The Willing (11 page)

I started when the elevator doors slid open with a hiss. I had all but forgotten I was supposed to be waiting for him.

"Honey," I drawled as soon as I saw him step into the foyer, all cream corduroy pants and a brown leather jacket. Add a pair of aviator sunglasses and he might have passed for a movie star. I was a much poorer imitation, by comparison, but that didn't stop me cocking my hip as I leaned against the doorframe. "Welcome home, darling. How was work?"

His expression shuttered. I thought he might have been smiling before he came in, but something I said put an end to that quick and certain.   

"I see you've helped yourself to the juice," Oliver said in lieu of greeting. There was something cutting in his voice, his gaze suddenly flinty. The man I'd had at my feet last night was gone, vanished into the ether.

I held out my glass. "Have a sip. Maybe it'll help you lose the attitude."

There was no pretending last night hadn't happened. I knew what he looked like when he came now. I knew how to get him there. He could drop the tough guy act. Whatever power he had over me, the thought of it didn't paralyze me anymore.

Oliver huffed a breath but took the glass obediently enough. "Have a seat, won't you?"

I did. I could be magnanimous in my posturing. "Good day at the office?

"Wasn't at the office," Oliver said and offered no further detail. He kept both shoes and jacket on, as if we weren't meeting on his territory but somewhere cold and foreign—a dentist's waiting room, perhaps. He looked appropriately tense. "I'll get straight to it: I had no idea Geraldine would be here last night. I had no intention of putting you in an—uncomfortable position."

It was not what I expected him to say, but I tried not to let that show. Playing my cards close to the vest left options open I might otherwise have closed. "I appreciate that," I said. "Your sister was cool." Loud and exhausting, but cool.

I watched Oliver's brows dash upwards on a crinkling forehead, almost as if he couldn't believe I wasn't pulling his leg.

"She doesn't seem much older than you."

"She is," he said and took a sip of my non-alcoholic not-really-a-cocktail. When he licked his lips, I definitely didn't imagine kissing them. "Though," he added, "she's only older than me by about a minute and a half."

"You're twins?" Definitely hadn't caught that.

Oliver nodded. The corner of his lips twitched into an almost-smile. I wished he did that more. It was a good look on him.   

"Fraternal?" I guessed. "You don't look all that alike." There were facial features that marked them as siblings, but they were so different in temperament and looks that it wouldn't have occurred to me they were twins. "Any other siblings I should know about? You know, in case they burst in while we're, uh, busy?"

"No," Oliver said, sharp like the swat of my riding crop. "About last night..."

I drew in a deep breath through the nose, bracing myself for the gentle let down. He wouldn't have summoned me here just for an apology—particularly considering it wasn't really all that necessary. He had done nothing wrong. Gerry's visit was Gerry's problem. Sure, it was awkward as hell to try and pretend I hadn't been beating the shit out of her brother mere minutes earlier. I still wasn't convinced she hadn't heard us go at it, but Oliver had no part of blame in that.

"What about last night?" I repeated.

He stalled, like a turntable record spinning without sound. His gaze found mine, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I'm not going to explain myself to you," he bit out eventually. It seemed to take a lot of effort to even get that far. "I thought I was clear the first time."

"Clear? I'm sorry, you're going to have to be a bit more specific. I'm a little rusty at mind reading."

My days of taking a verbal lashing lying down had come to an abrupt end when he thought manhandling me was okay. I didn't want him thinking that just because I worked for him he could treat me like dirt again. Pride was a fickle thing: all the more so when buoyed by a schoolgirl crush.

"I told you I want no sexual contact between us," Oliver clarified, cheeks flushing.

He had. I remembered that part of our conversation pretty well. I couldn't help think it was a shame, but my reasons were largely selfish and I wasn't in the business of persuading Oliver to step outside his comfort zone.

"You're the one who pulled out the nipple clamps," I pointed out instead. They had been vicious-looking things, too, none of that padded, plastic stuff I'd used back in the day. Oliver could pretend all he wanted, but he wanted pain
with
sex.

His choice of props betrayed him.

"I noticed that you failed to use them," he said, trying to sound accusing.

