by Amy Star
“Well, see, just being able to touch a gun, and then having other wolf people know about it—it doesn’t give me the kind of respect you’d think it would.”
Uncomprehending, Suzanne asked, “Why?”
“Well, it means I’ve done something a wolf guy isn’t supposed to do. To some of my people, it means I’ve gone someplace a wolf guy isn’t supposed to go. It’s like, to some of my kind I’m not really a wolf any more. I’ve stopped being a wolf and become something more like…a German Shepherd.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, that’s the way some of us think. I mean, you know we’re not monsters like you see in the movies, all out of control and bloodthirsty and ready to rip a human to pieces and kill him as fast as we’d look at one. But to some of us, a werewolf who’s trained to protect humans isn’t really a werewolf. He’s more like a guard dog. Some of my own kind actually don’t trust me because of that.”
“Oh my God, I had no idea…”
“It’s true. To some of my own kind I’ve…gone human.. Or turned into a pet.”
Suzanne looked at him with genuine sympathy. “Mack, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “And it’s not your problem. It’s ours.”
“Yes,” she said. “But my kind is so full of prejudices, I’ve never even thought your kind could be…well…”
“As bad as humans?” he finished for her. “You know, we’re half human ourselves. And yes, we can be every bit as bad. In the end, human is human. Makes no difference how many bodies you have; if one of your bodies is human, you get everything that goes with it.”
She leaned her head back on the seat and sighed. “I guess that’s true.”
“Our people can be really judgemental,” Mack said. “Still and all, I’m a werewolf through and through. I look like a man most of the time, but I’m a wolf to the bone and I’m proud of it. Mr. Gates could tell you some stories about how judgemental morphs can be. I shouldn’t because it’s not my place, but he could.”
Suzanne eyed him with respect and admiration, and not only for his heart-stopping looks. “You really like Mr. Gates, don’t you?” she guessed.
“He’s a good boss. He’s the best boss I could want,” said Mack. “And yes. Yes, I like him. He’s a good man. And even being a wolf, I’d say he’s a good bear. You’ll like him.”
“Judging by his video,” said Suzanne, turning her eyes to the road before them and her mind to the weekend awaiting her, “I’m sure he is.”
She wanted to ask Mack if he knew who she was and what she actually did, and what was the true purpose of this weekend. She wondered if Justin had told him, or how much he had told him. Had he let Mack in on the fact that she was an escort and this weekend would be a transaction as much as a “date,” or had he kept that information on a need-to-know basis? She assumed that Mack knew this weekend would not be a platonic thing. No man, human or otherwise, asks a woman as beautiful as Suzanne to his luxurious home for the weekend if he expects it to be platonic. Mack, she assumed, must know at least that during her stay, she would be spending the majority of her time naked under his naked boss with her legs in the air (and loving every minute and every thrust of it). The other part, the part about her being compensated for what she would be thrilled to give him “on the house,” and Ginny taking a commission for it, may or may not have been knowledge at Mack’s pay grade. She discreetly did not bring it up. Whatever Mack knew, he knew, and it would not really make a difference.
For the rest of the ride, Suzanne thought of Justin—and also let her mind play with the thought of entertaining Mack as she would soon be entertaining his employer. Not that she actually would, of course. She wondered whether Justin would object to such a thing, or whether he would look on it as something that Mack did on his own time that had nothing to do with his job. Nevertheless, she decided it was only a thing to imagine, not a thing to do. Though she also wondered if Mack might have any such thoughts about her. She guessed he might, but he would consider it a line not to be crossed. It was just as well. She would have her hands—among other things—full with Mack’s boss for the next couple of days.
_______________
The black Lexus made its way to a place on the outskirts of the city where a long private road wound its way up a hill. Mack drove up the hill, the road on either side enclosed in tall grasses and brush, until at the top of the hill the road leveled off. At the summit stood one of the most magnificent-looking modern homes that Suzanne had ever seen. She resisted the impulse to gawk at it. She took that kind of reaction and that kind of behavior to be unprofessional.
She was a beautiful woman accustomed to the company of men who lived, worked, and traveled to beautiful places. She took it as part of her job to look at all times as if she belonged in such places. So she did not react—outwardly. Inside, however, she marveled at the house. It was a thoroughly 21st-Century dwelling, but it looked like something out of a fantasy, like a sparkling palace in white marble and stained wood, with polished windows that took up entire walls.
There was a garden with evergreens and shrubs and flowers on one side, and on the other a large deck of shining marble with an area enclosed by stained wood and glass on three sides and open on the other side to what Suzanne guessed must be a generous-sized swimming pool.
She allowed herself a little smile at the thought of the number of places in and around the property where her host and client would be taking her—in both senses of the word “taking.”
