Sexy Beast
Ella J
Copyright © 2018 by Ella J
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Red & Wolfe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Red & Wolfe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Foreword
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Chapter One
“You’ve got a job.”
Those are words I’ve been praying to hear. So why do I suddenly feel as though my stomach has sunk through my knees?
“Darcy? Are you there?” Rina, the agency director, calls my name through the line. I’m clutching the phone to my ear, but I haven’t said anything.
“I—I’m here. I’m here!” I make myself perk up, so Rina won’t hear the fear in my voice. “That’s so great! So great!” And then I sink my nails into my palm, so I’ll stop repeating myself like an idiot.
I hear a faintly amused exhale on the other end of the line. “Oh, to be starting out again. I know this is your first job, but you are going to love this. Remember everything we talked about.”
My “first” job. Right. This is definitely a first, but I’ve been working my butt off at various jobs since I was sixteen years old. Just nothing like this. Not even close.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, isn’t that how the saying goes? And what’s more desperate than turning to high-end hooking to help pay your baby brother’s hospital bills? Your baby brother Denny, who almost died from shock and exposure on the side of a mountain when his car skidded off a half-frozen switchback. Who had to be kept in a medical-induced coma for almost a year while his fractured skull knitted itself back together, only to wake up paralyzed. Denny’s only prayer of walking again depends on intense, round-the-clock nursing and physical therapy, on top of the bills we still have to pay from his coma care. I’m thankful every damn day that my brother is alive and fully mentally functioning, but Denny doesn’t always feel the same way. Especially as his hopes of walking again dwindle as we struggle to find a way to pay for the physical therapy he needs.
I had to quit school so I could work to pay Denny’s hospital bills, and now I can’t work very much at all because even a full-time job can’t pay for a fraction of what the nurse’s bills would cost so I could be out of the house to do said job. It’s a mess. A very big, bad mess. And there are people all over the world who suffer in this same way, but not very many of them have a chance to pull the kind of money Rina is promising me if I can just get over this sex-for-money squeamishness. I can’t let Denny down—I’m the only family he has—and now? I. Have. A. Job.
“Escort” is not something I think I would have considered. “High-end escort,” though, had enough mystery and fantasy in my mind to at least soften any knee-jerk resistance. Rina Delaney’s agency has a reputation for high-end clientele. I found the discretely worded ad for her agency, looking for “educated, fit companions for elite and discerning clientele” while I was job hunting. I worried I might be too old for it—I’m almost twenty-six—but when I called Rina she met with me right away to “assess my marketability.” And Rina was smart, sending me home with different books on the subject of famous courtesans and the long tradition of the oldest profession’s connection to wealthy clientele seeking companionship.
“And it is companionship, Darcy, make no mistake. Sex is part of it, but you must be poised, be able to keep a conversation going. Smooth over all their awkwardness and make them feel they are the center of your attention. And of course, let them show you off like a prize.”
Rina upsold the idea to me from the very beginning. And ultimately, I was too desperate for a way out of Denny’s mess to refuse to at least consider the idea. If only she could find a job for me.
“Listen to me, sweetheart. You need to pack your bags and be ready tonight. And nothing from your closet. Toiletries, but then only wear and bring from the boxes I send you, which will arrive in…oh, an hour. And remember to dress warm. Bring moisturizer, all of it. You’re going to be spending a little time in the snow.” Rina goes on. I’m contracted for the whole week. And when she tells me the exact sum I’ll get, I about fall off the edge of my bed. Damn this ridiculous, prudish guilt leftover from Catholic school. I’m not exactly a virgin. I can do this.
My confidence takes a runner when I realize I have no clue what I should tell Denny or his nurse about where I’m going. There’s no way I can tell him the truth.
“You won a ski and spa week?”
“Yep.”
“Won it? Like, you don’t have to pay for any hidden fees or tourist taxes or some shit? They’re not going to make you buy a timeshare?”
“Won it. Free. All expenses paid.”
Denny doesn’t believe me. He’s rolled his wheelchair right into the doorway of my bedroom in the house our parents left us, and for a moment I can almost see him as a red-faced little boy, demanding I play with him or take him along while I packed up my dollies to go to the neighbor’s house.
We face off over my bulging suitcase. Our eyes meet and hold, two matching deep green glares. But then, without meaning to, I feel myself soften and silently plead with him to stop asking questions I can’t answer. Denny, I’m doing this for you. I want to say the words. I mean it with my whole heart. Den, I’d do anything for you.
And I will. I promise myself I will.
Whether he senses that I need him to back down on this one, or for once he’s not being my annoying little brother just for kicks, Denny rolls back a foot or two, and I take this as his acquiescence. He smiles then, and I realize he’s still an extremely good-looking young man when his face isn’t drained and haggard with depression.
