by Leigh James
Still, she’d been briefly incarcerated, and the tabloids had gone crazy over the story. Her face had been plastered over all the gossip columns online. Her arrest had even been featured as a companion piece to the spread of Todd and Evie’s wedding in New England Brides Magazine. The Andersons wrote a novel, a thinly-veiled fictional account about what they believed happened to their daughter, that made all the bestseller lists. Celia Preston had been thoroughly and publicly humiliated. Even though it wasn’t the justice she deserved, it was still something.
She would deny her involvement until the day she died. I had made my peace with that. But I also made her donate two million dollars to Danielle’s scholarship fund and include a healthy bequest to the foundation in her will.
I never wanted to speak to her again, but Audrey convinced me to invite her to the wedding and to at least send pictures of the children on a regular basis. Just like I’d convinced her to invite her mother to the wedding and to regularly send pictures of the children.
“They’re our family,” I’d said, shrugging. “For better or for worse.”
“I liked it better when you said that they were dogs. And that we were walking them,” she’d said, but she’d sent the invitations anyway.
Audrey now walked down the beach carrying Bella, our two-year-old daughter. Next to her was Jenny, who was pregnant and glowing, holding her daughter Reese’s hand. Our three-year-old son, Rhodes, was running around with Cole and Jenny’s son, Kyle, both of them splashing in the water and screeching in delight. I had the new baby, Mia, strapped to me. As did Cole. Except his wasn’t a Mia—she was an Audrey, named after her aunt.
There were a lot of us to keep track of.
“Weren’t we all just here a while ago, single, drinking beer, and snorkeling?” Cole asked, looking at our crew. “Jesus, there are a lot of us now.” He looked baffled.
“I know,” I said. I looked at Audrey and smiled, wrapping my arm around her.
“You look happy,” she said and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m just pointing that out to you, babe.”
I beamed at her, the way I always did. “That’s what you’re here for, Mrs. Preston.”
Special Thanks
Thank you for reading this book! I truly hope you enjoyed it. It means so much to me that you took the time to read this story—I love James and Audrey. I’m rooting for them and I hope you are, too!
If you’d like to hear about my latest books, sign up for my Mailing List at www.leighjamesbooks.com. I only send emails if I have a new release or want to you to know about a special sale. This is the first book of my series The Escort Collection. Book Two, Escorting the Actress, is available now. I’ve also attached the first couple of chapters for you — see Special Bonus Content. I hope you enjoy it!
I also want to say thanks and send huge love to my mom, who always helps me and is an enormous source of support for my writing. I love you lots.
A special shout-out to W. Myler and A. Warren, my first readers and two of the loveliest, most intelligent, most patient and forthcoming women in the whole world. I would also like to thank my editors at Red Adept, my friends at RD and Dana Waganer, who is my proofreader and who is awesome.
And always, love and hugs to my husband and my three children. You guys make every day the best.
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author Leigh James writes romance with twists and turns, and new adult books with a healthy dose of action and adventure. From billionaires to mercenaries to escorts, Leigh loves to find humor and a Cinderella story in each book she writes.
She is a magna cum laude graduate of the University of New Hampshire’s journalism program and earned her law degree from Suffolk University School of Law in Boston.
She lives with her husband and children in New Hampshire.
Social Media:
@LeighJames19
leighjames19author
www.leighjamesbooks.com
Also By Leigh James
THE ESCORT COLLECTION
Ex-Billionaire Escort
Escorting the Player
* * *
High-Stakes Billionaires
* * *
The Liberty Series
* * *
The Bad Judgment Series
Special Bonus Content
If you enjoyed reading Escorting the Billionaire, here’s a sneak peak into the next book in the series—Escorting the Actress. Enjoy!
Prologue
Eleven Years Earlier
"Don't you dare do it, Kyle Richards," I said, my tone a warning. It was a fake warning, of course. I felt tears like pinpricks in my eyes, burning, threatening to come out and humiliate me even further.
"Why? Will the little-wittle bookworm cry?" he asked. My stepbrother's arrogant, handsome face mocked mine.
"No," I said, my voice getting thick. "Just give it back."
Kyle looked at the heavy textbook he was holding, the one he'd ripped out of my hands only moments earlier. He grinned wickedly as he bent over it and read in a fake-clinical voice, "'First menstruation, also known as menarche, can start as early as age ten.'"
"Y'all don't have any manners," I said, my voice shaking. I only let my Texas out when I was livid—I hoped he recognized it as a warning sign and backed off.
"Y'all?" Kyle asked, raising his eyebrows. "There's only one of me here, Lo. See, this is why people think Texans are dumb."
Fury bubbled inside my chest.
"'Female maturation begins at age nine,'" he continued. "'Many girls will start to experience breast development at this time.'" He peered at me from over the book. "Present company excluded, of course."
Don't you dare cry, Lowell Barton. I dug my nails into my palms. Don't you dare let that boy see you cry.
He went back to reading aloud. "'If you're self-conscious, you might want to start wearing what's called a training bra,' which is another word for a bra for girls with absolutely no boobs." He laughed at his own joke, little snorts erupting from the back of his throat.
