The Gift (34 page)

The little triangle of exposed flesh at his throat seemed to invite the tongue. What would his skin taste like? Not as sharp as gin, no doubt, but just as much of a challenge and ten times as heady.

‘Well, I am a man, as you can see.’ He set down his glass again, and turned more to face her, doing that showcasing, ‘look at the goods’ thing again. ‘But I’m happy to give you more proof, if you like?’

Lizzie took a quick sip of her own drink, to steady herself. The silvery, balsamic taste braced her up.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ She paused, feeling the gin sizzle in her blood. ‘Not right here at least.’

He shook his head and laughed softly, the light from above dancing on his curls, turning soft ash-blond into molten gold. ‘That’s what I like. Straight to the point. Now we’re talking.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, he drew out a black leather wallet and peeled out a banknote, a fifty by the look of it, and dropped it beside his glass as he slipped off the stool again. Reaching for her arm, he said, ‘Let’s go up to my room. I hate wasting time.’

Oh bloody hell! Oh, bloody, bloody hell! He’s either as direct as a very direct thing and he’s dead set on a quickie... or . . .

Good grief, does he think I’m an escort?

The thought plummeted into the space between them like a great Acme anvil. It was possible. Definitely possible. And it would explain the ‘eyes across a bar, nodding and buying drinks’ dance. Lizzie had already twigged that the Lawns bar was a place likely to be rife with that sort of thing, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t know anything about escorting. One of her dearest friends had been one, if only part time and not lately, and Brent would most certainly be alarmed that she’d fallen so naively into this pickle of all pickles. She imagined telling him about this afterwards, perhaps making a big comical thing out of her near escape, and hopefully raising some of the old, wickedly droll humour that fate and loss had knocked out of her beloved house-mate.

Trying to think as fast as she could, Lizzie balked, staying put on the stool. Escort or casual pick-up, she still needed a moment to catch her breath and stall long enough to decide whether or not to do something completely mental. ‘I think I’d rather like to finish my drink. Seems a shame to waste good gin.’

If her companion was vexed, or impatient, he didn’t show it. In a beautiful roll of the shoulders, he shrugged and slipped back onto his stool. ‘Quite right. It is good gin. Cheers!’ He toasted her again.

What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do? This is dangerous.

It was. It was very dangerous. But in a flash of dazzling honesty, she knew that the gin wasn’t the only thing that was too good to waste. The only question was, if he
did
think she was a call girl, did she tell him the truth now, or play along for a bit? She’d never done anything like this before, but, suddenly, she wanted to. She really wanted to. Perhaps because the only man she knew from the wretched party she’d left, other than Brent and some other friends from the pub, was a guy she’d dated once and who’d called her uptight and frigid when she’d rebuffed a grope that’d come too soon.

No use looking like a pin-up and behaving like a dried-up nun, he’d said nastily when she’d told him to clear off.

But this man, well, there wasn’t an atom in her body that wanted to rebuff
him
!

What would it be like to dance on the edge? Play a game? Have an adventure that was about as far from her daily humdrum routine of office temping as it was possible to get?

What would it be like to have this jaw-droppingly stunning man, who was so unlike her usual type? She usually went for guys her own age, and Fallen Angel here certainly wasn’t that. She was twenty-four and, up close, she could see her estimate of mid-forties was probably accurate. A perfectly seasoned, well-kept, prime specimen of mid-forties man, but still with at least twenty more years of life under his belt than she had.

And if she explained his mistake, he might well just smile that glorious smile at her, shake her hand, and walk away. Goodnight, Vienna.

‘Cheers!’ she answered.

He didn’t speak but his eyes gleamed a response.

I bet
you
know what to do with a woman, you devil, paid for or otherwise
.

Yes, she’d put any amount of money, earned on one’s back or by any other means, that when Fallen Angel was with an escort, it was no hardship to be that working girl.

And she couldn’t keep calling him Fallen Angel!

On the spur of the moment, she made a decision. This was a game, and she needed a handle. A name, an avatar that she could hide behind and discard when she needed to.

Looking her companion directly in the eye, and trying not to melt, she set down her glass, held out her hand and said, ‘I’m Bettie. Bettie with an “ie”. What’s your name, Gin-Drinking Man?’

