Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

All in all, much less intimidating, and I start to relax. Just a little, anyway.

"So, um." I'm not sure if I'm supposed to sit or talk, so I do both. I take a seat on a silk upholstered armchair and tell Marjorie, "I think I know what you do. But maybe you should tell me anyway. Because I'm going to be really embarrassed if I'm wrong."

She doesn't laugh, but I see a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. And somehow that small gesture relaxes me. Because her expression isn't mocking, but maternal. No matter what it is that's in store for me, Marjorie has my back.

Or, at least, she's good at pretending she does.

"It's quite simple, really." She takes a seat on the sofa, then gestures for Joy to do the same. Joy does, then kicks her feet up on the coffee table, her funky, paint-splattered sneakers in stark contrast to the ornamental glass vase and fresh roses.

Marjorie, however, takes it in stride, merely lifting an eyebrow in approbation.

Joy frowns, then tugs her feet to the ground. She looks at me and crosses her eyes, and I fight a laugh, immediately more at ease.

"I act as a liaison. Nothing more. Nothing less." As Marjorie speaks, a tall, thin man with graying temples enters the room and sets down a tray with three flutes and a clear pitcher filled with something orange. "Thank you, Daniel. I can pour. Mimosa?" she continues, as Daniel leaves the room. "I know they're traditionally a breakfast drink, but they're my current guilty pleasure."

"Sure. That would be great." Joy was right. I should have had that second glass of wine. "A liaison," I prompt as she passes me my glass. I take a quick sip. "So, men come to you, and you find a girl who--I don't know--matches some set of qualifications?"

"Essentially. Yes."

"And my job?"

"Is simply to be a companion."

I have a feeling it's not as simple as that, but I'm also not sure I'm ready for the nitty-gritty to be said aloud yet. So I dodge. "And you have a job for me already planned for tonight. How did you know I'd fit the bill?"

"I didn't, of course." She leans back and crosses her legs. "But Joy told me a bit about you. You seem like a strong woman, which this particular client finds attractive. She sent me a picture, and you're certainly lovely enough to be on my roster."

"Thanks," I mumble automatically. At the moment, I'm dressed in an oversized T-shirt and jeans, so I'm not exactly showing off my assets. And the truth is I don't show them off very often. I'm not prudish about sex--but I am discriminating. And it can be both overwhelming and frustrating to be constantly hit on.

"Of course, looks aren't everything. But now that I've met you, I agree with Joy's assessment that you're charming and bright. Frankly, you're a perfect fit for Mr. Z."

"Mr. Z," I repeat thoughtfully. "So, is he a regular customer?"

"He's on my client roster, obviously. But I wouldn't call him a regular. He's not weekly. For that matter, he's not even monthly. And when he does call, it's always unplanned, like tonight, and I have to scramble to find him a suitable companion." Again, she flashes an elegant smile. "Of course, that's one of the reasons he's willing to pay such a premium over the usual rate for both your fee and mine."

"The ten's all yours," Joy says. "Marjorie's fee is handled separately."

"Oh." I feel strangely better knowing that not all her clients pay five figures to get a date.

That sense of relie

f fades almost immediately, though, and I frown. "What's wrong with him?"

"Not a single thing," she says.

"Well, then why doesn't he just go to a bar and pick up a girl?"

"He's a man who values his reputation and his privacy. A bar hook-up wouldn't suit his image at all."

And sleeping with a call girl does?

I don't say that out loud, of course, but Marjorie obviously understands what I'm thinking, because she says simply, "He's paying for discretion, of course. That's not something that tends to come with a more traditional one-night stand."

I nod. Despite the oddity of this whole thing, I really do understand what she means.

"So, who is he?"

"I told you. Mr. Z."