The hilltop palace had a circular driveway that arced around to a garage on one end. A van was parked at the garage, which Suzanne guessed must belong to the caterers. Mack pulled up the car to the front of the house, where he was standing, looking every bit the gentleman in a charcoal-colored suit that itself likely cost two or three times what Suzanne would have charged for a weekend when she was just starting out.
His hands were folded calmly in front of him and had a welcoming expression on his stunning face. Suzanne noted that he had not shaved off his short and immaculate beard that shadowed the lower part of his face while still showing the perfectly cut contours of his lower jaw. He had simply given it a perfect trim.
Her skin tingled at the thought of that incredibly gorgeous, scruffy face kissing her all weekend, and those whiskers rustling against the soft skin of her neck, shoulders, bosom, inner thighs, and buttocks. She remembered what he had said in his video about not liking to “date,” and agreed with it wholeheartedly. A man like this should not need to date. This was a man with whom one wanted just to jump into bed with and enjoy on the spot, and she liked it that he seemed to know that.
Still and all, she was looking forward to talking with Justin Gates and letting him serve her dinner before she served herself up to him.
With the car parked in front of house and owner, Mack climbed out and went around to open the passenger side door and help Suzanne out. She stepped onto the front landing as Justin made room for her. Giving Justin her hand, Mack said, “Mr. Gates, Ms. Sutton is here for you.”
Justin took Suzanne’s hand and gallantly kissed it. “Welcome to my home, Suzanne. Or one of them.” He grinned warmly at that. “I’ve seen to it you’ll enjoy your stay.”
Suzanne looked up admiringly at him. Are you kidding? What part of this—or you—do you think I’m not going to enjoy? “Thank you for asking me, Mr. Gates.”
“Please, Suzanne,” he said. “It’s Justin.”
“Yes, Sir…,” she caught herself. “Justin.”
To Mack, he said, “Please take Suzanne’s bags to the sunken bedroom off the deck. We’ll be dining in the sitting area overlooking the deck. Then you’re done until Monday; have a good weekend, Mack.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Mack, and quickly went to pop open the trunk. “Thank you; I will.”
Justin offered Suzanne his arm and she took it. Fine, let him be a gentleman for now. She’d be patient and let him drop his manners—and his expensive trousers�
��when he was ready. “Dinner is being put out right now; the chef that I hired and his staff are ready for you. They’re the best in the city.”
“I’m sure they are,” said Suzanne, letting him lead her to the door. What else would they be if you hired them? You probably could have had them flown in from France.
“What do you think of the house so far?” asked Justin proudly.
“It’s absolutely lovely. I’m sure it’s even better on the inside,” she replied.
“We’ll have a tour of the whole place tomorrow,” he said, “after we’ve had some good quality time tonight.”
Ah, quality time. There was his favorite euphemism again. She let him usher her through the front door, looking forward to where she would be ushering him when their “quality time” truly got under way. She would make it a point to make it a time of the highest quality that a billionaire who was a bear could want.
_______________
At one side of the house there was an area with a king-sized bed between twin nightstands, a full bath, some high-end sofas and chairs, and a fireplace at the level of a basement. This was where Mack had placed Suzanne’s bags before excusing himself. A stairway led up to the ground level of the house and an area where a dining table had been set for two and the chef and a couple of assistants had rolled out a tray of dinners and desserts, a case of wine, and some buckets of ice.
Off this area were large glass doors that took up a whole wall, and outside the doors was the enclosed and covered deck area that let out onto a large swimming pool of inviting blue water surrounded by shiny marble tiles. It reminded Suzanne of pictures that she had seen of tropical beaches. She had always hoped to have a client who would take her to a place like that. Perhaps one day one of them would.
For that matter, if she was lucky—or if she played her cards right in bed this weekend, as she had every intention of doing—her present client might take her on such a trip. She could not have asked for a more desirable man with whom to walk, or do other things, on such a beach.
The chef and his assistants served as efficiently as their training, at what Suzanne was sure must have been the finest culinary schools in the country, had taught them. With dinner served and wine poured, Justin dismissed them and allowed them to let themselves out.
As dinner got underway, Justin raised his glass to her, and Suzanne raised hers to his. “To the perfect weekend with the perfect company,” he said genially.
“I’ll second that,” she replied.
They clinked and sipped. And then dinner and their real conversation began.
“I’m going to start,” said Justin, “by asking you one of the most dreaded questions in the English language, which in your work you’re probably grateful you never have to hear.”
Curious and ever so slightly unnerved, Suzanne asked, “What’s that?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
Suzanne smiled and blushed. “Is that all?”
“In my experience, that’s one of the questions people least like to hear,” said Justin. “And I completely understand why. Asking someone to tell you about himself—or herself—is asking them to sum up everything about who they are in one question. Job interviewers do this all the time and I can tell people hate it from the look I’ve seen on their faces when I’ve asked them myself. It’s one of the most loaded questions in the world. If I ever got that question from anyone, I’d hate it too.”
