Isn't it Romantic?

by Ronda Thompson

  Isn’t It Romantic?

  Ronda Thompson

  Chapter 1

  “My mom sells sex for a living.”

  Katrine Summerville stumbled in the hallway and fell against the wall with a thud. The black pump she’d been trying to force on her foot dangled from a manicured nail, momentarily forgotten. Did Shelly just say what she thought she said?

  “You have an impressive home,” a masculine voice responded. “She must be good at it.”

  “Oh, she’s talented all right. Mr. Martin says no one can hook better than my mom.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed. The voice obviously found the subject of greater interest.

  “Who is Mr. Martin?”

  “Craig Martin is mom’s boss … so to speak. He thinks her ability is natural. You know, God given?”

  “That’s certainly mind-stimulating.”

  To Katrine’s ears, he sounded far from intrigued. Slipping the pump onto her foot, then smoothing a crepe creation over her hips, she emerged from the downstairs hallway. Later, Shelly would receive a lecture concerning her lack of aplomb and one about discussing her career with strangers. That child was eleven going on thirty!

  Her date sat facing the opposite direction, not allowing her conclusive evidence he appeared as disinterested as he sounded. A thick abundance of dark hair brushed his shoulders. Thank God he has hair.

  In all her thirty years, Katrine Summerville hadn’t once been forced to embrace the humiliation of a blind date. Well, he wasn’t even that. The man came with a price tag. A phone call from a friend who owned the Dating Service guaranteed a perfect escort would arrive for this evening’s event.

  “Mr. Westmoreland?”

  When he rose, Katrine immediately noticed his height. Her escort stood over six feet, closer to six two. His tux strained at the shoulders—broad, powerful shoulders, her literary mind added. Before her gaze had time to examine the rest of his backside, the man turned and the fake smile pasted on her mouth faltered.

  “He’s a hunk, isn’t he, Mom? Tall, dark, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips. Tight butt, too. He’s perfect, isn’t he?”

  A sudden slackness to Katrine’s jaw muscle suggested her mouth might be hanging open. She clamped her lips tight and pulled her stare from her escort’s amused expression. “Shelly, run along now,” Katrine instructed through clenched teeth. “Thelma’s in the kitchen. She said you wanted to bake cookies tonight.”

  Heaving a sigh of disappointment, her daughter moved toward a set of swinging doors. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Westmoreland,” she paused to dutifully reply.

  “Your formality seems a little awkward after making mention of my, ah, attributes. Call me Trey.”

  His smile, albeit a sarcastic one, visibly improved Shelly’s spirits. She smiled back at him. “Trey,” she tasted the name. “I guess it’s all right. I figured you for a Chance or a Devlin, something more romantic. It’s better than John. Mom likes Johns because my father was one. It’s common, you know?”

  “I believe the term is slang, rather than common,” he said dryly. “It was … interesting to meet you, too, Shelly.”

  While her daughter stood mesmerized by a man she hadn’t met until twenty minutes ago, Katrine wondered what in the world he must be thinking. She supposed an explanation was in order. Shelly read the novels Katrine wrote even though she forbade her. The child understood things no eleven year old should.

  Still, Katrine loathed the idea of spending the drive ahead answering questions about her career. It was a job, it paid the rent and she hated discussing her work with people who weren’t literary. Trey Westmoreland struck her as the type who only read sports magazines. Her gift of perception encouraged Katrine to believe he spent all his time working out and chasing women. He was too good looking, too perfectly put together, too right to be anything but wrong for her.

  Shallow, she added, conceited; the perfect doll for a top-selling romance author to dangle on her arm at an awards banquet. Good God, the man was a paid escort. She’d be disappointed had Cynthia sent anything less than a barbarian.

  “I’ll get my coat,” Katrine said coolly, not offering an explanation concerning her daughter’s brashness. “I expect you in bed by ten.” She turned toward Shelly still poised by the kitchen doors.

