The Willing (2 page)

I knew who he was—hard to ignore the face on the cover of Time magazine for the past year or so—but I tried very hard not to show it. Maybe I could pass for a clueless, big-breasted airhead, like Michelle seemed to do with such success. No one need ever know that the breasts were eighty percent push-up bra or that the ditzy act was the painted-over front of a rickety edifice.             

"Hi, Oliver," I said and held out my hand.

He clasped it tight, emerald green eyes darkening a little. "Jocelyn." The way he lingered on my name wasn't accidental. I could all but see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to recall where, not if, he'd last seen me. A man in his position—unattached and panty-droppingly charming—must have been ripe prey for many women. Even his voice was dark, like the uncharted depths of some tropical sea. I extricated my palm from his warm grasp with a little difficulty. I knew exactly what hid in his murky depths.

"What can I get you? We have champagne..."

Oliver had been staring at me a beat too long. He seemed to catch himself then, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Ah, no. Nothing for me."

"Teetotaler," Evangeline teased. "Well, I obviously can't have any..." I saw her hand rub protectively over her belly and my thought process skidded to an abrupt stop. She was pregnant. Did that make them an item? "Perhaps some water?" Evangeline mused, snapping me out of my untimely trance.

"Certainly." Usually I wouldn't have minded the back-and-forth, but I was wearing killer heels and my feet were screaming bloody murder with every step. It was only human to resent the waitressing duties. I breathed a little easier when I reached the bar, glad I could lean my weight against the counter. Another hour or two of this and I'd work up the nerve to tell Madam Madrigal I wasn't feeling too hot. If I was really lucky, maybe she'd let met off with a lecture.

I knelt down to liberate a bottle of sparkling water from the minibar and as I rose, noticed Oliver Shepherd had made his way over to my side. I levered myself up slowly, making sure to give him a good view of my cleavage as I did so.
Tricks of the trade
, as Madam called the more vulgar facets of our job. I found I caught more flies by lending an ear than I did showing off assets I didn't really have, but Madam was watching hawkishly as she entertained Ms. Emerson and I literally couldn't afford to lose this job, too.

"Mr. Shepherd," I tittered, "changed your mind about that champagne?"

He shook his head. "It's Oliver... and no, I haven't." He didn't seem to know where to look—at my hands, busily scooping ice into a glass and pouring fizzy sparkling water, or at my face. To his credit, he didn't glance at my breasts overmuch. Maybe he batted for the other team, I thought. I didn't have that kind of luck.

"You should have a drink," I encouraged. "Help you relax, put away your cares... evening's just getting started." I considered dipping into Ebonics, but that was unfamiliar territory and too much of a risk with a client I didn't know.

Oliver's response was to touch a hand to my elbow. "I'm sorry, I have to ask: have we met before?" He was searching my face when I glanced up to meet his eyes. He must've been a head taller than me, heels included. I'd forgotten that detail.

"I don't think so," I lied. I couldn't very well ask him to remove his hand; even if Madam hadn't been keeping watch from afar, it was still my job to entertain the clients, whichever way they chose.

There were usually other girls around to take the ones who wanted the full service off my hands, but Michelle was busy and I couldn't see anyone available to take over—and besides, judging by the way Oliver was looking at me, he wasn't going to be so easily distracted.

There was no escaping those blue eyes; I had to force myself to even look away. "Ms. Emerson will be waiting for her drink," I said, trying to pretend I was playing coy.

Oliver nodded. "Yes. Probably." And still he wasn't letting go.

"Maybe we met at the Sullivan's Christmas bacchanalia?" I suggested idly. He shook his head. "Hmm, Conrad Jones' birthday party?" I hadn't attended that one, but I remembered Michelle telling me a lot of big name clients had been invited. I figured it was a safe bet.

"No, I don't think so." Oliver didn't look convinced, but my attempt to throw sand in his eyes had worked, at least for the moment, because his hand fell away. I felt its absence keenly. Oliver accompanied me back to his business partner-cum-potential mother of his child, who accepted the sparkling water with a grateful smile.

"Mrs. Madrigal was just telling me there's a spare room we can use," Evangeline told Oliver in a stage whisper. Evidently she saw no reason to spare my virgin ears: I was, once again, part of the furniture. As if to prove me wrong, Evangeline went on to add: "Jocelyn can bring in the relevant parties. We'd be done in an hour, tops. What do you think?"

