The Willing (12 page)

Clearly, Evangeline was too much of a lady to call me out on the lie.  "Aren't you cold?" she asked, stepping out onto the terrace and untangling a shawl from her shoulders. "Here, put this on."

"Oh, no," I demurred, "I'm alright..."

"Please, you're about to get pneumonia, dear." There was that slight note of condescension I remembered so well.

I took the shawl. It was warm from contact with her skin and very soft.

Evangeline didn't seem to need it; she wore long sleeves, even for our pseudo-beach party, and a skirt that reached her knees demurely. I wondered what it was like to know that the men you worked with were all randy pigs. Did she dress so conservatively to make sure they understood she wasn't anything like the women they used and discarded?

"How've you been?" I asked, trying to fill the fast-growing silence. I didn't know what to do. Standing beside a male client at the edge of the balcony, I might have let my hip brush his, or pretended to be entranced with his handsome (or not so handsome) face.

Seducing a woman was a different kettle of fish. Michelle would've known better how to handle the challenge, but Michelle wasn't here.

"Well," Evangeline answered after a pause. A smile tipped up her lips. "Working Oliver into the ground, I'm afraid, but that's good practice for when I'll have to go on maternity leave." She rubbed her belly with an absent hand. I noticed that she had orange juice in her hand, probably non-alcoholic. She made no secret of her pregnancy, which had to be doubly uncomfortable for the other guests.

I liked her a little more just for that.

"Can I ask... how far along are you?"

"A couple of months." Her smile grew. "I'm not showing, I know, but the doctors tell me they're sure, so I believe them. Do you want children, Jocelyn?"

The question took me by surprise, as did the fact that she remembered my name. I wondered how long she'd need to forget it; would she be shocked if she discovered Oliver had hired me as his occasional torturer? "Someday," I answered at length. "Maybe. I don't know." When I was little, I'd always wanted siblings, but then my parents divorced and my mother got sick and I couldn't seem to grow up fast enough. "It's a big commitment," I added, trying to be as diplomatic as I could.

Evangeline hummed her agreement. "And a lot to undertake on your own, yeah... Luckily, I have Oliver to mother the company while I'm away."

I nearly choked on my champagne. "That's great," I said instead, recovering a little awkwardly. He wasn't the father, I told myself. He couldn't be.

"He was very cagey after we left your party," Evangeline mused absently. (
Your party
, she'd said, and I nearly burst out laughing.) "I told him he was free to stay if he wanted to, but he can be ridiculously protective, so he insisted on making sure I got home alright. Guess it's a sibling thing. He's the same with his sister..."

"She doesn't seem to need it," I mumbled under my breath.

"Oh, you've met?"

Foot, meet mouth
. I smiled awkwardly. "Only once. Completely by accident." Me and my big mouth! I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about that, or give details about the time I spent at
Casa di Shepherd
.

Evangeline took this in stride. "Interesting... You're right, of course. Geraldine is all rebel with a cause. She'd have to be, sailing weeks at the time with no one to talk to, much less rely on."

"She's a sailor?"

"Yachts," Evangeline clarified, "not whaling ships. She races."

I was still reeling from my last glaring mistake and tried to conceal my surprise. It was hard to imagine the redhead socialite in Oliver's living room as an intrepid sportswoman, but not impossible. I'd done her a disservice when I judged her while knowing next to nothing about her.

A bit like I'd done to Oliver—but I wasn't going to think about him now.

"They're both such interesting people," Evangeline mused, glancing at me sideways. "Oliver in particular..."

"Yes, Mr. Shepherd is a great man." That was rote, just a lot of hot air packaged neatly in wide-eyed wonderment.

Evangeline tittered decorously. "You're an awful liar. There's no harm in admitting you like him. He's good-looking. Granted, I spend eight hours a day in the office next to his, so I can tell you he does chew his nails occasionally and he sweats like a pig, but I suppose in a certain light... you might say he looks a bit like Paul Newman."

I smiled, glad that my skin tone hid a blush so effectively. I was more worried that this was some kind of trap than concerned with trying to figure out if the comparison was more damning for Paul or Oliver.