“I never thought of that,” said Suzanne. “And you’re right, people don’t usually ask me that, and if they did I’d hate it.”
Justin smiled a friendly, reassuring smile at her to tell her that all was well. “No pressure, though. Really—tell me about yourself. I’d like to know something about who you are.”
It was part of Suzanne’s business to know and understand her client, or to figure out or anticipate what things would please him the best. He had just asked her, though not in so many words, to tell him something about herself that he would find the most interesting and intriguing. Knowing who he was and understanding whom she was dealing with, Suzanne went right to the thing that she anticipated would both interest him the most and create the greatest empathy between them.
Empathy, she found, lent itself to good sex. It helped her to establish a rapport with the client, especially when the client was, to put it tactfully, not up to physical standards. That latter part was in no way an issue now; Justin was by far the most physically desirable client she had ever met. But empathy and rapport would still be indispensable.
“I was an Economics major,” she began, “and I was planning to go on to graduate school for an MBA.” And she studied him for his reaction. As she expected, that piqued his interest. She could tell that Justin was now as focused on her words as he was on her appearance. Yes, she had him now—and that would pay off later when he had her.
“Really?” he asked. “And you decided not to go on with it?”
“What I decided not to go on with,” she explained, “was piling up more and more student loans. My parents were helping me at first. But then they died within just a couple of years of each other. Cancer took my mother, and I think my father just couldn’t take the grief. He went into a decline and died of heart failure less than a year later.”
Justin looked genuinely stricken. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been really hard on you, as a student at the time, having to be in school and deal with grieving.”
“And my parents’ estate,” said Suzanne. “Their will said the house was to be sold and the money was mine for school. But there were legal fees, and home maintenance, and taxes, and realtor’s commissions, all of which took a huge bite out of it. I didn’t get as much money as I would have, and there were still the loans to pay off.
By the time I was in my senior year, I was afraid that if I didn’t get started in a business of some kind soon, I’d end up drowning. I wanted to stay in LA, but you know what it costs to live here.” She wanted to add, …not that it matters to you at all…, but she discreetly refrained. “I didn’t have any interest in taking just any pitiful job that would pay next to nothing just to keep my nose above water. And without my parents, I got resentful and angry at the cost of everything.”
“So what did you do?”
“I took the money I had and I took…a personal inventory, I guess you’d call it. I sat down and figured out what it was I had to offer that was worth the most to people. And that turned out to be…me.”
Thinking he knew where this was going, Justin guessed, “And that’s how you came into this line of work.”
“Not exactly,” she said. “You see, I’d studied yoga and been doing it for years, which is how I’d always kept myself in the best shape. And I realized this is LA—Hollywood, where the way you look is a commodity, and if you’re a woman, being pretty is a marketable skill. So there were certain things I knew I could do with that, and I picked one.”
“But not the line of work you’re in now?”
“No, not this. Not right away.”
“What, then?” he wondered. “Did you try modeling?”
“I thought about modeling,” Suzanne replied. “But I decided I didn’t want to go that way. Not modeling.”
Justin was ever more curious now. “Why not? You would have done great.”
“That’s what you’d think, I know,” said Suzanne. “But I know something about modeling from some other women I know who’ve been in it, or near it. In that profession a woman is pretty much a walking clothes hanger, or a coat rack in fancy shoes. You’re not allowed to have a figure; you’re just something to hang clothes on. I think those women are kind of grotesque, or that industry makes them make themselves something grotesque. I could never be like that. I don’t want to be just this collection of sticks and rails walking down a runway. That’s not me.”
He looked her over appreciatively, the way her cascade of golden hair fell over her well-toned shoulders and down her back, the lean and taut but not emaciated sh
ape of her bare arms. Suzanne was right. That was not “her” at all.
“So,” he asked, “if you didn’t become a model and you didn’t go right into the business you’re in, what did you do?”
“I studied massage. I became a masseuse.”
At that, Justin broke out into a bemused smile. “Really!”
“Really,” she said. “And that was the business I went into, while I was a senior in college. I put out some ads, with pictures of myself in a T-shirt and shorts, and that was all it took. I had as much business as I could handle, so to speak.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Justin, admiringly.
“So, being a masseuse,” she continued, “and looking like this, and having the marketing that I had—I studied economics, remember—and being in LA, which is full of men with a lot of money to spend and a lot of interest in women who look like this, I started doing okay. Maybe a little better than okay. And I did well enough to start taking on regular clients and building a reputation. Word started getting around about me. And one of my regulars started talking me up to Ginny Westbrook. She saw my ads, and she gave me a call and invited me into Telegirl.”