I watched Oliver's lips press into a tight line. "Holland's already spotted me. The sooner we get this done, the better."

Madam Madrigal beamed with pleasure. "Right this way..." I remembered from previous visits that the Presidential Suite had four bedrooms, each with their own en-suite bathroom with double sinks. I couldn't imagine traveling with a party large enough to need so much space; in my experience, high-end hotel rooms like this one were reserved for not-so-legal merrymaking. For all I knew, that was precisely their purpose.

The master bedroom had a stunning view of the city, night lights visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, the world laid out at our feet. I must have gasped out loud because Evangeline chuckled beside me. "Breath-taking, isn't it? If you don't mind heights, that is." I didn't, but one look at Oliver and his back turned resolutely towards the window told me he might not have been so lucky.

"This'll do," he said. There was no trace of pleasure in his voice. He obviously didn't appreciate the vista.

Madam Madrigal took no notice of his gruff tone. "Anything else I can get you?"

It was Evangeline who answered as she unbuttoned her suit jacket. I glimpsed a double string of Tahitian pearls as fat a thumbnails resting shiny against her collarbones. "I think we'll be alright. Jocelyn—" I perked up at the sound of my name, tried not to feel like Madam's departure left me alone in the lion's den. "Would you be a dear and get Mr. Holland in to see us?"

"Certainly. What should I tell him?" I'd played go-between before, but never without understanding why.

"Tell him we'd like a word. He'll come, don't worry."

I left Evangeline seated in an ample armchair by the window and Oliver still watching me with those inscrutable eyes and did as asked.

Cecil Holland was only a little taken aback by the summons. "Who wants me?"

"Mr. Shepherd and Ms. Emerson?" I said, fluttering fake lashes his way. If he asked what they wanted from him, I'd have to shrug and say I didn't know. It wouldn't be much of a lie: I genuinely had no idea what all this cloak and dagger stuff was about.

"Oliver!" beamed my quarry as we returned to the master bedroom.

"Cecil." Oliver's eyes met mine. "Please wait outside, Jo, if you don't mind."

I didn't. There was a chair not far away and the prospect of taking the weight off my feet was incredibly appealing. I tottered over and collapsed with a sigh, extricating first the right and then the left foot from too-tight strappy heels. I was sure I'd mangled the shoes as well as my stubby toes; Carrie was going to kill me.

To say the Shepherd-Holland-Emerson secret talks lasted ten whole minutes would've been an exaggeration. I started as the door opened, my hands flying to grip the arm rests. Cecil Holland stepped out with a smirk and newfound swagger in his step. He didn't even notice me waiting.

"Jocelyn?" I followed Evangeline's voice back into the room. So they weren't going to share me in some weird four-way orgy? That was good; I would've had a bitch of a time turning them all down. A three-way seemed a lot more feasible. Not super appealing, but I'd done worse things. I could probably beg off with a blowjob.

I made sure none of my cynicism showed as I stepped through the door. "Yes?"

"Milan Delgado." Evangeline tapped her foot against the floor. It occurred to me that this wasn't a woman who enjoyed waiting. "You know who that is, don't you? Good, I'd like you to bring him in."

There was no talk of refusing. I staggered back into the main room with a beatific smile and saw Holland making nice with one of the Wall Street whiz-kids. I could tell he didn't have any trouble pulling dates, so if he was here it was for reasons other than the women on display.

Delgado was a different animal. His flock of admirers pouted and moaned as he rose, distraught at the thought of losing their ringleader. I met Michelle's gaze and offered her a little shrug. I didn't have any idea what was going. The two of rarely kept track of who said what to whom at these parties; some men liked to mix business with pleasure and the NDAs covered both areas.

"Mr. Delgado," I announced and pressed my back against the wall as his eminence stepped through.

"Shepherd, you dog," Delgado chortled. "You couldn't come to me yourself? Evangeline—"

I didn't hear the rest. Oliver was there, a hand on the doorknob to shut me out. The sooner the better, I thought, eying my much-coveted armchair. I couldn't wait to take the weight off my feet again.

