by Alix Nichols
Which is where I met Stan.
Like me, he was a little older than the average student was, but for a different reason. A son of a wealthy retailer, he’d spent his early twenties partying and sampling an impressive range of substances with his like-minded pals. But then his daddy took him in hand and put him in law school. Which Stan hated passionately until the day he spotted me. He called me angel and marveled at how different I was from the girls he usually associated with. He courted me and fed me stories of how I had transformed his soul.
I was so inexperienced and unprepared for the likes of him. And so, when he sought me out, I made myself easy to find. When he deployed his charms and flirted with me, I clumsily flirted back. And when he said he loved me, I believed his lies.
Only what had drawn him to me wasn’t love. Not even an infatuation. It was the thrill of the chase and the anticipated high of the kill. And, above all, it was that sordid wager he was hell-bent on winning.
I didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter 8
Bubbles
We arrive in the Champagne region mid-morning, check into the Chateau Les Crayères, and grab some lunch. Then we visit the Gothic cathedral of Reims that has hosted the coronation of twenty-five French kings.
After that, the day is a succession of wine cellars carved into limestone quarries, candlelit tunnels filled with bottles of aging bubbly, redbrick castles, and sparkling flutes. I try to commit to memory the tastes of the biggest maisons—Dom Pérignon, Madame Pommery, Veuve-Clicquot—but then I give up, chalking up my sloppiness to the rising level of alcohol in my blood.
When Anton asks about the most memorable tasting, I confess it was the no-name champagne into which I was invited to dunk my Biscuit Rose—a delicious Reims specialty I immediately stocked up on for Mom.
By the time we settle down to dinner in the castle’s Michelin-starred restaurant, I’m exhausted, hungry, and a little tipsy.
“You need food,” Anton says.
And food I get. An assortment of amuse-bouches that has me licking my fingers is followed by foie gras with black current jam and then a lobster. After that, we’re served an out-of-this-world molten chocolate cake as the Chef’s coup de grâce.
Most of what we eat must be aphrodisiacs, because by the time we’re finished, I’m hornier than I’ve ever been.
“We could go up to the La Rotonde bar,” Anton says, “and enjoy the night view of the gardens.”
“Or we could go to bed,” I say, giving him a saucy smile, “and enjoy other views.”
His brows go up a little. I know I’m acting out of character, at odds with my sophisticated geisha persona. But I don’t care. The wine and food have mellowed me. All I want right now is to kick off my glossy armor so that I can breathe freely, speak without forethought, and act without premeditation.
I want to be myself tonight.
Anton stands up and offers his hand. “You win.”
Our room is spacious, comfortable and subdued, with only a small nod to the plush grandeur of the castle. Not that I’ve been inside a castle before, but I’ve seen enough of them in movies to know this one is first class, inside and out, caves and gardens and cast iron fences included.
As I wait for Anton to come out of the bathroom, I sprawl across the king-size bed and imagine myself the lady of the Chateau. On any other day, I would nip such an idle fantasy in the bud, but tonight anything goes.
I roll over to lie on my stomach, prop my head on my elbows, and survey the artfully lit grounds. What a singular destiny to have inherited all this wealth, history, and beauty! No need to search for a purpose in life and your role in the universe. It’s laid out for you: Take care of your magnificent estate so that you can pass it on to the next generation in the best possible shape.
I hear Anton approach the bed, but I don’t budge. As it happens, my sheer negligee offers him a nearly unobstructed vista of my posterior, and I know how much he likes it.
I did promise him views, after all.
He sits on the bed next to me, kicks off his shoes and flattens his large, long-fingered hand on the small of my back. It stays there for a few seconds and then begins to move, stroking, pressing, and squeezing. His ministrations grow bolder by the minute, and it feels so damn good. I tilt my head and glance at him. His gaze roams my body, lingering on its curves. His pupils are dark, their depths raw with need.
My body aches in response.
Yes. Anything you wish. I want it too.
I keep staring at his eyes until they lock with mine, and my heart jumps a beat. Lucky me this man has such a healthy, kink-free sexuality. Because the fire in his gaze causes so many sparks and short circuits in my brain that I forget about caution, my “hard limits” and rules. Anton has no idea, but his unique brand of lust—wolfish hunger blended with reverence—is the most precious gift any man has ever given me.
I sit up abruptly and begin to undo the buttons of his shirt. His engraved cufflinks come off next. He lets me undress him completely and nudge him to lie on his back. With that crooked smile dancing on his lips, he leans on the plump pillow and clasps his hands behind his head.
I settle next to him and grin. “It’s my turn to touch. Don’t move no matter what I do.”
“OK.”
I survey my spoils. He’s completely naked now. His body is lean and muscled in all the right places. Salt-and-pepper stubble marks his firm jawline. I run my fingertips over it, letting it grate and prickle my soft skin. Then I trace his warm, satiny lips. What a delicious contrast to the rough feel of his jaw! I want more of those lips than a touch can offer. I need their electrifying taste mixed with the muted scent of the aftershave from his cheeks.
I’ve grown to crave that mix.