"Failed? No," I lied, "I was taking into account the no-sex clause. Or are you going to tell me nipple-play is something other than sexual?"

I watched affront flash across his face, twisting his lips downward. Last night had been enjoyable, in my opinion. And I knew he'd enjoyed it, too; the wet spot on his boxers had been pretty illuminating. "Don't be embarrassed," I added quickly. "Honestly, I'm pretty flattered. Any girl would be, but when it's a dom/sub thing, these things can be tricky. I thought you did great—"

"That will never happen again," Oliver said, interrupting me with an icy glare. He wasn't amused or embarrassed; if anything, he looked livid.

My throat felt tight. "Okay… Can I ask—"

"You may not."

Shit
. Well, that ended that conversation pretty quickly. I told myself my job here was to make sure he got whatever he needed out of our sessions, that my enjoyment was secondary and largely irrelevant.

I should have realized a guy like Oliver would be majorly screwed up; he'd closed down a sex club because he had a problem with the owners. He'd hired me to beat on him because—and this was just a guess—he was too scared to find himself a partner he didn't have to strong-arm into giving him what he needed.

As I left the penthouse, I couldn't shake the odd, unpleasant feeling that the guy I'd built a guy up in my head obviously didn't exist in the real world. I had lost sight of who Oliver Shepherd really was. I was either lonely or stupid, and since I didn't have time for the first one, I decided to remedy the latter.

This was just business and I needed the money.

I was barely out of Oliver's tower when I drew out my smartphone and scrolled down to Madam's private number. She answered on the third ring with a warm and cuddly "what do you want?"

"Need any reinforcements tonight?"

I could hear Bach in the background and guessed that Madam was at another one of her daughter's recitals. We weren't supposed to know about the kid, but rumors traveled fast in our tiny world of women. Dealing in petty secrets kept us from talking about the skeletons in the closet. "What makes you think I have an event tonight?" Madam Madrigal purred into the phone.

"Wild guess." It wasn't. Michelle had mentioned she might be working tonight. I figured if she was invited, I could carve a place for myself, maybe earn a little extra for being such a team player.

Madam Madrigal was quiet for a long moment. "Nine, at the Sheraton. Bring a bikini." I hoped that meant there would be a pool involved; one time our clients were so into food fetishes, I'd had to throw out my favorite blond wig because the blueberry sauce wouldn't come out.

"Thank you," I breathed, trying to sound appropriately grateful. "I'll be there." Any distraction that could get my mind off Oliver Shepherd was totally welcome.

Chapter seven

Michelle flashed me a smile as she caught me staring. "Feel free to peek, you voyeur you."

"I wasn't," I protested half-heartedly. "You do know there's a hickey on your ass, right?" It had to be said and none of the other girls were paying attention to us, too busy powdering noses and fluffing up their extensions.

"Duh." She didn't seem the least bit embarrassed. I hadn't really expected her to be. Proud, maybe, but Michelle was like Teflon when it came to sex and dating. She refused to be the least bit shamed. I remembered her saying something about growing up with a preacher father; she'd told me once when we were high and oversharing that Freud would've had a field day with her for a patient.

Apparently growing up in a household where nothing was ever said and everything was judged had imbued Michelle with guts to own up to who she was. Everything after that was a not-so-subtle
fuck you
to her family's strict, smothering morals.

I watched her turn around and try to glimpse her behind in the bathroom mirror. "Can you still see the teeth marks?"

"No, but it's purple and pink... I won't ask for details."

"You shouldn't," Michelle agreed. "You can't handle the truth. Is that my lipstick?"

I smacked my lips together as she watched. "Looks better on me."

Banter like this was reserved for pre-party proceedings. As soon as we got into it with our clients, our competitive streak would show and we'd be rivals again. Every single one of us was looking for a tip or a patron. We were twenty hungry girls with limited options; this was the best way we'd found to eke out a living.

Michelle pinched my side and filched the lipstick. "I thought you said you weren't working this one. What gives?"

"Had a free night, thought I'd waste it on champagne and loud music?" Even I didn't believe that.