  Shelly, blonde straight hair hanging past her shoulders, pert nose and full lips—a small replica of her mother, nodded. “I promise to be asleep before you get home.” She grinned. “You two might want privacy. Trey is definitely a rake. His blood is probably on fire with barely suppressed desire at this very moment. He’s eyeing your breasts lustfully and no doubt his manhood is stiff—”

  “Young lady!” Katrine squawked. Her blood was suddenly on fire, not with desire, but with embarrassment. “I want you to apologize to Mr. Westmoreland. You and I will talk about this, later.”

  Temporarily contrite, or Katrine suspected, embarrassed for being chastised in front of ‘the hunk’, Shelly lowered her eyes demurely.

  “Sorry, Mr. Westmoreland, I mean, Trey. I hope you have a nice evening.” She darted through swinging doors and disappeared.

  “I–I don’t know what to say.” Katrine glanced up into a pair of thickly-lashed, blue eyes. “I’ve tried to keep my work hidden from Shelly, but—”

  “Do you, ah, work here, at home?” Trey interrupted, helping her into a fake-fur jacket.

  The warm pressure of his hands scattered her concentration for the briefest of seconds. His touch sent tiny shocks of pleasure racing up her spine. Impossible, she mentally chastised. This only happened in her imagination, to other people, characters of her creation, but never to her.

  “Three years ago I had an addition built out back. I wanted to keep my profession separate from my private life. Besides, it was hard to concentrate in the house. You know, with Shelly underfoot?”

  “I can see where that would cause problems.” His condescending tone contradicted the frown shaping his lips. “You don’t look like the type who does what you do for a living.”

  As she retrieved a beaded purse, Katrine interpreted the remark the same as she’d done countless times in the past. She supposed Cynthia told him about her profession. Most people assumed romance writers were blue-haired old ladies or oversexed, frustrated housewives. “At the risk of sounding clichéd, don’t judge a book by its cover.”

  Her answer prompted a lift of his brow and brought a slight smile to his lips. Katrine swallowed loudly. If she didn’t fit the stereotype of a romance writer, Trey Westmoreland looked exactly as she envisioned a paid escort would. A thought struck her. Did he accept money for more than the service of a date?

  “I guess we should go.” Her voice sounded oddly breathless.

  “Probably a smart idea.” A flicker of heat ignited within the coolness of his gaze. “Before I ask to see where you do your work. You’ve made me curious about a profession I haven’t given much thought. I suppose because you look remarkably innocent.”

  His suggestive undertones were confusing. Why would he want to see her office? What did innocence have to do with her writing? Suddenly, she understood. “While I’ll admit there’s a certain stigma attached to my profession, you shouldn’t read too much into what’s fact and what’s fiction. My work is based strictly on fantasy. I offer escapism. A release from tension and everyday stress. Our professions might be the same in that aspect,” she finished meaningfully.

  He frowned while guiding her to the door. “Although most are allowed the pleasure of escape in what I do, I consider my profession more technical. To be honest, I stopped enjoying it a long time ago.”

  A man who didn’t like sex? Katrine paused outside to key in her security code, mulling over his admission. D
id the gigolo really consider sexual pleasure a technical undertaking? “Well,” she sighed shakily. “I guess a person can get burned out on just about anything.”

  “Cynthia said she’d handle the normal fees. I assume any other arrangements are done in private?”

  “Assume?” She glanced up, surprised. “Don’t you know?” She thought he blushed.

  “Actually, this is the first time I’ve done this. I mean, not had a date, but this sort of date. It was a desperate measure. I didn’t have a choice.”

  Just her luck, an inexperienced gigolo. So much for using this date as research. Not that Katrine would have gone so far as to do what only a desperate, lonely woman would do—an interview would have satisfied her. The problem with being heralded the steamiest woman on paper was, she had little experience to back up her supposed expertise. How could she when her husband, the only man she had ever loved, died in a car crash six months after their marriage?