"Give. It. BACK!" I roared, and lunged at him. I grabbed the heavy book from his hands and started beating him with it. "And this is not a training bra, I'll have you know!"
There was a look of shock on his handsome face. I wasn't sure if that was because he really thought I wore a training bra—or if he was surprised that I was hitting him with a thick textbook. It was entitled Human Development and Human Sexuality, and I'd smuggled it out of the local library without checking it out.
I smuggled it out because I was embarrassed. That was the last thing I thought before Kyle tried to swat the book out of my hands and I whacked him in the face with it. Bright red blood spurted from his nose.
I watched for a second, frozen, as blood ran in rivulets down his face. He dabbed his fingers in it then examined his bloody finger pads as if they belonged to someone else.
"For the record, y'all can be used in the singular," I said, my chest heaving.
Then, before he could come after me, I ran.
Lowell
"I shouldn't be drinking this," I said through a mouthful of delicious tequila and salt. "Too many calories."
"Do not let those assholes get to you," my best friend, Tori, said. She pushed one of her dark-brown curls off her face, fuming. "You're not fat. I don't care what the stupid director said."
"He didn't say I was fat—he said my ass looked like it might weigh too much. Not that it did weigh too much, but that it looked like it might weigh too much," I said and took another rebellious gulp of my drink. "And he's not just a stupid director. He's a stupid successful director. Lucas Dresden is a Hollywood god. And he told me that my ass needs to look like it weighs less before we start shooting those chase scenes on the beach."
Tori looked as if smoke was about to pour out of her ears. It was good that we were in a crowded bar in Venice or she would probably have started yelling a litany of obscenities about Lucas Dresden, my dick director.
"What did you say?
" she asked, showing remarkable restraint.
"I said okay." I didn't tell her that I'd gone into my trailer and cried afterward. I was worried I was going to get fired from this film, then my career would be over.
I couldn't let that happen.
I grimaced and took another sip of my margarita. "The thing is, my ass is my ass. It likes to be a certain size. Starving myself for the next two weeks won't make it a whole lot smaller."
"Your bum is perfect," Tori said. "I'm so tired of the people you work with. And the press? It's sick, the things they say about you. If I thought you would, I'd tell you to quit."
"I'm not quitting." First of all, I wasn't a quitter. I wanted to be a successful actress, and when I wanted something, I pushed everything else to the side, worked hard, and got it. Second, I had to support my mother, and she was expensive.
Still, after the past few weeks, I would have taken a long vacation to Cabo if I could've. Just the other day, my photo had been on one of the gossip websites. In it, I was heading into the gym with a scowl and a big bag thrown over my shoulder. The headline read: Lowell B Takes Fight Against Fat to LA Gym.
I groaned inwardly, remembering all the remonstrative texts I'd gotten from my agent when that went viral.
My problems were mounting. There was my ass to deal with. The press were hounding me, and I was apparently unable to smile at them.
On top of that, I had a new movie, Hearts Wide Open, coming out at the end of the summer. With the recurring pictures of me heading to the gym, the producers had reached out. They wanted me to "slim down, tighten up, and dress appropriately sexy" for our upcoming promotional events.
I'd had a few things to say about that. Then the producers had a few things to say back, which included phrases such as "breach of contract" and "never work with this studio again."
I'd called my agent, Shirley Feener, who'd advised me to shut my mouth immediately. And to hit the gym with a smile and buy some appropriately sexy clothes. So I had a press junket coming up, and I wasn't happy about it.
"It's been a rough couple of weeks," I mumbled.
Tori pushed another margarita toward me.
"I really shouldn't," I mumbled again. After a nanosecond of hesitation, I changed my mind and chugged some of it.
"I'm driving," Tori said, holding up her seltzer in salute. "Drink up, girl."
I did as I was told. I was practicing that, and I needed all the practice I could get.
* * *
"Oh, fuck me," Tori said an hour later. She pulled the car over.
I was pretty hammered at that point, but I was alert enough to notice the blue flashing lights all around us.
"Huh? Whad'd you do?" My voice came out thick and foamy, tequila and a sudden burst of adrenaline roiling in my stomach.
"I think I might have forgotten to update my registration," she said.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I said, annoyed with her and that we were being pulled over. "Are you sure you went to Stanford? Y'all need to keep up with things." I gripped my seat. I wasn't sure, but it seemed as if maybe the car was spinning a little.
An officer came up beside us, peering into the car with a flashlight. "License and registration, please."
Tori fumbled in the glove compartment and shakily handed him her papers. The officer looked at them briefly then shined the flashlight directly in my face.
"Hey, I thought I recognized you. You're that actress." He looked at me for a beat. "I just saw a picture of you online. Didn't do you justice. You're much prettier in person."
I glared at him. "Am I s'pposed to say thank you? For thass ass-backward compliment?" I sounded slurry and mean. The car was definitely spinning now. Or maybe it was my head—I couldn't be sure.
Fucking margaritas.
