I hesitated a microsecond before replying, but it was too late.
“Oh my God!” she said, her eyes narrowing with disgust.
She threw my phone down onto the patio where it shattered, the plastic rocketing in a dozen directions.
“Paige…”
She stood up so quickly her chair skittered backwards and crashed into the next table, sending their drinks flying.
I stood, too, but she slapped my face hard and flounced off. That woman could work a flounce.
I was left with a $50 bill from the café, a $75 dry-cleaning bill for a woman’s dress at the next table, and the need for a new cell phone.
I didn’t see Paige again, but I heard from Carl that she called Tessa in tears. I felt bad about that. Not bad enough to call her myself.
But I vowed I’d never let another woman know the truth about me. Ever.
I even briefly considered dating a client, someone who already knew about me. There were a couple that I really liked because there was respect there as well as mutual attraction, but really, what would be the point? It was just too freaking complicated.
I didn’t blame Paige for going off like that. It couldn’t have been much fun knowing that I was out with other women. And because I didn’t try to keep up the façade in front of her, she got the brunt of my moods, or when I just wanted to be quiet. It wasn’t fair on her.
It wasn’t fair on anyone. Besides, I was getting as much sex as any one guy could handle, why would I want a girlfriend? Whatever I’d tried to find with Paige, it just wasn’t worth the trouble.
I didn’t try dating again.
I concentrated on work. Only work. I was focused and dedicated. Eloise was pleased—and I started making some serious money.
I told myself I’d made the right decision. I made it work for me. In a way, I was happy.
The week I turned 22 was spent on a yacht at Monte Carlo.
Emma Darchelle was a joyfully divorced woman in her forties, although she insisted that she was only 31 and felt 25. Her two teenage sons lived half the year with their father, a French racehorse owner who was part of the Del Duca dynasty.
Money was no object, and bearing in mind that she’d been born Emma Harris of Trenton, New Jersey, stable hand, she’d taken marrying well to a whole new level.
As Eloise drove me to LAX for my first foreign assignment, she confided that Madame Darchelle was rumoured to have received settlement of a cool $1 billion.
Since the divorce, she’d acquired a seven bedroom apartment in Manhattan, a Georgian townhouse in London that had once belonged to the Duke of Buckingham, a ski lodge at Klosters, and the 230 foot yacht Emma Dee.
I was just one of her new toys. The $40,000 that I’d receive for the week cost her less than seven hours’ interest of her annual income from interest.
Kinda put things in perspective.
Eloise kissed me on the cheek, and for a moment I saw a look in her eyes that I couldn’t interpret. Then she was gone and I waited alone in the first class lounge.
I’d worked for Eloise for nearly a year and I could hardly recognize the person I’d become. I made my own rules now and not much fazed me, but the thought of what I might be flying into was unsettling. If things didn’t work out, it was a helluva long way home.
The 17 hour flight to Côte d’Azur, Nice, involved the usual tedium of traveling long distance, but in much more comfort than I was used to. I watched four films, ate three meals, and read two-thirds of a biography about one of my favorite artists. There was something in Caravaggio’s excesses that I could identify with, if not all of his passions.
I was hoping to visit the Museum of the Chapel of Visitation to see some of the Italian Baroque masterpieces while I was in Monaco. It probably wouldn’t be possible; Eloise had told me to expect to earn my fee.
Officially, I’d be Madame Darchelle’s escort to a fundraising dinner for one of her charities at the famous Casino de Monte Carlo. The fact that I knew fuck-all about gambling was a problem—unless you counted a drunken weekend in Vegas with Carl, losing $200 on slot machines.
Eloise gave me a crash course on the finer points of Blackjack, Craps, Roulette, Trente et Quarante, and Stud Poker. She then proceeded to wipe the floor with me in every possible game, and with a sigh, strongly recommended that I never ever gamble with my own money.
I couldn’t help thinking that life was a gamble—a fucking hilarious game of chance—especially since I’d met her.
