At Your Beck & Call

  I was annoyed, irritated that I’d been caught off guard, because it meant that she’d seen some of the real me and I was guarding that more and more zealously. Dates had become appointments. Appointments had become acting jobs. My life was carefully compartmentalized—and I liked it that way.

  She was short, almost tiny, with straight black hair, cut very precisely, and she was wearing a professional looking business suit. We could have been two colleagues meeting up outside the office.

  I smiled, but she was still watching me, her sharp black eyes reflecting nothing of what she was thinking.

  “Mr. Jansen?”

  She held out her hand. There was something vulnerable about the smallness of her palm that made me feel both protective and intimidated at the same time.

  “Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  She gestured toward the low sectional next to her and I sank down into it.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Thank you.”

  An attentive waiter hurried over, and my client looked at me expectantly.

  “Club soda, please.”

  She nodded in satisfaction. I guessed that she wanted to know if I was ordering alcohol this early in the day. If she’d been drinking, I would have, too. Eloise said it made the client more comfortable if you matched them, and I’d already seen that Mary Rose had nothing stronger than water resting on the coffee table in front of her.

  “How was your flight?” I asked politely, once the waiter had left.

  “Uninteresting.”

  “Is this your first visit to LA?”

  She nodded, but didn’t reply.

  I kept the pleasant expression glued onto my face. “So, how can I help you with your plans while you’re here?”

  Her lips twitched, although it couldn’t be described as a smile.

  She handed me a piece of paper.

  “This is my proposed itinerary; I will enjoy your comments.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe Universal Studios or Venice Beach? But there were just two stops on her tour: UCLA campus and the Napa Valley.

  “Oh, okay. Sure, no problem, but the Napa Valley is not really a day trip; it’s some 300 miles away.”

  She nodded her head impatiently.

  “Of course. I have retained you for three days. Today we go to the university.”

  I wasn’t really dressed for wandering around a student campus. As always, I’d worn a dark suit for the initial meeting. But it was her call.

  The late morning sun was scorching, the kind of day where the air shimmers with heat. I was carrying my jacket over my shoulder and my sleeves were rolled up, my tie long abandoned in my pocket.

  Mary Rose seemed impervious to the burning sidewalks or punishing overhead sun, and still wore her suit jacket as fiercely buttoned as her emotions.

  She hadn’t tried to touch me since we shook hands, and we’d barely exchanged more than a few words as she politely rebuffed every conversational opener. I couldn’t tell if she was always so reserved or maybe she just didn’t trust people easily.

  Whatever the reason, I’d sunk into a bland description of what she could clearly see with her own eyes. And she saw everything. I just wish I knew what she was looking for.

  I’d taken her around the most picturesque parts of UCLA’s North Campus where the buildings were older, and I’d shown her the Murphy Sculpture Garden, which was one of my favorite places. She regarded the sculptures earnestly but still without comment. It was driving me kind of crazy.

  We were heading toward the student center near the Young Research Library where we could sit under the shade of the trees and order something to eat and drink. I was hungry and thirsty and hoped Mary Rose was also ready to take break from the brutal heat.

  “Mr. Jansen!” I was surprised to hear someone calling my name, and turned to see my favorite professor waving at me. “Hallen! How lovely to see you. How are you?”

  Emily Golbe taught life drawing and I’d learned so much from her. But beyond that, she’d been truly supportive, encouraging me throughout my student years.

  I saw her cast a curious glance at my client.

  “Professor Golbe! Wow, it’s great to see you, too.”

  She surprised me again by kissing my cheek, then looked at me expectantly.

  “Uh, this is my … this is Ms. Montgomery. She was interested in seeing the campus.”

  Professor Golbe smiled pleasantly while Mary Rose nodded minutely.

  “Are you back to register for graduate school? Because I really think…” Her words trailed off as she correctly read the uncomfortable look on my face. “Or maybe you’re just looking over your old haunts.”

  “Ha, well, I don’t think we’ll be going to the ice rink at Panorama City, but we’ve been over to MacGowan fountain and saw the Henry Moore sculpture again, and the Hepworths.”

  “Your favorites, I seem to recall.”

  “Always.”

  There was a short, uncomfortable pause as her puzzled eyes flicked back and forth between Mary Rose and me.

  “How’s your work progressing? Your painting, I mean. I keep hoping I’ll be hearing about your first exhibit, Hallen.”

  “I think that’s a way off yet.”

  She looked disappointed but smiled and patted my shoulder.

  “What are you working on at the moment?”

  I felt my cheeks color as the admission spilled from me.

  “I’m not … I haven’t … had time.”

  The truth was I hadn’t drawn or painted anything since Monte Carlo. Nothing. Nada. Zip. And I wasn’t sure of the reason why. I suspected, of course, I just didn’t want to admit it.

  Professor Golbe looked horrified.

  “But … your Art! You must paint!”

  Then she seemed to realize we weren’t alone.

  “I’m so sorry, Hallen. This is neither the time nor the place. Please call me next week. I really want to get to the bottom this. My number hasn’t changed. Just … call me.”