"He's also very rich," Evangeline said, which curtailed my smile in a flash.

"I would assume." I
knew
, because here was Oliver throwing a couple of thousand at me every week to whack him with a flogger. He had disposable income to spare, alright, and I didn't feel guilty about taking his money.

At least, I didn't
want
to feel guilty. I figured that if I told myself as much every day, I'd end up believing it by the time our arrangement came to an end.

Evangeline did a quarter turn and faced me head on. I couldn't avoid her gaze anymore. "I'm not going to tell you not to pursue him," she began, then faltered a little, penciled brows furrowing. "He's charming and he's very bright, but my dear, he's got some intimacy issues I wouldn't wish on anyone."

Don't I know it
, I thought, my lips pursing.

"It's none of my business," Evangeline added quickly, as if to stave off my answer. "And no skin off my back if you decide to give in to his advances--"

It was too much.

"Let me stop you right there... Mr. Shepherd hasn't made any advances. Not to me." At this point, I'd be surprised if he even knew I was a woman. What he needed from me had nothing to do with who I was, only with my unique set of skills.

Evangeline's eyes narrowed slightly, as if in disbelief. I wasn't lying, though, so I didn't know what she was hoping to see on my face by way of evidence.

"My mistake," she said eventually.

"It happens. Especially in this line of work." I didn't clarify if I meant my whoring or her meddling. "If you'll excuse me..." I made to walk away, ducking my head politely.

Evangeline caught my arm. "Jocelyn."

"Oh, of course." The shawl. I'd forgotten all about it.

As I unraveled the strip of cashmere from around my shoulders and handed it back to its rightful owner, I tried vainly not to feel like I was shedding a layer of my pride with it. And just like that, I was back to standing before Evangeline in my gold bikini thong, the quintessential woman of ill-repute.

"If I've offended you," Evangeline started awkwardly.

I shook my head, synthetic, blond curls bouncing. "Oh, no. Not at all. But I do need to go back in. It's a little chilly out here." I didn't offer to take her with me. Our conversation was over. I'd taken about as much as my pride could handle.

To her credit, Evangeline didn't press her luck. "Okay. Well... it was nice seeing you again."

I doubted that very much, but I assured her the sentiment was mutual and wished her a good evening. My legs didn't turn to jelly; my knees didn't give out as I rejoined the flock of revelers inside the mansion.

The party was in full swing, a cacophony of sound and half-naked (female) bodies bounding to a deafening beat. I spied Michelle in a man's lap, but I couldn't see his face around her shoulder, only two long-fingered hands grasping her by the hips. She seemed to be having her usual success.

My head ached. I couldn't have made my way to her side even if I wanted to, because right there, standing in the terrace doorway, was Evangeline Emerson, her almond eyes following my progress around the room. The thought of throwing myself at a presumptive client while she watched made me feel nauseous.

"Why are standing around?" Madam asked, suddenly materializing at my side. Her lips were fashioned into a warm smile, but her eyes were sharp, gaze flinty. Evidently, my lethargy displeased her. 

"See the broad in the doorway?" I asked, helping myself to another glass of champagne to mask a nod of the head. "She's got a problem with me. Said to keep away from her man." It was almost the truth.

Madam Madrigal glanced discreetly towards Evangeline and I saw her nostrils flare. There were few things she liked less than women who accused other women when their men strayed. "Sit this one out," she told me, "the last thing we want is a catfight."

"Because I'd kick her ass?" I offered helpfully.

Madam chuckled as if I'd told her a good joke. "Because," she enlightened me, "I'd be forced to
fire
you."

I didn't have to be told twice. I made my exit without trading goodbyes with the other girls. My street clothes were a welcome change after the awful bikini, but I still shivered all the way home on the subway.

Tea helped, but my hands took a long time to warm around the chipped red mug Carrie had bought me last Christmas. I willed myself into the frosty shower with great effort, cursing my landlord, my luck and Oliver-fucking-Shepherd just because I could. The heater was, predictably, still busted.

I tried not to dwell on Evangeline's ambiguous cross-examination. The shower did a whole lot of good in that regard. Not so much the ensuing hours as I lay in bed, purposeless and agitated.

