Mine Until Morning (29 page)

She smiled as she slid into the booth, her lips a deep, seductive crimson like a movie star from the forties. The maitre d’ flapped a napkin across her lap. Beneath the blouse and tank, her breasts were pert, mouthwatering. She was beautiful yet maddeningly unapproachable. “Dinner at Louis’s was a lovely idea,” she said as if she hadn’t been avoiding trendy nightspots for six months. When push came to shove, she’d acquiesced graciously. The waiter arrived with their drinks, admiring politely without being sleazy as he set her champagne cocktail in front of her. She afforded him the same courteous smile she’d given the maitre d’. Isabel was always appreciative of those who served her.

The thought gave him an inward smile. Yeah, just as she appreciated how he served her. Sometimes he wondered if he touched her beyond the physical. Alone again, she laced her fingers, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure? I didn’t expect to see you until later tonight.”

He usually ended up at her place by eight or eight thirty. He wasn’t sure what hours she worked—sometimes she was already home; sometimes she arrived later; then there were times when she called him and said she wouldn’t make it to the flat until close to midnight. There were always the questions he never asked. What was she doing? Who was she with? She never offered explanations.

“I was looking forward to some fine food and good conversation,” he said. Her gaze flickered. She recognized he had an agenda despite his innocuous statement. “When do you have to go back?”

He shrugged. “Tomorrow.”

The bubbles fizzed in her glass as she sipped the champagne. “I assume you have some sort of . . .” She paused, perhaps searching for the right word.

“Ultimatum?” She laid it out as a question.

“No.” He didn’t like ultimatums. When you made one, usually you were the loser. “But I want more, and you keep turning me down. We need to come to some sort of agreement on that. Or at least discuss it.”

She picked up her menu, opened it, and he prepared himself for another avoidance tactic. Instead, she gave him the unexpected. “You’re right. We’re at a crossroads.” She glanced at the waiter watching expectantly from across the 188

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room. “Let’s order. Then we’ll talk.”

She gave the menu a cursory once-over, then snapped it shut, mind made up. A sense of foreboding crept along his skin, but he chose, ordered, waited until they were once again alone.

“My life is complicated,” she said, meeting his gaze. Isabel had become direct, no mincing words, a prep for the old “things are complicated, we shouldn’t get too involved” routine.

His thigh muscles tensed beneath the table. “It’s only as complicated as we make it.”

She held up her hand. “I’m not done yet.”

“Go ahead.” He was pissed suddenly. Fuck. He hated being helpless, yet she had the upper hand. She’d had it from the moment he’d seen her six months ago. He’d wanted her badly, like the proverbial hound dog sniffing after the sexy little poodle.

“I’ve decided you should know exactly what the complications are so you can determine your course of action.” She made it sound like a fucking business venture.

“I’m all ears,” he said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. But yeah, he was so goddamned pussy whipped. He could not let go. She sat back, folded her arms beneath her breasts, tapping one elegantly polished nail against her lace-covered biceps. “I own an exclusive agency catering to the needs of rich, powerful men and women.”

Jesus, she made it sound like an escort service, loosely defined, of course. “I understand that your business is important to you. I have no intention of interfering with that.”

Isabel leaned forward once more, and, elbows on the table, she clasped her hands and steepled her forefingers. “Royce, my agency’s primary goal is satisfying our clients’ fantasies.” She waited a full three beats. “Their sexual fantasies.”

THE ONLY MOVEMENT WAS THE TICK OF A MUSCLE ALONG ROYCE’S jaw, and the flutter of her heart against her breastbone.

“You mean, like ...” His brow furrowed, his gaze roving her face, touching her almost intimately. “A whorehouse?”

Anyone else, Isabel would have laughed. With Royce it stung. “Courtesans, 189

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not whores,” she said softly, but with an edge. Silence stretched. Her skin itched under his gaze. Then he shook his head, chuckled. “This is some sort of joke, right?”

She shook her head. She’d never told anyone before, never dated in the traditional sense. People came to her, referrals, clients, potential courtesans. She’d never had to explain.

Yet the explanation had never been this important. God, this was stupid. He wouldn’t understand. He’d walk away. It would have been so much better to let him do that before he knew the truth about her rather than after. She toughed it out despite the nervous sweat gathering between her breasts.

“My agency is called Courtesans. I inherited it from the woman I worked for. She mentored me.”

“The same person you inherited the apartment from?”

“Yes.”

He gulped his Campari and soda as if his throat was suddenly parched.

“That’s a pretty damn lucrative business.”

“Yes, it is.” Her chest tightened; her eyes hurt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have listened to Walker. The smart thing was not to tell.

“So you’re like, what, the madam?”

Why not say it like it was? “Yes, I am. I meet with the clients, supervise the matches to an extent, interview new courtesans, and design our training programs.”

He choked on the Campari. “Training programs?” he echoed. He took something she was proud of and made it sound cheap and cheesy.

“Our courtesans undergo a psychological intensive equipping them with all the tools necessary to ensure our clients’ fantasy fulfillment.”

He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Don’t they just fuck?”

His tone was worse than a physical punch. She’d been right; this could only end badly. But she would not let him make her feel ashamed. “No, that’s not all we do. If it was, you could get it on any street corner.”

“Oh, sorry.” He put a hand to his chest. “I’m assuming a flat in Pacific Heights doesn’t come off the earnings made on a street corner.”

Carrying a large tray, their waiter weaved through the sparsely populated dining room. He slapped open a folding table, set the tray on it, then laid their plates before them with a flourish. “May I get you anything else?” He waved a 190

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hand. “Sir, another cocktail?”

Only ice cubes remained in Royce’s glass. “No, thanks.”