  With that, she smiled tightly and disappeared.

  I knew I wouldn’t be calling her next week or any other time. I couldn’t lie to her, and I couldn’t tell her the truth either.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, forcing out a painful laugh as I looked at Mary Rose’s blank expression. “My old professor; she’s pretty intense.”

  “You study here?” asked Mary Rose, breaking her long silence.

  “I did.”

  “And you study painting? Art?”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyebrows rose upwards abruptly.

  “This is why you escort now?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that. She gave me a shrewd look.

  “My son wishes to study in America, but he will be a scientist or engineer. There is always work for those careers. “

  I nodded, my expression as blank as hers.

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  She smiled for the first time. “Yes, but there is always a place for Art, even if it is less appreciated. Why did you give up?”

  I shrugged, uncomfortable with the increasingly personal direction of the conversation.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have time. Don’t have … I don’t have time.”

  “Hmm.”

  We didn’t speak again until we got to the Student Center and I pulled out a chair for her under the shade of a large coral tree. I wanted an ice cold beer, but Mary Rose ordered soda, so I did the same. Reluctantly.

  “Are you a good artist?” she asked, suddenly.

  I tried to look relaxed but I’d been hoping she wouldn’t bring up that subject again. “Not bad. Not good enough to make a career of it.”

  “Your professor does not agree with you.”

  I smiled, although it probably came out more as a grimace.

  “The Art world is very competitive.”

  “You are not competitive?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that either. Once ma
ybe. But now?

  She leaned back in her chair.

  “I want you to draw me.”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t have any paper. I’d have to use a napkin. Although…”

  “Yes?”

  I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “The LuValle store sells art materials. It’s just behind us. I guess I could buy a sketch pad … if you really want me to draw you.”

  She looked pleased.

  “I will wait here.”

  Shaking my head, thrown by this turn of events, I walked over to the store, breathing in the familiar smell of new books. I bought a spiral bound pad of medium weight cartridge paper and a pack of graphite pencils.

  Mary Rose gave me a small, polite smile as I settled the pad on my knee, meaning to draw a quick sketch to get it over and done with. But the pencil felt too familiar in my hand, and I was pulled to the depths of her dark eyes, and the elusive emotion she tried to hide in her stoic manner.

  After ten minutes, I finished the drawing, signed it and handed it to her. I wasn’t as rusty as I’d thought.

  Her eyes widened and she nodded slowly.

  “You are an interesting person.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

  Then she shocked the hell out of me by laughing loudly.

  “I like you,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

  “Okay … and that’s … a problem?”

  “Yes.”

  She wasn’t making this confusing conversation easy.

  “Why is it a problem?”

  She ignored my question.

  “Do you have a driving license?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. I will rent a car and you will drive us to Napa Valley tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “And tonight you will come to my hotel suite?”

  I smiled professionally.

  “That can be arranged.”

  She returned my look without smiling. “I know.”

  I went home for a couple of hours to freshen up, before I had to be back at her hotel.

  Eloise texted me to say that Mary Rose had reserved me for four hours, including dinner.

  I refilled my wallet with condoms.

  Dinner was pleasant and a single glass of a Rutherford Merlot seemed to loosen her up, making her more talkative than she’d been so far.

  What I wasn’t expecting was to be given a lecture on the benefits of yoga when it came to sex.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding forcefully, “it is important to stay flexible for maximum pleasure. You agree?”

  “Well, it certainly sounds like a good idea.”

  I’d done some yoga as part of the off-ice conditioning when I played hockey—the stretching exercises helped prevent injuries, but that was as far as it went.

  She seemed disappointed.

  “You have not studied its possibilities?”

  “I’d have to say no to that.”

  “You have not studied Kama Sutra?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “I am very flexible,” she boasted. “Splitting bamboo and lustful leg are my favorites.”

  “Are those yoga moves?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “From Kama Sutra.”

  I leaned forward and looked her in the eye.

  “I’m a fast learner.”

  There really wasn’t anything else I could say.

  She drank down the last of her wine and smiled like a cat. Tonight was going to prove interesting.

  She signed for the meal and instructed me to wait ten minutes before going to her suite on the ninth floor.

  I spent the time finding that place inside where I told myself that none of this mattered. It was just business. Just money.

  Mary Rose opened the door wearing a thigh-length robe of pale pink silk, offsetting her golden-brown skin.

  She beckoned me in, but I took a moment to appreciate the view, leaning against the doorpost as a slow smile stole across my face.

  She looked annoyed and slightly flustered while I continued to stand there. Yes, I was at the client’s command, but one thing I’d learned, I was at my best when I took control. And I hadn’t had any complaints so far.

  “You’ve dressed for me, Mary Rose,” I said, letting my eyes sweep across her body. “Or undressed.”

  “You come in now, please!” she said, sharply.

  I just grinned at her. “But I’m enjoying the view so much from here; it would be a pity to spoil it too soon.”

  Her cheeks reddened to a dusky pink. I smiled to myself and walked in, letting the door slam shut behind me.

