by Logan Fox
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.
Mr. Armani sat on the sofa opposite her, pausing to scoop the excess pillows aside with a sweep of his bared arm. He was tanned. His arm muscular but trim.
His tie came off next.
Pearl’s stomach tightened with each additional item of clothing Mr. Armani discarded and adjusted.
With both sleeves rolled up, his tie off, shoes forlorn on the pearly carpet, and the lapels of his shirt bared to show his collarbones, he looked like a completely different person: still mouth-wateringly delicious, but more intimidating in his casualness. How was that possible?
The butler returned bearing a silver tray topped with a tumbler and a cocktail glass.
He set down the cocktail in front of Pearl, using a napkin with a faint typographical pattern embossed on it.
Still no eye contact.
Mr. Armani received his tumbler in his hand, napkin placed on the table in case he had to set his drink down.
Perhaps to shag her?
Pearl took a long swig of her drink and set it back on the napkin.
She wanted to look out the window but Mr. Armani spread his arms to either side of the sofa’s headrest and rested an ankle on his knee, demanding her attention.
“You are an exceptional dancer,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Mr. Armani took a sip of his drink and twisted the glass in his hand, rattling its ice cubes.
“How long?”
Pearl shifted on the sofa, sitting forward so the pillows wouldn’t crowd her. She took another sip before replying, setting her glass back on its napkin. The smell of lilies became stronger. She glanced beside her. Three fresh lilies rested in a glass bowl, their long stems curved inside its circumference.
“Three years. Give or take.”
“You chose this profession? Being a stripper?”
“I prefer pole dancer, thanks,” she murmured, completely failing to inject the necessary indignation into her voice. Another sip. “And yes, I chose it. I like dancing.”
“On a pole?”
Heat flared on her cheeks. Was he trying to make her angry? Why? Did he want her to leave? To storm out of this ridiculously lavish apartment and try to find her way out of the labyrinthine hotel?
Pearl downed the rest of her cocktail and set it on the napkin with more force than she’d intended.
“It’s good money. Goodish money.” She cringed. Had she really just said ‘goodish’?
Mr. Armani studied her silently as he took a sip of his drink. Then he nodded just once as if she’
d confirmed whatever it was he suspected of her.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“Acquisitions.”
She stared at him. “Which is what?”
“I acquire things,” he failed to elaborate.
Pearl tapped her fingernail against the side of the glass. “Can I get another?”
His eyes slid to her empty glass.
“No.”
Her spine stiffened. She itched to grab her purse and leave; her legs spasmed with the need. But she shoved calm into her raging thoughts.
She’d come this far.
She had no idea of his intentions yet.
And if she had to put up with his snobbery… well, at least she’d gotten two cocktails out of the man. And, what sounded like dinner. If a ‘Rollio’ was food and not something that involved sex.
“No?” She tried for flippant and probably got closer to bratty. She glanced around the apartment. “On a tight budget?”
Mr. Armani smiled at her.
It was the first genuine smile she’d ever seen from him. It split his lips open and flashed a row of white teeth at her. He twisted his wrist, making the ice cubes in his glass tinkle.
Goddamn.
Pearl shifted, swallowing her apology.
“I’d prefer it if you kept a clear head. We have important matters to discuss.”
Pearl rolled her shoulders, trying to get rid of the invisible centipede creeping up her spine.
“Important, how?”
Mr. Armani cocked his head again. His ice in his drink rattled, rattled, rattled.
“Why do you think you’re here, sweetheart?”
A stab of unease shot through her. Sweetheart? Sweetheart?
“I’m not sure,” she managed, her heart starting to hammer again.
“Yet you came anyway?”
“Curiosity killed the cat, right?”
Mr. Armani’s smile evaporated. He drained the rest of his glass, watching her over the rim.
Movement over his shoulder drew her eye. A massive staircase — ascending and descending — took up considerable real estate. A white-gloved employee, not the butler, balanced three plates on his arms. He went over to a long, rectangular dining room table and began setting the plates down.
“So are you going to tell me? Or do I have to guess: twenty questions style?”
As if sensing the activity behind him, Mr. Armani unfolded from the sofa.
“First, we eat.”
“Fine,” Pearl murmured.
She followed him over the deep carpets. Would it be rude if she took off her shoes? Probably. Then again… she studied Mr. Armani’s socks.
They looked more expensive than Cheryl’s shoes.
Mirrors filled the dining room: they were positioned in panels on the slanted walls and on the back of the leather dining chairs. Even the extravagant light fitting was made of reflective strips of curved steel.
A myriad of tea candles set inside a long, crystal container was the wooden table’s only decoration. That… and the food.
“Are you expecting company?” Pearl asked, eyes widening at the three platters arranged down one side of the table.
“Not tonight,” Mr. Armani said.
God, he was infuriating. Did he learn how to avoid giving direct answers in whatever Ivy-League university he’d attended? Maybe they offered courses in Glib Speech and Conversational Avoidance Techniques. Maybe he’d gotten his Doctorate in Smarminess, majoring in Being Mysterious.
He pulled out a chair for her.
She sat down before he could push it back and had to drag it closer to the table
Letting out a small, amused huff, he drew out the chair beside her and sat down, shaking his head.