With Anton, I’ve grown to thirst for that intimate, carnal contact of two sets of lips that can be revolting with the wrong man but oh so delicious with the right one. A frisson shoots through my body at the sweet anticipation of his mouth enveloping mine, his tongue pushing inside, probing, stroking, and drugging me with the glorious masculine essence of him.
Soon.
For now, I’ll continue to study him, tracing the contours of his face, feasting my eyes on his rugged beauty. I stroke the exposed hollow under his arm.
Anton makes a move to lower his arm, but I gently push it back.
“Must you?” He gives me a pleading look.
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh yes, I must.”
He sighs and lets me have my way with him.
After a while, I move on to his torso, combing my fingers through the cloud of dark hairs softening its hard planes. I love how they sprawl over the expanse of his chest and then taper to a narrow stream. It runs across his taut abdomen, descends to his navel, dips in and out, and then thickens again.
When I reach his loins and linger there, he groans.
Suddenly, he’s on top of me, crushing me into the mattress with his weight. I throw my arms around his neck, grip his nape, and roam his toned back. I am ravenous for the feel of his rippling muscles, and my core is empty without him.
I wrap my legs around his hips and dig my fingers into his tight buttocks.
As his mouth descends on mine, and he enters me, I let my body sink into the sweetness of total abandon.
When my breathing slows back to normal, and my muscles regain a measure of strength, I glance at Anton. He’s facing me, his head resting on his folded arm. I smile. He stretches his free arm and pulls me into him.
I snuggle as close as I can, touching my lips to his chest.
He strokes my hair. “Annushka.”
The name is an exquisite caress that envelops me and makes me feel all warm and gooey inside. Until I realize that he’s doing it again—crossing the boundaries.
He can’t. He shouldn’t.
I need to break the spell before it’s too late, so I ask the first question that comes to mind. “How come you haven’t remarried when you can have your pick among the country’s crème de l
a crème?”
“Let’s say I have trust issues.”
“Aaand?” I prompt.
“And that’s it.”
“Very informative.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You haven’t been extremely forthcoming with details either.”
Good point. “How is your daughter doing? You saw her last week, no?”
“She’s fine, except for a sprained ankle. She’s a terrible skier in spite of all the practice she’s had since she was little… Do you have children?”
“No,” I say a little too quickly and look away.
Christ. After all these years, why can’t I sound natural when answering that question? And why, why do I always fail to add, Never wanted one—they’re such a nuisance?
Fortunately, Anton doesn’t seem to have noticed my clumsy reaction. His brow is furrowed, and he appears to be debating something or looking for the right words.
“How much have you made since you started your night job?”
I’m totally unprepared for his question and I stare at him. I name a figure.
“I’ll double it. No, I’ll triple it to be your only client for the next month.”
I swallow. “Wow. That’s a high price for exclusivity.”
He says nothing, his expression stern.
“You’d be paying above the market price.” I make an attempt at a smile. “How can the businessman in you let it happen?”
“The businessman in me is perfectly satisfied, Anna.” He refuses to smile back. “This is an excellent deal for both of us.”
“I need to think about it.”
“I have all night. Think.”
OK, Anna the Almost-Machine, think.
If I go with Anton’s proposition, I’ll shave off two months of escorting. This means—provided my income remains stable after the return to non-exclusivity—that I may be able to quit altogether before Christmas.
What about my other clients? They may not appreciate my break and find a replacement. But that’s OK. Because they are just as easy to replace as I am.
All in all, Anton’s proposition does seem to be an excellent deal for me.
Then why I am not jumping on the bed, clapping my hands, and shouting Yes, let’s do it?
Because there’s an elephant in this room, that’s why.
Because this enticing proposition doesn’t come from a client like any other. Because I know what a month of exclusivity with Anton would be like: crossing boundaries, blurring the prescribed roles, ignoring the customary codes, and treating me as if I were his legitimate girlfriend.
But I’m a call girl, and no amount of blurring can obliterate that fact.
I survey him—the gorgeous, infinitely desirable whole of him—and shudder. Hope rears its ugly head in some secret pocket of my heart. It flickers, gutters, and begs for oxygen to grow and spread everywhere… like a cancer.
But I won’t let it.
I’ve learned my lesson.
I’ve been love-free for four years now, ever since I finally got over Stan and made peace with what he’d done to me and what I’d done as a consequence. I haven’t been happy, but I haven’t been miserable either. I’ve been careful, fully aware of my weakness. Love doesn’t come to me easily, but when it does, it’s powerful, unreserved, blind—like a child’s.
And when I fall, I don’t land on my feet.
If I accept Anton’s offer, I’m going to hurt myself so badly I may never recover. I’m in the danger zone already, but give me a week as his surrogate girlfriend, and I’ll rush headlong into the dark pit of love, beyond the point of no return.
And what will become of me when the month is out and he moves on?
I take a fortifying breath. “Thank you for your generous offer, but I can’t accept it.”
“Anna, are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe.”
He pulls his hand from my hair and sits up. “Please give me one valid reason for saying no.”