  “So, I Googled ‘lustful leg’,” I said, mildly. “You can really do that?”

  “Yes!” she said, proudly.

  “Hmm, I can’t wait to see that, baby.”

  I strolled towards her, closing the small amount of space between us, so her body was flush against mine. I rested my hands on her narrow hips, gently massaging the material underneath my fingers, enjoying the way the silk whispered against her skin.

  A small tremor ran through her body as I leaned down to kiss her neck.

  “Take off your clothes,” she said, trying to hide the quaver in her voice.

  I stood up and smiled at her.

  “You do it.”

  She frowned and crossed her arms.

  “I am giving the orders.”

  “No, baby. I’m here to make you scream my name.”

  Her eyes widened and I think she stopped breathing. I wondered if this feeling would ever get old.

  I leaned down again, trailing small kisses down her throat, sliding the silk robe open, brushing my fingers over her bare shoulder, until the robe was caught in the crook of her elbows.

  She shuddered and started to unbutton my shirt with shaking fingers, tugging the material out of my waistband.

  I laughed, pushing her hands away so I could shrug out of my jacket and throw it over a chair, ridding myself of my tie before she managed to strangle me with it.

  Her insistence on being in charge turned to eager fumbling.

  I toed off my shoes and socks as she attacked my zipper, using her small fingers to free my cock from my pants.

  “You are very tall, American boy!” she said. “All of you is tall.”

  I managed to retrieve the condoms and was about to roll one on when Mary Rose huffed impatiently, sank to her knees and took me into her mouth.

  She might have been small—almost doll like in build—but she was all woman when it came to making a man’s mind turn to mush. I stood there, in danger of blissing out totally.

  After a minute, I pushed her shoulders, but when that didn’t work, I gripped her hair and tugged hard, forcing her to release me and backing us both toward the wall. I was going to need to brace myself against something if she really could do what she said she could.

  I didn’t think she was a liar.

  “Let’s see that lustful leg,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

  I took her small breasts in my hands and ran my tongue around her pouting nipples. She moaned, long and low. I stood back, releasing her with a pop.

  She watched with feral eyes, wide with lust and fascination as I rolled on the condom. Then she placed one hand on my bicep and lifted her right leg so it was over my shoulder.

  Holy shit! She was really doing it—fucking full length splits, so her shaved little pussy was lined up with my…

  “Mary Rose, this isn’t going to work. You’re going to have to stand on a box or something.”

  “You too tall, American boy!” she snapped again, shaking her head.

  I wanted to laugh, but that would have gotten me fired.

  “Have you got one of those hard shell suitcases?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could stand on that.”

  She pointed to the closet and I dragged out the solid-looking suitcase. I hoped this was going to work otherwise one of us w
ould be going to the ER room.

  She stood on the case, lifted her leg, and this time we were perfectly aligned. But if she slipped off that case, she was going to break my dick. Ah hell. The things I did to earn a few bucks. Okay, a lot of bucks, but still…

  I pushed into her slowly, mindful that we weren’t in the most stable of positions. But then she straightened her leg so she was doing the splits again, jeez, that felt deep. I pulled her waist tightly against me, but every time I thrust, the suitcase moved.

  “Fuck this,” I muttered, picking her up and dropping her onto the bed.

  I threw her other leg over my shoulder and took her like that, building up a rhythm until she was muttering and murmuring in her own language. I don’t know what she was saying, but she definitely liked it. In fact, if she was any louder, we’d have hotel security banging down her door.

  She came with a long moan, but I held off. I had a feeling this was going to be a busy night.

  I had no idea what the position that we’d used was called, but Mary Rose demonstrated the split bamboo an hour later. Holy shit! This woman should get an Olympic medal for flexible fucking.

  Two hours later we were lying in bed, sated and sweaty.

  “You must start to paint again,” she said, out of the blue.

  I felt my body tense up, and she felt it too, because she laid a soothing hand on my chest.

  “I am private person, Hallen, so I do not pry. But you are very talented. Your professor says so and I think it as well. It is wrong to waste this gift. You are talented at fucking, too,” she added, a sly expression on her face.

  “Well, thank you very much,” I laughed.

  “Not as flexible as me,” she boasted again.

  “Baby, a trapeze artist in the circus isn’t as flexible as you. Holy shit, you know some amazing stuff.”

  She smiled, pleased with herself.

  “Yoga,” she repeated. “You have stamina, but you need more stretch.”

  “Are you complaining?” I asked, tweaking her nipple.

  She laughed and flicked my hand away.

  “No. I’m glad I hired you. I just wish I didn’t like you so much.”

  I didn’t get that at all.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “No, but maybe yes.”

  “You’re going to have to explain that, baby.”

  “American men come to my country—for girls. They want pretty Filipinas for sex. The girls hope that the men will marry them, take them home, make them rich and lazy. Sometimes it works out, but mostly it doesn’t. The girls grow fat with more babies, or they live alone with men they don’t love in a country they don’t understand.”