What did Evangeline know about Oliver's intimacy issues, anyway? They were both rich and spoiled; Oliver's problems were all of own making. In my experience, he only ever interacted with the world to make other people suffer. And why did I care? It wasn't my job to fix him. He didn't care to be understood or helped, only obeyed. And if the way that obedience unfolded was a contradiction in terms, then Oliver Shepherd was the last person who'd waste any sleep over it.

I should go out, I thought, and find someone to help clear my head. If there was someone I could love, even if just for a night, I wouldn't be stuck replaying every interaction I'd ever had with that infuriating man.

Slowly, sluggishly, I rolled out of bed, slid my feet into bunny slippers and padded into the bathroom. Without makeup, my face was bland, my eyes too small, my lips too thick. Some women had trouble with men eying their boobs while they talked; for me it was my mouth. And I had a pretty good idea of what most guys were thinking when that happened; more than a few had implied there were better uses I could put my puffy lips to than speech.

Just the thought of putting up with sub-par pick-up lines was enough to make me rethink leaving the apartment. I knew I couldn't call Carrie and talk her ear off until I fell asleep because right now she'd be at work, saving lives or emptying bedpans—being useful in any case, while I ambled from room to room under the burden of a self-made heartache.

Well, this is bullshit
. The only thing worse than vanity run wild was self-pity run wild—I was in palpable danger here.

I padded into the living room with a forged sense of purpose. In a week, I was moving out and I hadn't packed anything yet. Rather than dwell on Oliver, maybe that was a better of my time. I started with Chaka Khan and firing up the laptop to email Carrie, Michelle and Hunter (who had already agreed on principle when I'd gone by the bar earlier) with an invitation for D-Day. I promised wine and mystery cookies in exchange for their company and help. No one answered: everyone was busy, working. I was confident they'd be up for the job.

I still had boxes left behind from my last move, so I pried them out from my wardrobe and set about duct taping them whole again. It was a strangely cathartic process. The more I ripped and cut and forged something out of nothing and the less I found my thoughts wandering aimlessly.
This
was my life, not the one Evangeline had dangled before my nose but kept just out of my reach.

Not the one I'd imagined as Oliver shook and sighed at the height of his pleasure while I stroked his back with the tip of my crop. Not the life I had built for myself at the club, only to have Oliver come lay waste to it.

Okay, that was putting it a little strongly, but it reminded me who I was dealing with here: not a prince, more like a beast. Just because Oliver seemed like a decent guy didn't mean that was anything more than an act. He'd threatened me again and again without the slightest compunction. He only had his own interest in mind; I was a prop in that process, a tool to be used. I didn't count.

I ripped a strip of duct tape and almost imagined I was tearing into Oliver's flesh instead. Expensive champagne and sub-par wine clearly went well with stuffing my life into boxes.

Chapter eight

"Green," Oliver all but shouted as he collapsed face-first onto the bed. He looked spent, mouth mashed into the pillow, the small of his back glistening with sweat. Rivulets trickling from his damp hair to the bright red welts I'd only just sketched into his skin.

Spent and so very sexy.

I swallowed hard. The short whip was a horror to manage from this angle, so I switched back to the flogger and the relentless rhythm I'd established earlier. I liked that it didn't give Oliver any time to catch his breath between strokes, but I would've liked it even better if I could see his face.

Stubborn as he was, Oliver didn't even try to show me. He was so lost, gasping and pulling at the sheets as I buffeted his shoulders with sharp swats that I could only imagine he was close to coming. The last time I'd been kind, allowed him his release because he seemed to need it so badly. That was a one-time thing.

"Yes," I heard Oliver pant. "Yes, fuck—
please
..." He was rocking his hips against the foot of the bed, trying to build enough friction to put himself over the edge.

My hand in his hair forced an abrupt stop. I drew back his head with a vicious tug. "Uh-uh, did I say you could hump the bed, you little slut?" Oliver's eyes widened, gaze momentarily bright with panic. "Did I?" This wasn't a one-woman show, whatever he might have believed. Maybe that was how it worked in his cheap pornos, but when I played, I expect my submissive to follow orders.