“Well, if anyone’s earned a little break from taking care of my ass, it’s definitely you. Enjoy yourself.”
I try to smile and think of what the money is going to mean for us: a fair amount of badly-needed daylight after months of struggle and worry.
“Hey, you’re not so bad. Besides, you put up with me. I’ll check this place out and let you know if it’s worth bringing you.”
Denny shakes his head and rolls down the hall, calling out over his shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short, Darcy. You’re doing everything you can.”
Worst possible choice of words, but he can’t know that. “Selling myself” is exactly what I’m about to do.
Chapter Two
The agency arranges limousine service to the airport. I turn back to the house and give Denny a wave. He waves weakly in return, but his eyes are huge, checking out the car. It’s kind of thrilling getting picked up in a car like this, but I’m glad I don’t have to explain the fancy door-to-door service until after I get back.
I’m surprised to find a bouquet of roses and a bottle of champagne waiting for me as the driver helps me into the back. There’s also a large manila envelope with an embossed black satin seal, with the logo of the company affixed. The roses are from Rina, an
d so is the short dossier detailing everything about the coming week. Details are short about both destination and my client, who is just known as James. There’s an itinerary, each event carefully noting the dress code. There’s a discrete note reminding me to leave my cell phone tucked away, and pictures are verboten, which I understand. I notice, in fact, that pictures are conspicuously absent from the whole file.
As if the limousine weren’t impressive enough, when we arrive at the airport, I feel a strange tingle of excitement as the stretch bypasses the regular Departure and Arrival Terminals and speeds down manicured roads to the “Private Travel” area. The limousine pulls up to an honest-to-God red carpet leading up to a sleek black private airplane (I know nothing about planes, do they really call them private jets?) I feel like a Bond Girl when the driver helps me out of the back. A breeze hits the cream scarf so it flutters out past the tailored leather jacket and skirt I chose for my first leg of travel. I remind myself not to go for my own bags and try to walk as though my heels aren’t sinking into the lush red carpet as I make my way to the waiting plane. This is how my high-end escort career begins, and it is light years from my regular life.
“When we land, will there be someone waiting to drive me to the chalet?”
The attendant smiles, but I can tell the question puzzles and amuses her as she offers me more champagne. “Oh, no. The chalet is only accessible via private jet or helicopter. We’re delivering you straight there.”
It’s then that I learn a little more about my “assignment” this week, from the attendant, who is more than happy to chatter. I’ll be tucked away, wining and dining at Harrington’s Ridge. The name is innocuous enough. Harrington’s Ridge could be a gated prestige subdivision or an obscure state park. In reality it’s an ultra-swank, ultra-exclusive mountain resort owned by my client this week, James Harrington, a.k.a. the Ice King. The nom de guerre is due to the twenty or so additional ski resorts he owns, not just in this mountain range, but around the world—even an indoors run in Dubai for the ultra-rich to ski when they tire of sand and sun. Harrington’s Ridge is the newest winter sport hotel and corporate compound for the Ice King’s worldwide operations. What’s more, not only is it only accessible by private jet or helicopter (nothing so gauche as commercial air would dare, surely) but reservations at the luxe hotel can only be made by or for members who pay dues of a quarter of a million dollars, annually, for the privilege.
I feel as inconspicuous as one can when arriving at a private luxury airport, preceded by no less than four valets each carrying one piece of luggage. I’m glad to have shades on so I can steal inconspicuous peeks at the people around me. Just thinking of the sheer amount of money any one of these people must have to even set foot on the property makes my head ache. And I’m here to do what exactly, for how many zeroes after that first digit?
I’m packaged and delivered to the sprawling resort in a sleek vehicle that I can only describe as a hybrid between a Tesla and a snowmobile, the vehicle whirring as though powered by electricity, but on mobile treads. Waiting at the entrance to a massive chalet door is a middle-aged, red-haired woman who coolly takes my hand and introduces herself as Jillian, my valet and assistant for the week. She’s warm and polite, asking how the trip went and if I need any water or to freshen up before I’m taken to meet James.
“Mr. Harrington?”
“You’ll call him James. He’s not anyone’s impression of an informal man by any means, but when he is addressed, he prefers his first name.”
“I see. Well, if he’s waiting, I don’t want to keep him. I made sure to freshen up on the plane.”
“Very good, miss. This way.”
She extends a professional hand and shepherds me past what looks like an elegantly appointed hotel lobby, past some discreetly labeled conference rooms and elevator banks leading to slopes and hotel towers. Then we’re down a short maze of corridors and no less than two private elevators. When we emerge, I can feel that this part of the compound is most definitely a business rather than hospitality wing, as the massive doors that line these halls are all closed and unmarked.