Apparently ignoring the offered handshake, he just laughed, a free, happy, hugely amused, proper laugh. ‘Yes, obviously, you
are
Bettie.’ Looking her up and down, his laser-blue eyes seemed to catalogue her every asset; her black hair with its full fringe, her pale skin, her lips tinted with vivid bombshell red, her pretty decent but unfashionable figure in a fitted dress with an angora cardigan over it. When she went out, especially to a party, she liked to riff on her superficial resemblance to Bettie Page, the notorious glamour model of the 1950s. And being an Elizabeth, Bettie was a natural alternate name too.

Having subjected her to his inspection, he did reach for her hand then, grip it, and give it a firm shake with both of his clasped around it. ‘Delighted to meet you, Bettie. I’m John Smith.’

It was Lizzie’s turn to laugh out loud, and ‘John’ grinned at her. ‘Of course you are, John. How could you possibly be anyone else?’ The classic punter’s name. Even she knew that.

He rocked on the stool, giving his blond head another little shake, still holding on to her. ‘But it’s my name, Bettie. Cross my heart... Honestly.’

The way he held her hand was firm and no nonsense, yet there was a tricky quality to the way his fingertip lay across her wrist, touching the pulse point. She could almost imagine he was monitoring her somehow, but the moment she thought that, he released her.

‘OK, I believe you, Mr John Smith. Now may I finish my drink?’

‘Of course.’ He gave her the glittering smile again, laced with a sultry edge. ‘Forgive me, I’m being a graceless boor. No woman should be rushed . . .’ There was a pause, which might have included the rider,
even a prostitute
. ‘But once I know I’m going to get a treat, I’m like a kid, Bettie. When I want something, I tend to want it now.’

So do I.

Lizzie tossed back the remainder of her gin, amazed that her throat didn’t rebel at its silvery ferociousness. But she didn’t cough, and she set the glass down with a purposeful ‘clop’ on the counter, and slid off her stool.

‘There, all finished. Shall we go?’

John simply beamed, settled lightly on his feet and took her elbow, steering her from the crowded bar and into the foyer quite quickly, but not fast enough to make anyone think they were hurrying.

The lift cab was small, and felt smaller, filled by her new friend’s presence. Standing, he was medium tall, but not towering or hulking, and his body was every bit as good as her preliminary inspection in the bar had promised. As was his suit. It looked breathtakingly high end, making her wonder why, if he was looking for an escort, he didn’t just put in a call to an exclusive agency for a breath-takingly high-end woman to go with it? Rather than pick up an unknown quantity, on spec, in a hotel bar. Leaning against the lift’s wall, though, he eyed her up too as the doors slid closed, looking satisfied enough with his random choice. Was he trying to estimate her price?

‘So, do we do the “elevator” scene?’ he suggested, making no move towards her, except with his bright blue eyes.

Oh yeah, in all those scenes in films and sexy stories, it always happened. The hot couple slammed together in the lift like ravenous dogs and kissed the hell out of each other.

‘I don’t know. You’re in charge.’

‘I most certainly am,’ he said roundly, ‘but let’s pretend and savour the anticipation, shall we? The uncertainty. Even though I do know that you’re the surest of sure things.’

Bingo! He
does
think I’m an escort.

Confirming her suspicions like that, his words should have sounded crass and crude, but instead they were provocative, exciting her. Especially the bit about him being ‘in charge’. Brent had always said it was the whore who was really in charge during a booking, because he or she could just dump the money, say ‘No way!’ and walk out. But somehow Lizzie didn’t think it’d be that way with Mr John Smith, regardless of whether or not he believed she was a call girl.

This is so dangerous.

But she could no sooner have turned back now than ceased to breathe.

‘And anyway, here we are.’ As he doors sprang open again, he ushered her out, his fingertips just touching her back. It was a light contact, but seemed powerful out of all proportion, and Lizzie found herself almost trotting as they hurried along the short corridor to John’s room.