"
Jo
." My name in his mouth sounded almost sweet. I turned and glimpsed Oliver through a small gap in the door. His eyes were wide.
Oh shit
. He remembered me. Mercifully, Evangeline summoned him inside before he could say or do anything about it. The door slid shut, leaving me alone with hollow dread whirling in the pit of my stomach.

I intercepted Michelle at the bar. "Any chance you could take over for me?"

"Why? What's going on?" she asked, her plucked brows furrowing tight. "You've got messenger duty?"

"Something like that." I didn't know how long Delgado would be and didn't want Madam to think I was slacking off, so I filled another glass with bottled water and a scoop of ice, heart jackhammering against my ribcage.

Michelle wasn't one to dispense kindness easily. "Get it together," she hissed and took my elbow. I held a sliver of hope that she might be kind enough to direct me towards the elevator, but her footsteps led us back in the direction I'd come from. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I
know
him," I breathed. "Shepherd, that is. I know him—from
before
."

Michelle's eyes widened. "Oh. Was he...? "

I shook my head no. That would've been tragic, but even if I'd never had personal contact with him, I was still compromised. I knew who he was and what he could do to those who crossed him. I was likely blacklisted by mere association.

My face fell. "He called me Jo." He
did
know my name. Had he researched me? "Shit, I need to get out of here."

"You can't," Michelle shot back. "Look, play it to the end. Make him believe you're not who he thinks you are. How hard can it be?"

"I don't know how." That was a lie. It was my job to know how to manipulate a client into thinking he'd got his money's worth while I still retained the last shreds of my pride. I had rarely ever been this scared, though. Oliver Shepherd—and how the hell had it taken me this long to put together name and face?—had a reputation for ruthlessness. I was no match for him.

The bedroom door opened and Delgado stomped out, red-faced and puffing with breath. His clenched fists registered only dimly before he was stalking past, taking no notice of me or Michelle. "I have to get to work," she said, "looks like it's going to be a long one..."

There was no pleasure in her voice but right then I couldn't extend any pity. She had just left me alone with the dynamic duo.

"Jocelyn!" Could I get away, I wondered, if I changed my name and moved to Vladivostok?

My smile was in place as I strode back into the room. "Yes, ma'am?"

Evangeline made a face. "Ouch. Way to make a girl feel old." She shrugged into her jacket with Oliver's help, long, silky black hair spilling across her shoulders. I would've bet good money it was all hers, too, no wigs or weaves for Evangeline Emerson. Before I could stammer an excuse, she pressed on: "Thank you for your help tonight. You were lovely. Will you take a tip?"

I usually did, but this time I hadn't really done anything more than play errand girl. It wouldn't be deserved. "It's really not necessary," I demurred, putting the emphasis on
necessary
rather than
not
. I'd worry about my pride later, when I wasn't contemplating collecting unemployment. 

Evangeline scoffed and flipped open her purse. She thrust a fifty into my hand. "In case you want to call it a night," she said, darting a meaningful glance to my feet.

I felt my cheeks heat. Of course she'd taken notice. A woman could empathize.

"Thank you." I bit back the involuntary
ma'am
before it crept out. "Mr. Shepherd." He'd made no move to tip me, but I decided to try Michelle's advice on for size. I wasn't going to balk, however long he stared at me with those silver eyes.

"Oliver, are you coming?" Evangeline asked, brow arching.

"In a moment."

That seemed to satisfy Ms. Emerson. I wondered at their relationship. I wasn't sure I would've been comfortable leaving a boyfriend of mine alone with a call girl. Perhaps Evangeline was more modern than that. "I'll wait in the car," she said. The click of her heels on the hardwood floors receded as she stalked away.

I put on a smile for Oliver's eyes only. "Want me to close the door?"

"That won't be necessary," he retorted archly. I'd been hoping for confused, but judging by the tight line of his lips, he knew exactly what he was dealing with. All the amateur dramaturgy on the east coast couldn't hide me. "I don't appreciate being lied to. People who do often discover I'm the wrong person to piss off."

I swallowed hard. "That wasn't my intention..."

"No, I suppose
you
were just having a laugh," Oliver shot back, his accent trickling in more strongly than before. "At my expense. If you dare mention this to anyone—"