Jillian is still smiling but silent as she leads me down one last long hallway, at the end of which is a sleek and discrete secretary’s desk. There’s another woman planted behind the desk. In stark contrast to the deferential way Jillian has treated me since I arrived, this woman gives me a plain and frank once-over, and the sour way her frown deepens indicates to me she’s not particularly impressed by what she sees. I try not to notice as this Brunhilde and Jillian do battle with their eyes. A few short murmurs later, I am deposited into a massive executive office, the heavy door gliding silently on hidden hinges but closing with a definitive click behind me.
“My Harrington is descending now. He’ll be with you shortly.”
Strange turn of phrase. I don’t give it much thought, though, because I’m trying not to be overwhelmed by the room.
My impression of what “high-end” means just got a serious gut check. Staring out through plate-glass windows that take up the entire far wall, the view is a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees of pristine, white-capped mountains. The office within is all sleek lines, though the mahoghany desk is massive. This is beyond high-end and straight over to the very end of the world.
I’m alone in the office, though. Clearly, wherever Mr. Harrington is “descending” from, he hasn’t finished yet, and I look around the room for some sign of a private elevator. There is one, in the far corner. I’m grateful to be alone just a moment more, if only to have a chance to pull myself together. Whatever my client turns out to like, he’s expecting me to be sexy, professional, and ready to go.
I’m still focused on the elevator, waiting to see some movement, when out of the corner of my eye I see big tufts of snow kicking up. Still keeping one eye on the elevator, I walk over to the window and watch as a black-clad figure skis expertly down what looks to my untrained eye like an almost sheer-dropping slope.
Ski suits are not exactly flattering on anyone, and yet somehow, whomever is on the skis is dipping low over the blades as they cut into the ice with such power and precision, I can almost see muscles in the shoulders and hindquarters burn and pump as they attack the downward slope like it’s an enemy. As the person drifts closer, the speed is breakneck. I’d be worried if the body in the suit didn’t give the impression of complete and total mastery over the equipment, the mountain, and himself.
I feel my eyes get wide when I see that whomever is on the skis is heading straight for where I’m standing behind the plate glass. There’s no way anyone going that speed can possibly stop in time, and I wince and shout out, my hand on the glass as if I could possibly warn him or stop him. At the very last second, the body cuts to the right and comes to a thunderous hockey stop, so close to the glass that the skis kick up a wave of snow that spatters the windows.
The figure in black stands very still on the other side of the window, looking in at me. I realize I’m still pressed close to the other side, my body sagging with relief he didn’t crash into the building after all. The figure’s shoulders and frame are unmistakably male. I can’t see behind the mirrored face and eye-shield he’s wearing, but I still feel that he’s looking straight at me. Feeling stupid, I take my hand away from where it was pressed on the glass.
The man in black stamps twice and the skis expertly kick up and off his booted feet. He has no poles or anything, and I’m reminded of the sleek speed skiers I’ve seen on TV in the Olympics. Maybe this guy is an elite athlete, training here? I’m no expert, but the resort seems like it could serve as a training facility just as easily as a snowy playground for the ultra-wealthy.
Maybe it’s just a trick of the light of that mirrored surface, but I can’t shake the feeling that whoever this man is, he’s still staring at me from behind the shield. And when he leaves the skis to the side and heads purposefully toward the building—toward me—I instinctively take a few steps back.
I shouldn’t be s
urprised by anything at this point. Everything from the moment we drove away from my “regular life” has been surreal. And yet I’m still confused when the man seems to find a seamless hidden entrance and walks by magic through the glass and into the office like he owns the place. And even more confused when the man removes his face shield and I find myself staring into the most striking pair of blue eyes I have ever seen in my life.
It’s not just his eyes that are striking. He’s so handsome that it’s almost impossible, with a strong, square jaw and high cheekbones. He has dark hair, though, slicked back. I’d call him movie-star handsome if it weren’t for the powerful presence in his face and body— the way he stands, and the show of athleticism I just saw when he skied in. This man is no pretty boy, and just standing still I feel like he’s taking up all the space in the room. The building. And he’s tall. I’m in heels, and I have to look up to meet his eyes.
He’s also breathing fast from his run down the mountain, and the strange whorl of snowy cold and heat coming from him is just more unsettling. I catch a clean scent of spicy soap and snow on the air, too. Out of nowhere, I feel a strange pull in my chest, like I want to step closer even as I feel a tingle of caution along the back of my neck. The way it feels to approach something animal and caged.
“You’re Darcy? Rina sent you?” His voice is disconcertingly deep.
I blush and start when he says my name. I don’t even know why. I was half-expecting this gorgeous guy to keep walking out of the room, but he stands there looking at me, one eyebrow raised. And then he holds out his hand to shake mine.