As he let her in, she smiled. She’d not really taken much note of their surroundings as they’d walked, but the room itself was notable. Spacious, but strangely old-fashioned in some ways, almost kitsch. The linens were in chintz, with warm red notes, and the carpet was the colour of vin rouge. It was a bizarre look, compared to the spare lines and neutrals of most modern hotels, but, then, the Waverley Grange Hotel was a strange place, both exclusive and with a frisky, whispered reputation. Lizzie had been to functions here before, but had never seen the accommodation, although she’d heard about the legendary chintz-clad love-nests of the Waverley from Brent’s taller tales.

‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ John grinned, indicating the deliciously blowsy décor with an open hand.

‘Well,
I
like it.’ Perhaps it was best to let him think she’d been in rooms like this before; seen clients and fucked them under or on top of the fluffy chintz duvets.

‘So do I... it’s refreshingly retro. I like old-fashioned things.’ His blue eyes flicked to her ‘Bettie’ hair, her pencil skirt and her angora.

Lizzie realised she was hanging back, barely through the doorway. Now
that
wasn’t confidence; she’d better shape up. She sashayed forward to the bed, and sat down on it, trying to project sangfroid. ‘That’s good to know.’ Her own voice sounded odd to her, and she could hardly hear it over the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her veins.

John paused by the wardrobe, slipping off his jacket and putting it on a hanger. So normal, so everyday. ‘Aren’t you going to phone your agency? That’s what girls usually do about now. They always slip off to the bathroom and I hear them muttering.’

Oops, she was giving herself away. He’d suss her out any moment, if he hadn’t already. ‘I’m... I’m an independent.’ She flashed through her brain, trying to remember things Brent had told her, and stuff from
Secret Diary of a Call Girl
on the telly. ‘But I think I will call someone, if you don’t mind.’ Springing up again, she headed for the other door in the room. It had to lead to the bathroom.

‘Of course... but aren’t you forgetting something?’

Oh God, yes, the money!

‘Three hundred.’ It was a wild guess; it sounded right.

Sandy eyebrows quirked. ‘Very reasonable. I was happy to pay five, at least.’

‘That’s my basic,’ she said, still thinking, thinking. ‘If you find you want something fancier, we can renegotiate.’

Why the hell had she said that? Why? Why? Why? What if he wanted something kinky? Something nasty? He didn’t look that way, but who knew?

‘Fancy, eh? I’ll give it some thought. But in the meantime, let’s start with the basic.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, he slipped out the black wallet again, and peeled off fifties. ‘There,’ he said, placing the notes on the top of the sideboard.

Lizzie scooped them up as she passed, heading for the bathroom, but John stayed her with a hand on her arm, light but implacable.

‘Do you kiss? I know some girls don’t.’

She looked at his mouth, especially his beautiful lower lip, so velvety yet determined.

‘Yes, I kiss.’

‘Well, then, I’ll kiss you when you come back. Now make your call.’

The Accidental Call Girl

It‘s the ultimate fantasy:

When Lizzie meets an attractive older man in the bar of a luxury hotel, he mistakes her for a high class girl on the look-out for a wealthy client.

With a man she can’t resist...

Lizzie finds herself following him to his hotel room for an unforgettable night where she learns the pleasures of submitting to the hands of a master. But what will happen when John discovers that Lizzie is far more than she seems...?

A sexy, thrilling erotic romance for every woman who has ever had a “Pretty Woman” fantasy.

Part One of the ‘Accidental’ Trilogy.

The Accidental Mistress

Seduced by a billionaire...

After being mistaken for a high-class call girl when they first met, Lizzie now enjoys a fiery relationship with John, her gorgeous and incredibly rich older man. Devoted, romantic and devilishly kinky, John knows exactly how to satisfy her every need.

But John has a dark side – and a past he won’t talk about. He might welcome Lizzie in his bed – and out of it – but will she ever be anything more than a rich man’s mistress?

Part Two of the ‘Accidental’ Trilogy.

The Accidental Bride

Marrying a billionaire?

It’s every girl’s fantasy but ever since meeting brooding sexy tycoon, John Smith, Lizzie has never been entirely sure of his true feelings for her.

Has he proposed marriage because he truly loves her or just to keep her in his bed?

Part Three of the ‘Accidental’ Trilogy.

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