I was greeted at the airport by a uniformed chauffeur who didn’t hide his scorn when he heard my provincial French accent. Eloise had warned me. After a long flight and lack of sleep, I was in no mood to have some jumped up little shit yanking my dick. I stared at him coldly, and if I’d been an animal, you’d have heard me growl. He backed down and meekly took my bags to the car, an elegant English Bentley with French licence plates.
The Mediterranean Sea was a sullen gray, and not the glittering jewel in the French crown that I’d read about. It was dull and heavy and uninspired, matched by the grim volcanic beaches. But then a single ray of sun, the artist’s finger of God, broke through the heavy cloud, and the water splintered into a million diamond pieces. I was mesmerized and saddened all at the same time.
The chauffeur caught my eye and gave a small, snaggle-toothed smile.
“Aucun possible n’est beau; le réel seul est beau.” No possibility is beautiful; reality alone is beautiful.
I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Fuck me. Even the drivers around here spoke like poets.
The journey was brief, just 20 minutes of wallowing in the back seat, before the car stopped at Port Hercule, the small harbor fringed by pink and white buildings, arranged like candies above the waterline.
The Emma Dee was one of the largest yachts moored there. Well, large is too small a word to adequately describe six floors of floating opulence. But I was just a traveler in the world of the super-rich—I wouldn’t be staying for long. And I wasn’t going to let on that this was out of my league.
Waiting by a sleek motorboat was a man a few years older than me, and a woman in her thirties, both dressed in a white and gray uniform.
“God kväll,” she said, in heavily accented Swedish. Good day.
I replied a little hesitantly. It had been over a decade since I’d spoken my father’s native language.
“Jag talar engelska eller franska, om du perfer?” I speak English and French, if you prefer.
The woman nodded looking relieved, then explained in English that her name was Silvi Spitz, Chief Stewardess, and that the man, Mel, was a deckhand from New Zealand.
He gave me a quiet, “G’day,” and heaved my case and garment bag on board the speedboat. Her gaze was curious but not unfriendly; his, stony.
I’d done enough appointments not to feel nervous about meeting my new client, but the level of wealth Eloise had coached me to expect made it hard to relax. It felt like a fucking huge test—one that I was afraid I’d flunk because I’d stayed up drinking all night instead of studying. Yeah, that happened a couple of times when I was in college.
Mel casually asked if I wanted a life vest and when I said I was fine, he took the helm and powered up, whipping us over the gray water so that spray plumed around us.
Silvi snapped at him to slow down, muttering something about speed limits and fines. He grinned over his shoulder and gunned the engine some more. She nearly toppled over the side, and I had to make a grab for her. Unfortunately my hand landed on her left breast, which turned the grab into a grope.
Mel laughed his ass off until Silvi threatened to fire him. He seemed to think she was joking, but I wasn’t so sure. I apologized quickly but she waved it off, giving me a stare akin to a drill instructor. I half expected her to yell at me to hit the deck and give her fifty.
As we approached the Emma Dee, I could see two more men in the same white and gray uniform waiting to catch the mooring line as we drew alongside. They greeted Mel but seemed more formal with S
ilvi. I was introduced as Mr. Jansen.
The stacked decks loomed above me, coolly sophisticated. Wealth like that wasn’t every day. It was exceptional, intimidating. I knew I had to act like it meant nothing. Perhaps that’s true when it doesn’t belong to you and you have no possible way of acquiring it, short of robbing Fort Knox.
Silvi nodded at me, then indicated that I should follow Mel. He led me past an impressive glass circular stairway toward the discreet elevator, giving me the tourist spiel as we walked.
“The guest accommodation is on the lower deck, Mr. Jansen,” he said. “Madame Darchelle has the stateroom suite on the bridge deck. There’s a gym with a treadmill on the upper deck and an outdoor Jacuzzi next to the 20 meter pool.
“We’re WiFi and iPod capable throughout and are fully equipped to offer you scuba diving, kayaking, dinghy sailing, water skiing and we have two Jet skis.” He looked at me and gave a small smirk. “If you have time, sir.”