Madam Madrigal appeared in the bedroom door before Michelle could poke and prod at my fresh wounds some more. "Ready, ladies? Good, good... ah, one more thing—" She looked us over, lips pursed. She always seemed to find us wanting, however put together and vulgar-cum-sexy we looked. If my life were a Disney movie, she would have been cast as the evil stepmother. "—bikini tops off." I only caught a glimpse of her flaring nostrils and figured just how highly she thought of the request.

The request didn't really come from her, but rather from the paying clients outside. It was just like the time we'd all donned leather collars and walked around with fake dicks strapped to our hips. Or the time before that, when our gentlemen callers asked for school girl getups...

"Can't account for taste," Michelle murmured beside me as she unstrapped her emerald green top. Her full breasts heaved as they were released from that tiny scrap of fabric, all mystery absent. I followed suit, pretending that this was totally fine, that I wasn't even the least bit uncomfortable. Some of the girls hesitated, but a long, level stare from Madam had us all falling quickly into line. It was either comply or go home.

"God," I muttered as Madam gestured us to work, "please no chocolate sauce..."

Michelle snickered quietly beside me. "Hey, I didn't ask. How did it go with that Shepherd guy?"

She meant well, but I couldn't help wish she hadn't brought Oliver up. Our last conversation stuck out in my memory and I couldn't help feel like I'd behaved stupidly.

"I'll tell you later," I said, and in the next moment our sliver of privacy vanished as we descended the stairs to the ground floor of the villa. Today's high roller was none other than Cecil Holland. I was surprised to find he still played at being interested in the fairer sex, but it quickly became apparent we weren't here for his entertainment. Like decent scotch and savory canapés, we were on display for his leering guests and their coterie of plus-ones and twos.

Madam hadn't told us much about the big spenders in the room, so Michelle and I kept close together, making the rounds rather than latching onto what could easily turn out to be small potatoes.

"No Shepherd," Michelle murmured through pearly white teeth. "Or Delgado. Think they weren't invited?"

"Maybe they've fallen out of favor with our host."

I didn't really care, yet the thought of Oliver seeing me here made my cheeks feel hot. Despite my best efforts not to wonder what he'd make of me in a skimpy bikini, I couldn't help the path my thoughts seemed to take. For one thing, I knew he wasn't fond of vulgarity. Maybe it would be a turn-off. I could picture him looking away in disgust, pretending not to know me.

Or maybe he'd enjoy seeing me demeaned and exposed like this.

As much as I wanted to cling to the image I'd built of a venal, cruel taskmaster in my head, I had a hard time believing that even he could sink so low. Evidence seemed to suggest he preferred being the one humiliated, rather than the other way around. I hoped I was right.

"Oh, there's Sofian," Michelle gasped beside me. "I should go say hi. Will you be okay on your own? I'll just be a few minutes."

I rolled my eyes and nudged her into motion. The babysitting was unwarranted; I knew my chances of getting noticed were higher if Michelle was by my side, looking like a porcelain doll offset by my much darker skin, but I wasn't afraid of wandering around on my own merits. There was expensive champagne to be had, to say nothing of the caviar. More importantly, I didn't want to keep Michelle from a potentially lucrative contract. She, too, had rent to pay.

Champagne flute in hand, I found myself a perch on the terrace that overlooked the bay, as out of the way as I could get without outright escaping the scene. If Madam saw me, I was prepared to spin some story about letting our guests chase me and not the other way around. The jury was out on whether or not she'd believe me.

"I thought I recognized you," said a voice behind me, rich and full of round vowels.

I turned around and sure enough, it was a woman standing in the flickering glow of pool lights. It was Evangeline.

"Oh... Hi." My usual, sultry self seemed a little strangled. I gaped uselessly without my mask, suddenly aware that I was standing there naked in all but name, while Oliver's business partner was eying me with a wry little grin. My first thought was that she and Oliver had arrived late. I couldn't help glance over her shoulder, expecting him to follow any second now.

Evangeline noticed. "He's not here."

I felt my heart stutter in my chest before I had the foresight to school my features into coy bemusement. "Who-who do you mean?" I didn't expect her to buy the act; I wouldn't have, in her shoes, and Evangeline Emerson played in an entirely different class, with men I only knew as clients and walking fetishes.