I sit up too, but instead of facing him, I lean against the headboard and fix my eyes on the wall. “There isn’t any.”
“Do you want to negotiate? Is that it?” His voice has lost its warmth. “Name your price.”
“I don’t want to negotiate.”
He grabs my shoulders and turns me face him. “Or is it because you enjoy promiscuity? Is it because you like having multiple sex partners?”
I can’t free myself from his iron grip, but I can turn my head away and stare at the wall.
“Answer me, Anna. Do you actually dig selling your body to strangers?”
I jerk my head toward him and peer into his eyes.
He lets go of my shoulders. His expression is no longer stern. It’s furious.
My lips remain pressed together, and I remind myself I have nothing to fear—Anton Malakhov is not the kind of man to strike a woman. He’d never do such a thing, regardless of how mad he gets. I have no reason for feeling as wretched as I do now.
But as I gaze at him, I realize it isn’t his anger that’s killing me. His eyes hold something else, something worse, something I’ve never seen there before.
Disgust.
Chapter 9
Spring Thaw
After I refused to answer his questions, Anton hardly spoke to me. Neither of us slept for the remainder of the night. I curled into the fetal position and prayed for him to touch me. My back ached for the pressure of his chest, my waist longed for the weight of his arm, and my feet were icy cold without the warmth of his.
At dawn, I crawled out of the bed, packed, swallowed a coffee, and showered. As soon as I exited the bathroom, Anton went in, barking as he walked past me that a taxi would take me to the airport in half an hour.
I picked up my suitcase, shoved the thick envelope he’d left on top of it into my purse, and rushed out to wait in the lobby.
It’s been one month and six days since that Parisian weekend.
Anton hasn’t reached out through Filip or to me directly. My heart still hiccups every time I get a call from an unknown number. But, invariably, it’s a telemarketer or pollster.
Life’s gone back to normal.
I haven’t been sleeping very well, and I’m always tired and apathetic. When people notice, I blame the protracted winter. My pharmacist friend Nadya has gotten me a huge bottle of vitamin D pills. She calls it the “sunshine vitamin” and says it’ll energize me. I wish there were a pill you could take to erase selected memories and a specific person from your mind. I wish there were a pill to silence the stupid heart when it won’t listen to reason.
Mom has started her radiotherapy, and her blood work has been improving with every test. She’s put on a few much needed kilos. Her complexion is no longer gray.
On top of that, she’s rekindled a bunch of old friendships, and I often catch her smiling without any obvious reason.
Filip’s unconventionally entrepreneurial mind has hatched a new income stream for us. He’s made arrangements with a fertility clinic to which he’s now selling his sperm and I’m about to sell my eggs. Who could’ve guessed those tiny ovules, wasted on me month after month, could fetch enough to pay my rent? Filip is now carping about sperm being dirt cheap compared to eggs and dropping transparent hints that I should give him a cut for having come up with the idea.
Earlier this week, I asked him to keep my Sunday free. Not that I’ve grown complacent, but I really need to have a day away from everything and everyone—my day job, my night job, my clients, my friends, and even my mom.
It’s a day to stay in my pj’s, catch up on my reading, and treat myself to a Pride and Prejudice rerun on TV.
Which should start in exactly ten minutes.
I’m in the kitchen fixing myself a bowl of chocolate ice cream when a sound of shattering glass makes me jump. I walk over to the window and survey the courtyard. No broken glass, but a large icicle that has detached itself from the roof gutter, hit the ground and burst into pieces, its collision with cobblestones no longer cushione
d by snow.
Spring is here at last.
A group of sparrows splash about in a large puddle and chirp at the top of their shrill voices, making sure all three buildings around the courtyard know how much fun they’re having. Rows of happily flapping sheets and towels underline all the windows across from mine. I glance down at the flowerbeds in the middle of the wet yard. A scattering of snowdrops and crocuses have pushed through the dirty snow, their creamy heads high and their green stems tall and proud.
Yes, spring is officially here.
I open the window and fill my lungs with air. It smells of sun, wind, leaf buds, and new beginnings.
It smells of life.
“Petya, I want you home right now! Don’t make me come down there, young man!” a woman with curlers in her hair shouts in the building across the yard.
She waves her finger at someone downstairs and contorts her innocuous snub-nosed face into a threatening expression.
I follow her gaze to a little boy in full winter gear and rubber boots.
He lifts his head and begs, “Mama, please, five more minutes!”
“That’s it, I’m coming down to get you!”
The boy drops his head, discards the twig he’s been playing with, and shuffles inside.
He must be five or six—about Sasha’s age.
Shit. I should’ve known better than to allow that thought.
The floodgates open at once, and all the impossible questions rush into my defenseless brain.
Is Sasha happy now? What does he look like? Do his adoptive parents give him all the care and love every child deserves? Did they change his name?
Painful, pointless questions.
I’m usually good at blocking them out, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
It seems that now is one of those times.
When I discovered I was pregnant, I thought I would explode with joy. I couldn’t wait to tell Stan. He’d told me so many times how much he loved kids and how he dreamed of having his own one day. With me.