His smug look made me want to punch him, but I didn’t reply. Brawling with the crew in the first hour was probably a big no.
“The Emma Dee has a top speed of 15.5 knots,” he droned on, “and a range of 4,000 nautical miles. Oh, and there’s a fully stocked wet bar on the bridge deck. You’re going to need that,” he muttered.
I was tired, jet-lagged, and had just reached my limit of pissy assholes.
“Do we have a problem, Mel? Because right now you’re pissing me the fuck off.”
His face went blank and he stared at the space above my left shoulder.
“No, Mr. Jansen, sir. No problem.”
“Oh, fuck’s sake! I’m not going to go running to Madame Darchelle. I haven’t even fucking met her! I’ve just traveled the best part of 24 hours and now some Kiwi bastard is going out of his way to piss me off. So once again, what is your goddamn problem?”
He met my angry stare with a cool one of his own, shrugged his shoulders, and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t have a problem. Mate.”
I sighed, too tired to bother with his attitude.
“What the fuck ever. Just show me where I can crash.”
He turned around and ambled off, but at least the tedious fucking monologue had stopped.
Eventually, he pushed open the door to a large bedroom suite.
“You’re in here. Your bags will be brought up.”
Then he left.
I was hungry and thirsty and falling asleep on my feet. I found a bottle of water in the small fridge, had the shortest shower in history, then crawled into bed and passed out.
I woke up suddenly, aware that there was someone in the room, a dark shape sitting on the end of my bed.
“Fuck!”
My heart was racing and it took me a second to remember where I was. And what I was.
“Hello.”
It was a woman’s voice and when she flicked on the light, I had to screw my eyes shut for a moment, my hand lifting defensively as if to protect myself from the glare.
“Oh, very nice,” she said, her eyes traveling unapologetically up and down my body. “And you sleep nude. I like that.”
It didn’t take a genius to work out that this was my employer for the next week.
She stared like she was about to take a chunk out of me, and she licked her lips hungrily.
I compared what I’d read about her with what I saw in front of me.
Her dark hair was cut into a sleek bob that clung to her cheeks, two curves pointing toward her plump lips. She had blue-gray eyes, the lashes generously coated with mascara, a curvaceous body and seriously great tits. I mean, I’d seen a lot of tits since I’d started finding them fascinating at the age of 11. And since I’d started working for Eloise, I’d seen small tits, large tits, asymmetric tits, scarred chests that no longer had tits, and artificial tits the size of bowling balls. Emma’s were large and juicy and 100% natural. Either that, or her plastic surgeon was a freakin’ genius.
I felt relieved that this wasn’t going to be the week when the small, blue, heart-shaped pills that Eloise insisted I carry were finally going to come into use.
“My room, ten minutes,” she said, her eyes dropping to the sheet that covered me from the waist down. “Shave first. I hate stubble burn—especially between my legs.”
And then she left.
I glanced at the time on my cell phone—2:30AM. I’d had three hours sleep. Guess that would have to do.
My bags hadn’t arrived yet. Either someone had knocked and not been able to wake me—which would be a first, considering I was stone cold sober and a light sleeper—or that bastard Mel was deliberately being an even bigger asshole than I already thought he was.
Luckily, the guest room provided the basics of a high class hotel room: shaving kit, shampoo, shower gel and some fruit-scented body lotion that I didn’t touch. Everything was monogrammed, too—from the towels to the toiletries: ED.
I shaved as quickly as possible without cutting my throat, and pulled on the clothes I’d traveled in with a grimace. I hated wearing dirty clothes. Hell, who doesn’t? I decided I’d find Mel in the morning and show him my personal fucking displeasure.
Luckily, I had condoms in my wallet. Well, not luckily—I always kept a small stock in there.
