Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

"Wait. I don't get to know his name?"

"Not until you arrive at his suite. As I said, he's extremely protective of his privacy. Some of my girls report that he never formally introduced himself. They, however, knew who he was."

"Oh." I'm not sure if that makes me more or less confused. "You're saying that basically he's a last minute, famous guy. Which explains why he pays so well." I lick my lips. "That, and for the, um, service. Because it's not just about being a companion, is it?" I glance toward Joy. "I mean, he's going to want more than just to play with my feet, isn't he?"

"Laine..." Joy scowls at me, her eyes wide in an expression that is obviously supposed to be a signal for me to just shut the hell up.

But, come on. If I can't say it, I can't do it. And so I take a deep breath, and say, "The bottom line is sex, right? I mean, I'd really like to be absolutely certain I know what I'm getting into."

"Oh, my God." Joy looks like she'd give anything to sink into her couch cushion.

I glance at Marjorie, afraid she's going to look perturbed as well. But to my surprise, she laughs, the sound musical. "Joy, don't you dare be frustrated with Laine. Of course, she's going to ask questions. I'd be more concerned if she didn't."

"And yes," she adds, turning her attention fully to me. "It's likely he'll want sex. I'd go so far as to say it's probable. But I wasn't being coy earlier. I really am a go-between. He's paying me to find a date. I'm paying you to be his companion. And if you and the gentleman do choose to do what consenting adults sometimes do, that's between the two of you."

"Oh." I consider that. "Does he--I mean, it's just sex-sex, right? Or does he like--"

"Kink?" Joy chimes in, and this time, both Marjorie and I turn to glare at her.

"I don't know specifics," Marjorie says, focusing again on me. "But I can tell you that all my girls have hard limits. He's never crossed that line--and under the terms of the NDA, they're not only authorized, but required to tell me if he asks them to engage in any dangerous activity."

"NDA?"

"Non-disclosure agreement." She leans forward and opens a drawer in the coffee table, then pulls out a thin folder, which she passes to me, along with a pen. "Part of my role is to also ensure complete discretion."

I open the folder, then frown at the document, written in fluent legalese. "I'm not allowed to say anything to anyone?"

"That about sums it up," she says as I skim the document. "But, then again, neither is he. As I said, if you have safety concerns, you can share those with me. Of course, we wouldn't consider things like spanking and light bondage to put you at risk."

I look up, startled.

"Oh, dear," she says, looking at my face. "Is that something you have a problem with?"

"I--" I glance at Joy, then back at Marjorie. "Honestly, I don't know."

I'm not completely naive, but my knowledge of anything other than vanilla with, maybe, the tiniest drizzle of chocolate sauce, comes exclusively from books.

My head is spinning, and I take a long, deep breath as I hold onto the pen like a lifeline. "The thing is, this is all pretty unexpected and incredibly fast, and--"

"I'm afraid fast is part of the job description, at least for tonight. You're expected by eleven. We still need to do wardrobe and make-up, not to mention taking care of some, shall we say, administrative loose ends. Which means you're out of time, Sugar. I need to text the client a confirmation in exactly five minutes." She glances at her watch, then eyes me. "What do you want me to tell him?"

"I--"

I cut myself off, not sure what I intended to say. Or, rather, I know exactly what I intended to say--yes. I'm just not sure I want to be that kind of woman.

Even though we're getting down to the wire, Marjorie's smile is patient. "You won't believe me, of course," she says, "but I do understand. I've been there. Broke and uncertain and scared that if I make the wrong choice my entire world will come crashing down around me. No, don't be mad at Joy," she adds, when I glare at my friend. "She only told me that you needed cash--who doesn't? I guessed the rest. I've met a lot of young women, and I recognize the scent of desperation."

"Being desperate doesn't make it right."

"But it doesn't make it wrong, either. For that matter, who's to say what's wrong or right? I provide a service. He pays for that service. It's a free market transaction. What's cleaner than that?"

I say nothing.

"Nobody's telling a lie in a bar. Nobody's sitting by the phone wondering if he's going to call again. There's no worrying about whether he likes you or if he's married or about anything at all. Because that's not what's happening here. This isn't romance. It's a commercial transaction. It's no more emotional than buying a box of paperclips. But it just might be a little more fun.

"And," she adds with a wink, "depending on how much fun you two consenting adults have, I would expect him to treat you very, very nicely."

I frown, confused.