"Um, I didn't mean any disrespect, miss," the officer said contritely.
Tori was frozen next to me. "Lo"—her voice held a warning tone—"he didn't say anything wrong. He was actually being nice. Just be cool."
"Don't you tell me whas to do!" I yelled at her.
She looked at me with wide eyes, shaking her head as if to say Oh shit or No, please stop! Or both. Probably both.
"I'm outta here." I unbuckled my seat belt and heard the police officer sigh.
Tori sucked in her breath next to me. I rarely drank too much, but when I did, I sometimes got belligerent. Usually there was tequila to blame. Tori didn't know that, but I did. I should have known better.
Shoulda woulda coulda, I sing-songed inside my dizzy head.
It was too late now.
I opened the car door.
"Miss, I need you to stay restrained and inside the vehicle," the officer said.
"Whys y'all always telling me what to do?" My voice was twisted and thick.
"I'm not. I'm asking you—no, I'm telling you—to just stay buckled in the car. Your friend's registration is expired. I'll give her a warning, and you two can be on your way." He sounded professional and almost apologetic, which just made me feel more confused and angry.
"Don't you try to make this all okay. Like you're a dad or something. And we're a couple of Girl Scouts. Are you mansplaining? Are you a mansplainer, ossifer?" I yelled.
"No, miss, I'm just trying to get you girls home safe." The officer sounded exasperated. He probably wished he'd never pulled us over.
I was gonna make sure of that. Because I was on a tequila rage-spiral. I climbed out of the car and marched toward the officer. "I'm so tired of this bullshit. I got too many mansplainers in my life."
"Lo, no!" Tori yelled.
I ignored her, stomping to the driver's side where the officer was standing. He watched me with a mixture of regret, annoyance, and mild amusement as I stopped and swayed in front of him. I noticed another officer with him, still in the cruiser—a woman in her forties. She got out and came toward me warily, as if I was a dog who might bite, her hand on the handle of the firearm in her belt.
"You okay, Scott?" she asked.
"I think so," Officer Scott said. "I think I upset this young lady. She's an actress, and I made a comment about her appearance. I think she's feeling a little… belligerent."
"I'm not belligerent," I corrected him. "I'm tired of mansplainers!"
He said to me, "I'm sorry, miss. But I recognized you and was trying to say something nice. Sometimes those pictures don't show how pretty you are. You've always got this scowl on your face."
I scowled at him, and he coughed.
"Right. I'm not making this any better, am I? Deborah, please take over for me. You should go home and sleep it off, miss." He took Tori's papers back to the cruiser to check them.
Officer Deborah scowled at me. "You need to get back in the car." Her tone was no-bullshit, firm.
"No," I said stubbornly. I felt the world spinning around me. "This is a protest. I'm tired of the way this town operates. Every. Little. Thing. Y'all gotta give me a hard time." When I was really drunk and really angry, a bit of the Texas twang I'd worked so hard, with numerous speech coaches, to rid myself of came back.
"Your friend's registration isn't up to date," Officer Deborah said, looking at me as if I had three heads. "This has nothing to do with giving you a hard time. In fact, you're the only one who's giving anyone a hard time around here."
"Do you know who I am?" I pointed at my chest so hard that I knocked myself back a little. "The whole world's givin' me a hard time right now. You know why? 'Cause I'm a woman. And every single mansplainer out there wants to tell me not to scowl. What type of dress to wear. What size my ass should be. And I'm tired of it, you hear?" I stepped closer and almost fell over. Regaining my balance, I leaned toward her conspiratorially. "You understand what I'm sayin', donchoo?"
"Are you asking me if I understand what you're saying because I'm a woman?" she asked.
"That's right," I said, wobbling. "That's absofuckinglutely what I'm asking you."
Then I leaned over and threw up all over the road.
Officer Debora
h took a careful step back and watched as I retched again. "Of course I understand. I've been a cop for twenty years. I've worked with every mansplainer on the force, and I've arrested my fair share of them too."
I looked up at her, and suddenly all the belligerence went out of me, along with the toxic tequila I was spewing all over the road. Now all I felt was morbidly embarrassed and desperately in need of my toothbrush.
"You want to deal with the mansplainers? Start by keeping your shit together," she said. "Last time I checked, getting drunk and hysterical was the opposite of helpful. And please don't puke on my shoes. I just polished them."
Kyle
A few years ago, if someone had told me that I'd be a male escort someday, I would have had a one-word response: Awesome.
Now that I was an escort and hustling to earn every dollar I made, I had a different one-word response: Ew.
I loved the ladies and the ladies loved me, but I'd been playing Hide the Salami non-stop, and my salami was tired. That was depressing for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that I hadn't thought it was capable of getting tired.
Today, I was balls deep in a very horny, very plastic-y desperate housewife. Not only was she married, she had a horsey laugh and a habit of snapping her gum. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that she was over sixty and fighting it with everything she had—fake boobs, a perpetually surprised-looking face oozing with Juvederm, and lips so plumped up that I could rest my head on them.
If only she'd let me rest.
