then I’ll do it all over again.
Taking another sip of my brandy, I listen to the ice cubes chink against the glass as I lower it from my lips. Against the silence, I can almost hear the sounds from my memories, of this silent apartment filled with light and laughter. My parents, the way they used to be a long time ago. Aidan, running around and sneaking off to torment hotel staff by turning up in places he wasn’t supposed to be. Love, and family.
All that’s left of that now is me, and Aidan, now a man, no longer the reckless rebel he used to be.
I think of my parents again and drain my glass, turning away from the windows, suddenly restless. I need a woman, if only to distract me from thinking about the past. Cecily would have been perfect, but I can’t call her now. The last thing I want is for her to imagine that her ultimatum is working. I’ll have to find someone else. Someone who won’t be interested in commitment, at least for a while.
I place my empty glass on a coffee table and pick up my jacket from the back of a chair where I’d draped it when I came in earlier, deciding to go downstairs to talk to the hotel manager. I still have to thank the kitchen staff for the birthday cake that’s now chilling in my fridge. That’ll distract me from my thoughts, if only for a while.
I shrug on the jacket and walk to the foyer, towards the elevator. It’s not a private elevator, but the call button for the penthouse overrides all other instructions, so once I’m in it, it doesn’t stop on any floor but mine. On my floor, the doors don’t open unless a special passcode is entered from inside the car, or the call button is pressed from inside my apartment.
Once in the foyer, I press the button, expecting to wait, but I’m surprised when the doors slide open immediately. I look up, surprised, and immediately, my surprise turns to a mixture of shock, appreciation, and something else… something wild and insistent that flares to life inside me with a force that I can’t quite explain. Inside the elevator, there’s a girl. She’s slender, with pale skin, beautiful red hair flecked with gold, and green eyes fringed with long dark lashes. She has a good figure, shown off by a flattering green dress, the same color as her eyes, which are right now trained on me, her expression a curious mixture of relief and apprehension.
My first thought, before I remember Aidan, and his promise to give me a hooker as a birthday present is, who the fuck is she, and what in God’s name is she doing here.
My second thought, after I remember Aidan, and allow my eyes to linger on the body under her dress is, ‘I’ll deal with Aidan later, but right now, this girl is exactly what I need.’
She’s staring at me as if she’s not quite sure that she wants to come inside the apartment. In my imagination, hookers are confident, brassy creatures, but this girl, she looks like she needs me to put an arm around her and whisper reassurances in her ear.
“Good evening,” her voice is halting, unsure. Something in the voice makes me want to pause, to ask if everything is alright, but I shut it down, concentrating instead on the way the material of her dress skims over her full breasts. Already, my body is hardening, my fingers tingling with a need to touch her. Her eyes land on my face again, and beneath the apprehension, I see something familiar in her eyes. Lust.
“Well,” I say slowly, my eyes skimming over her body again, “You’re not what I would have chosen, but you’ll do.”
She doesn’t reply, and her eyes stay trained on my face. I step back so she can come inside the apartment, and she follows me, moving out of the elevator and into the foyer, before pausing to look at me, a confused expression on her face.
“Come in.” I say again, wondering at her hesitation. “I won’t bite.” Then with a smile to put her at ease, I add, “Unless you want me to.”
That does it. I sense it as she relaxes, and I lead her into the living room, shrugging off my jacket, and offering her a seat. Her green eyes are wide and fixed on me, and I start to wonder what she’s thinking. “Would you like a drink?” I ask. “Brandy, Water, Wine…?”
“Brandy,” she replies.
Going over to the bar to pour the drinks, I can feel her eyes on me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something, but I don’t want to delve too much into it. I want her. I can already imagine how her skin would feel against my fingers. I can already imagine those eyes closed in ecstasy as she comes. It’s all I can do not to pull that green dress up to her waist and fuck her over the sofa, but I’m not an excited teenager at his first sexual experience, although right now, I almost feel like one.