She bit back another brimming apology. What did he expect? She danced on a pole for a living: no one had ever pulled out a chair for her. It looked more complicated than she’d expected — and she hadn’t been expecting it.
He turned in his seat, leaning his elbow on the table and facing her. Their sudden proximity, intensified by his unrelenting study of her face, was enough to send that centipede marching down her spine again.
Their legs were less than an inch apart. She could feel his warmth through the dress’s slinky fabric.
“Are you allergic to anything?”
“Uh… no.” She glanced at the food, her brow furrowing. Allergic? To what?
He nodded and turned to the platters.
It sort of looked like pizza. If pizza came with an almost translucent crust and tiny strips of toppings. Just what the hell the mass of greenery overflowing from two large, flat bowls was supposed to—
Mr. Armani’s tanned fingers grabbed two arugula leaves and lay them over the end of one of the pizza strips. He added a tuft of alfalfa seeds on top of that.
Pearl’s head cocked to the side. Mr. Armani rolled up the pizza strip, creating a small bundle of pizza and tufty foliage.
He popped it into his mouth, already rolling a new one while he chewed.
She mimicked him, choosing a pizza slice that looked as if it had shreds of pepperoni on it.
It was the best thing she’d ever eaten.
Okay, the best thing she’d eaten in a while.
Delicate, crispy… and that cheese?
Her mouth watered.
She closed her eyes. Who cared if Mr. Armani thought she’d been born in a barn? Not her. Not right now.
When she opened her eyes, his eyes slid away from her mouth, returning to the pizza.
They ate in silence, consuming more of the pizza Rollios than she’d thought possible when they’d sat down. The butler took away the platters when their gorging had slowed to a trickle.
She’d eaten too much, practically matching Mr. Armani for every Rollio he’d inserted into his mouth.
“I didn’t see any shellfish or nuts,” she said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Why’d you ask if I was allergic?”
“Pertinent information,” he said vaguely.
She rolled her eyes at him, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
The butler returned with two servings of white-chocolate mousse and drinks frosting the outside of their zombie glasses.
Before she could taste either, Mr. Armani beckoned the butler to his side, murmuring into the man’s lowered ear.
“…prepare… leave… escort…”
The butler departed.
Pearl’s spine had frozen stiff, jerking her upright.
Her skin was too tight, her muscles straining as she tensed.
She’d prepared so many variations on her next question. Twenty, at least. She chose the one that answered as many of her doubts and curiosities as possible.
“Why do you have to pay for sex?”
Mr. Armani turned to her and gave her a pathetic excuse for a smile. He hadn’t even blinked at the question.
“I don’t pay for sex.”
She frowned at him, opened her mouth, found she had no words, and closed it again.
He ran a finger around the rim of his mousse. Dipped it inside. Traced a circle through the stiff dessert. He brought that scoop of chocolate to his lips and sucked it off, watching her with gleaming green eyes.
“Remove your dress,” he said quietly.
4
Chocolate Mousse & Contracts
Pearl took a slurp from her glass: it was iced coffee. She still couldn’t look at Mr. Armani. Had she heard him right? Impossible. No one just came right out and said stuff like that. She took another sip, put her glass down, and forced herself to make eye contact.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked away from her. It was as if he was trying to judge what her next words would be before she spoke them. So sex. Now. Possibly right here. A thread of a memory insisted that she clarify how much this was going to cost Mr. Armani. Something about him having to put the money on the dresser. Wasn’t that how it worked?
“I should go,” she managed, her tongue feeling too thick to produce the words.<
br />
Mr. Armani cocked his head at her.
“What did you think was going to happen here tonight, sweetheart?”
“I told you, I didn’t know. I still don’t.” She got to her feet, her stomach queasy. “I thought I could… that if you wanted—”
“To fuck you,” he cut in. “But you came. You’re here, sitting in that chair. So you’ve made it this far, but now no further?”
She swallowed, grabbed her glass and took another tug at the straw. Her eyes flitted past him, staring out over Central Park instead.
Yes. Exactly that. She didn’t have the stomach for this.
“I should go,” she said again.
Mr. Armani got to his feet. This put the slab of his body inches from hers.
Heat rolled off him, cascading over her. She shivered and tried stepping back, but her knees bumped into the chair, halting her.
The man’s emerald eyes drew her, commanding her full attention. His face was set with no expression: mouth relaxed, eyes hooded.
He dragged his finger through the mousse again, scooping out a small mound of the confectionery. His other hand closed over the top of her arm.
“Were you expecting me to romance you, sweetheart?” he asked. “Perhaps ply you with my charms? Make this feel like a first date instead of an appointment?”
Pearl took a hitching breath, her legs stiffening. His touch was firm, but not inescapable. If she wanted, she could tug free and shove the chair out of the way and back out of the dining room and leave.
If she wanted.
Mr. Armani closed the distance.
His body was a furnace.
So fixated was she on his eyes, she didn’t see that mound of mousse until he’d smeared it over her collarbone.
She jerked at his touch, making a soft sound of surprise at the chill.
“I don’t have time for romance, girl. But there is something about the taste of sugar on a woman’s skin…”
Bending his neck, Mr. Armani closed his mouth over her flesh. The chill of the mousse disappeared, replaced by the heat of his lips, the brush of his tongue against her collarbone.