Isabel smiled, said she was fine, while inside, she trembled. She felt like she’d been nicked by a speeding train, everything fine on the outside while her insides were all jumbled around. She’d never get her heart back in the right place. Royce picked up his knife and fork but didn’t cut into his steak. “So tell me—”

She knew it was coming, wanted to close her eyes to hold it off.

“—are you just the madam or are you a courtesan as well?”

Her fingers felt frozen. The duck on her plate looked like a congealed mass. But she’d started the truth, he would get all of it, and she would not be ashamed. “Yes.”

He looked at her, his gray eyes dark, hard, like slate. Her ears started to ring. Get up, run away.

“Is that what you were doing on Friday night?”

Her throat hurt. But she did not—would not let even a micron of weakness show. “Yes.”

His nostrils flared with a deep breath. “Who?”

Now that she’d started it, she would answer all his questions, as painful as that might be. “A prince,” she said. “And his son.”

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3

EVEN AS ROYCE SAT SILENT AND IMMOBILIZED BEFORE HIS DINNER plate, something inside him howled in agony.

Isabel crossed her legs, leaning back against the booth, perfect and polished, as she pulverized his heart to dust.

“You slept with them both?” he repeated because he couldn’t believe, couldn’t wrap his hands around it.

“Technically, no. The prince only watched.” There was a glint in her eye. He could swear she was laughing at him. Or that could simply be his frame of mind. The questions tumbled through his brain so fast, he wasn’t sure which to ask or even if he wanted to know. “Why?” It could have referred to many things. She laid a hand on the table next to his, but didn’t touch. “It might be easier if I told you everything instead of making you ask for details one by one,” she said gently as if she were speaking to a mental patient or a plane crash survivor. Christ, he didn’t want details, and nothing would be easy, but at least he wouldn’t have to force too many words past his aching throat. “Sure.”

She closed her eyes far longer than it took to blink, and for the first time he considered that perhaps this was hard for her, too.

“I’ve been doing this a long time,” she said, stopping for a sip of champagne. Their food was growing cold, but neither of them ate. “I never thought I’d see you again, so it didn’t really matter.” She puffed out a breath of air. “I didn’t tell you in the beginning because I realized you would have a hard time understanding why I do what I do.”

He made a noise. It might have been a chuckle, he wasn’t sure, yet he managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “That’s an understatement.”

She gave him a long, hard, penetrating look. His skin heated beneath it, and he was forced to drop his gaze.

“I like it. I don’t expect you, a man, to understand, but becoming a courtesan gave me power when I had none. It gave me self-respect when I was at the bottom.” Something unfathomable glittered in her eyes, and he wondered how far down the bottom had been. “I don’t think about sex the way most people do. It’s not immoral or sacred. It’s something to be enjoyed.” She held him with a level gaze. “I enjoy it even more when I get paid.”

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Her words were like a sharp stick in his eye.

“Until you came back into my life,” she added softly. He didn’t want to think about what that meant. As if he was special and she wanted to give it all up for him. But of course, that was not what she meant, since she’d kept right on doing it while she fucked him. He couldn’t breathe; his pulse pounded, his ire rising like a diver racing to the surface only to be hit by the bends.

He stuffed it down, barely, letting a question squeak past his paralyzed throat. “How long?”

“Almost since I left you.” She interpreted his meaning correctly. Aw Christ. He’d known deep in his gut that he’d somehow driven her to it.

“I was young. I couldn’t get a job or find a place to stay. I sent you that letter from L.A. Then a friend told me I’d do better in San Francisco.” For the first time, she bent her head. “It wasn’t better. I was on the street. I thought I’d die. Sometimes I wished I would die. Then Melora found me.”

She said nothing that cast blame on him, but he wondered what her life would have been like if he hadn’t kept her a secret, if he’d told his parents that either they accepted her or he was gone. With her. They wouldn’t have fought that last time. She wouldn’t have run away.

“Melora was my mentor. She saved me from the streets.”

He couldn’t help himself, the bitterness flowing in his words. “But she turned you into a—”

“I already was a whore, Royce,” she said, oddly lacking in the bitterness he would have expected. “She turned me into a courtesan and showed me how I could have a good life, a life I enjoyed. A life I was in control of.”

He breathed through the pain, through the confession. “But how can you be in control when you have to do whatever ...” He couldn’t finish.

“I do whatever I want. I make up the rules. No one looks down on me. No one disrespects me.”

He winced. He’d loved her all those years ago. He’d sworn he didn’t look down on her; it was just his parents. The reality was that if he’d truly valued her, he wouldn’t have hesitated to take her home. “I drove you to this,” he said, almost to himself, hearing the wonder in his voice. She waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be stupid, Royce. I chose this, and I’m not sorry. I’d choose it again.”

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But would she have chosen it over him? He studied her, the proud bearing, self-confidence, elegance, and intelligence. She’d left before she graduated high school, but she’d turned herself into an articulate, cultured, competent woman.

“I like the person I’ve become,” she said with no artifice. She truly believed it.

“But I realize it’s an adjustment for your moral fiber.”

“My moral fiber,” he echoed. He was ethical in business; he’d never cheated on his wife; he loved his daughters to distraction. Beyond that?

“Most people have a hard time not putting a judgment on what I do and who I am.” She sat ramrod straight as if expecting his judgment.

“And you think I’m like most people.”

She tipped her head. “Aren’t you?”

Thirty years ago he hadn’t stood up to his parents. Today he was his own man. He would expect either of his daughters to bring home the man she loved, asking for respect, receiving it. As long as the guy wasn’t a criminal, a wife beater, or a drug addict.