When I turn back to her, she’s looking at the pictures on the wall - an old family portrait, my mother’s ballerina picture, and a few others. I pause to admire the slender curve of her neck, and that hair… I want to plunge my fingers into it. I breathe, willing the straining hardness in my pants to hold on just a little bit longer. I walk towards her. “Here,” I say, offering her the drink.
She turns to me, and her eyes linger on the glass before she reaches for it, slowly, almost gingerly. Her fingers close around the glass and brush mine, and I stiffen involuntarily, taken aback by the jolt I felt from that small touch.
Taking a breath, I sit beside her on the sofa. Her dress has hiked up, exposing a lot more of her smooth thighs. My nose fills with her scent, peach shampoo, and a hint of perfume, and my body responds by hardening some more.
It’s not helping that her eyes are lingering on my face in a way that makes me want to take the glass from her and get down to business. “You like ballet?” I ask, trying to stay cool. I’d much rather be discovering what her luscious pink lips taste like.
“Hmm,” she replies, looking confused again.
Even that unfocused sound is sexy. I breathe again and gesture at the picture of my mother on the wall. “You seemed interested in the picture.”
“Well, I like ballet, as much as any little girl who ever wanted to wear a tutu.” She laughs, and I wonder if she’s nervous. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, I feel nervous too. “But I was looking at the quote from the picture,” she continues, “It’s from one of my favorite poems.”
To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell. My mother had loved that poem. I quote the first line, smiling at her. “But you’re not coy, are you?” I ask. “That would be inconsistent with your profession.”
She frowns and I imagine that maybe she minds being reminded that she’s a hooker. Why are we still talking? I wonder. I’m aching to fuck her. By now, I should be discovering the body beneath that green dress, working on this lust that seems to be growing with every second.
Her voice snaps me out of my carnal thoughts. “The woman in the poem,” she says, “Was she being coy, or careful? Many people have tossed caution to the wind and surrendered to passion, and yet come to regret it later.”
I couldn’t care less about Andrew Marvell’s coy mistress. Right now, I’m fighting the urge to pick this girl up, carry her over my shoulder to the nearest bed and bury myself inside her warmth. I can’t remember the last time, if ever, a woman got me this hot without even so much as a touch.
Calm down, I tell myself. Then to her. “You’re absolutely right. Though only my brother would find a hooker who talks about poetry on the job.”
Immediately the words are out of my mouth, she starts to choke on her drink. Momentarily setting aside my lust, I hurry to the bar and return with a glass of water. “Here,” I take her drink from her and give her the water, “drink this.”
She takes a few sips of water without looking at me
. Why is she so quiet? I don’t know much about hookers, but the women I usually spend time with go out of their way to show me how clever and sophisticated they are. I watch her for a moment as she looks everywhere but at me, then I reach down and take her free hand in mine. It’s small and soft, and at the contact, there’s that jolt again.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
She licks her lips and I almost let out a groan.
“I’m fine,” she says, after a long pause. A small smile touches her lips. “I drank it too fast, but I’m fine.”
“Good.” I take the water from her and set it down on the coffee table. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Rachel.”
Rachel, I repeat the name silently in my mind. It suits her. “I’m Landon.”
She smiles at me. She still looks uncertain, but I don’t allow myself the luxury of wondering why.
“Did Aidan tell you it was my birthday?”
“Yes,” she says.
I nod. “What are your rates?”
She hesitates, and I understand why. It’s bad manners to ask the value of a gift after all, but I’d like to know. “It’s already been taken care of,” she replies.
“Of course. But tell me anyway.”
She tells me. It’s an impressive sum. “My brother is being very generous,” I say, “So… what do I get for that?”
She pauses. “The whole night.”
My fingers tingle in anticipation. “Anything I want?”
Her voice is a whisper. “Anything you want.”
Perfect. I get up from the sofa, unable to wait any longer. “Follow me,” I tell her, going towards the stairs and up to one of the guest bedrooms. We’re already there when I realize how ill-equipped I am for an encounter with a prostitute. I usually keep my rendezvous with women away from this particular apartment. Mainly because of the memories it holds. What that means, right now, is that if she doesn’t have condoms, I’m going to end up having sex with my hand.