I was glad Customs hadn’t gone through my case because they’d have found quite a stash of prophylactics that would be hard to explain. You could say I was a condom connoisseur: flavored, in case the client wanted to give me oral; extra strong for anal; and my favorite Trojans Ultra Thin for everything else. I had a few novelty ones, as well as glow in the dark, ribbed, textured, some anti-allergy ones for women who couldn’t take latex, plus dental dams if I was giving oral—although I didn’t like using them much. And lube, of course.
But without my bags, I had to fall back on the basics.
I closed the door behind me and took a moment to orientate myself, trying to recall the yacht’s layout and the location of my client’s cabin.
The electric lighting in the corridor was muted now, and only the soft, rocking motion, a reminder that I was afloat.
I made my way on deck, pausing to take in the yellow and white lights ashore as the sea’s silent ripples reflected them palely. Across the harbor, I could hear faint music. Classical. Mozart?
“It is beautiful, no?”
I jumped, wondering whether it was too much to ask for people to stop giving me heart attacks.
The chief stewardess, Silvi, glanced away from me as she leaned over the guard rail, watching her cigarette smoke weave into the warm air.
“Yes, it is. Starry Night,” I breathed, to myself.
Except she heard me.
“Starry Night Sur Le Rhône?” she questioned.
I looked at her, measuring my own surprise in her eyes.
“Yes. That’s what it reminded me of.”
“Van Gogh is a crude painter,” she sniffed. “Untutored. Besides,” she continued, “the tortured artist? It’s a dull cliché.”
I laughed. “Not if he invented it.”
“He didn’t,” she said with certainty. “Caravaggio was there first.”
“Or Michelangelo.”
“You think that?”
“He never washed. Slept on the floor. Never changed his clothes. Hated talking to people. Yeah, I’d say he had some issues.”
She smiled, sliding her eyes to mine for a second.
“Madame isn’t interested in Art.”
I shrugged. “She doesn’t have to be.”
“She’s waiting for you.”
“I know.”
Then she turned to me and frowned.
“You’re wearing the clothes you traveled in.”
“I didn’t have my suitcase.”
She looked annoyed and flicked a long stream of ash into the water.
“I’ll make sure it’s delivered to your room during your absence. I’ll speak to Mel.”
“No,” I said, my jaw tightening across the words. “I’l
l speak to Mel.”
She straightened abruptly and ground out the cigarette with her heel.
“No, you will not. He is staff and answerable to me. I don’t want any trouble. It will cost me my job if there is.”
She glared at me, and I nodded fractionally, not missing her look of relief.
“He’s jealous, you know.”
“What?”
“Mel. He’s in love with Madame, but she doesn’t notice him. Or perhaps she did. Once. She prefers … professionals. His disappointment makes him childish.”
Poor bastard.
“Okay. But if he gets in my face again, I’m not backing down.”
“Männer sind Idioten,” she huffed to herself.
“Men are idiots, huh?”
She laughed, a rueful expression on her face. “You speak German, as well?”
“No, but that was pretty obvious.”
She smiled again. I liked her smile. It softened the hard edges and lines of her face.
As her smile faded, she turned away. “Madame’s cabin is two decks above, toward the aft but before the saloon.”
“Thank you.”
She stopped for a moment and met my gaze.
“The French call orgasm ‘le petit mort’, the little death.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Have a good night, Mr. Jansen.”
She walked away as I fixed the picture of the harbor lights in my memory.
Break time over.
I climbed the metal stairs to the decks above, my footsteps sounding hollow and overly loud. I passed the bridge where a man in the white and gray uniform was seated before a panel of colored lights. He looked up when I walked by, his bored eyes following as I made my way toward the Stateroom.
I could hear music playing from behind the vast, mahogany door, something upbeat that didn’t match my mood. I shook my head, reminding myself that I was here to work. I took a deep breath, mentally preparing to be that person.
I knocked on the door confidently, my hand falling away as it was wrenched open.
“You took your time.”
“Sorry. I don’t know the layout yet.”
“It’s not that damn big!” Then her nose wrinkled. “Have you been smoking? I told your agent I didn’t want a smoker.”