  Katrine had been barely eighteen and two months pregnant. She and John were both virgins when they married. Six months together hadn’t given them much time to learn about each other, much less their bodies. In short, she could hardly count herself worldly. To compensate her readers, Katrine simply took what little she knew on the subject of sex and greatly exaggerated.

  “The standard fee will suffice,” she bit out. “There won’t be any need for private compensation.”

  “No, there won’t,” he agreed defensively. “I’m not that desperate.”

  ———

  Later, speeding down I-35, Katrine contemplated his destitution. He drove a red Jag. She wondered if the agency provided the car, but he seemed so comfortable behind the wheel, she discarded the notion. What measures forced Trey into the position of male for hire? He looked to be in his early thirties, possessed the body of an athlete and could have modeled for GQ, in her opinion.

  “What made you turn to an escort service?” she questioned.

  “It seemed the easiest choice.” Trey maneuvered the Jag off the freeway. “I’m not interested in commitments. Ask a woman out a couple of times and she starts assuming things. I decided this might work for me. Companionship with no strings attached.”

  No, just a price tag, Katrine thought. His conceit set her teeth on edge. Not that she didn’t imagine a man with his face had women more than eager to jump into bed with him, but to expect to be paid, to prey upon the loneliness of women! It was abhorrent.

  “How about you?” he asked before she could further interrogate him. “Why did you decide to go into your profession?”

  She sighed. Katrine supposed this was inevitable. People were always curious about the life of an author. “After Shelly’s father died, I had to do something. Up until that time, I’d always done it to relax or for my own personal pleasure, then I realized I didn’t know how to do anything else.”

  “Shelly … you don’t suffer any conscience for her sake?”

  Since they were no longer on the freeway, Trey’s face blended with the shadows, but his voice relayed a note of unmistakable censure. The matter wasn’t his business, still, Katrine provided an explanation. “Actually, I didn’t realize how much my career affected her until tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll have a long talk with her about reality.”

  Whatever his response, it drowned within a loud knocking sound from the engine. “Great.” He steered the Jag to a side road.

  “’What’s wrong?” Katrine asked.

  “It sounds like the pistons,” he answered irritably. “What a place to have car trouble.”

  After she peered through the tinted glass, Katrine agreed. They were on a dark, deserted street. To her relief, he fumbled beneath the console and extracted a cellular phone. Switching off the ignition, Trey called AAA and ordered a wrecker and cab.

  “Sorry.” He turned to her after placing the phone under the console. “We’ll be late.”

  Remembering the length of awards ceremonies past, and the fact she wasn’t up for hers until the end, Katrine didn’t find their circumstance distressing. Let her arrive late with such a gorgeous man Perhaps someone would actually believe she lived a life comparable to one of her heroines. Her own story wasn’t in any way romantic. There were no happily-ever-afters in real life.

  “Should we lock the doors?” she asked nervously. Trey’s scent did strange things to her. His body heat warmed her across the small, silent space separating them.

  “Wise move.” He pressed the door locks. “We can listen to music if you’d like. It won’t matter if we run the battery down, anyway.”

  “That would be nice.” She watched him from beneath her lashes. Did Trey’s arrogant reference to sex being a technical undertaking suggest he considered himself an expert at stroking the flames of a woman’s passion? It was silly to even imagine he could. Her heroines lost their minds over a kiss, shivered at a warm touch, melted with desire under a heated stare and felt their tights quake at the deep huskiness of a voice. Katrine called it fiction.

  Once, five years ago, she’d foolishly gotten involved in a relationship. Sex with Carl Thomas proved less exciting than it had with John. Carl actually admitted to being disappointed she wasn’t as hot as her writing. The relationship ended badly and Katrine hadn’t gotten involved with another man since. Put simply, Katrine Summerville didn’t believe in romance.

  “What kind of music do you like?”

  “Country.”

  The sleeve of his jacket slid across her thighs as Trey reached for the glove compartment. He paused, glancing up. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not,” she answered shortly. “I’m Texas born and raised.”

  “When in Rome.” He shrugged, slamming the glove compartment. “I’ve been in Dallas for six years and never once felt the urge to cry in my beer.”

  “I didn’t think your drawl was authentic.”

  “Philly,” he answered before she asked. “Tell me when I find the right station. Wait, I hear a twang, this must be it.”

  Katrine laughed. “They don’t call it twang anymore. I liked it even when they did. The music inspires me.”

  “How so?”

  An unfamiliar sensation uncurled in the pit of her stomach. Trey’s arm rested on the back of her seat. Given his height, his knees were almost brushing hers. Katrine found it suddenly difficult to swallow. What had he asked? A slow ballad began playing on the radio and she remembered. “Most country songs are only short love stories. They stimulate me. I mean my creative—”

  “Speaking of stimulation,” he cut her off, leaning toward her. “Shelly is remarkably perceptive. I’ve been wondering from the first moment I saw you if you’d taste as good as you look.”

  His lips against hers created a jolt Katrine felt certain wasn’t a figment of her imagination. She began to protest his forwardness, then changed her mind, admitting to a certain curiosity over what Trey Westmoreland thought he possessed that was so wonderful. Would this cost extra?

  While he kissed her, Katrine savored each feeling he stirred for future reference. His lips were firm, warm and definitely experienced, still, the uncontrollable urge to rip his clothes off hadn’t overcome her. When he pulled away, she sighed with disappointment.

  “I’m getting a crick in my neck,” Trey complained. “Let’s be more creative.”

  She found herself pulled halfway into his lap and pressed intimately against a broad chest, then his mouth was on hers again, hungrier than before. As his tongue inched between her lips, an involuntary moan left her throat. Odd, she thought. To her knowledge, a simple kiss had never elicited such a response from her. But then, she couldn’t really count his talent as an elementary accomplishment. When his tongue moved inside her mouth with slow, steady strokes, Katrine’s thighs went up in flames.

  “Wait.” She ended the kiss. “This wasn’t part of the package.”

  “Ever the business woman,” he said huskily, allowing her to scramble from his embrace. “I don’t usually act this irrational. What’s y
our name, anyway?”

  Horror struck. She’d been lusting for a man who didn’t remember her name. Now that she thought about it, Katrine couldn’t recall introducing herself. Cynthia told her his name, she assumed he received the same consideration. “Katrine Summerville,” she growled.

  Stark brightness lit the Jag’s interior, outlining the tense line of his jaw. “It sounds sort of Rebecca-of-Sunnybrook-Farmish. I expected something like Candi, Brandi or Bambi. There’s the wrecker and the cab. Good thing I regained my senses. It might have been embarrassing.”

  “That’s my real name!” Katrine’s pen name was Kat Summers; damn if she’d bring that up at the moment. “And I promise, there wouldn’t have been anything to be embarrassed over.”

  “Maybe not for you.” His teeth flashed white in the glare of headlights as he pushed the lock release button. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been caught in the front seat of a car with my pants down.”

  His assuming attitude added further degradation to an already humiliating circumstance. Angry over not only his conceit, but by her brazen behavior, Katrine shoved the door wide and climbed out, marching to the cab with long, unfeminine strides. A hand closed over hers as she placed her fingers on the door handle.

  “Allow me,” Trey said. “Just a suggestion, but I hope for the banquet we might act like we actually know each other. As if the night hasn’t been paid for.”

  “Are you ashamed of yourself?”

  “Only a little confused by my behavior tonight. You’re definitely not my type.”

  When he turned and approached the wrecker, Katrine assured herself he wasn’t her type, either. Not that she knew what sort of man interested her, but he certainly wasn’t it. He fell into the outlaw category, dangerous to a woman’s morality and peace of mind. Trouble.

  “You want to get in and close the door?” the cabby questioned. “You’re letting out all the warm air.”

  Shivering, aware of the cold only after having it brought to her attention, Katrine obeyed. The banquet should be well under way. If fate smiled down on her, she’d arrive in time to accept her award and put a fast end to the evening. Damn, she forgot. This year a new segment had been added.