The Dating Games Series Volume One

by T. K. Leigh

  “I won’t—”

  She quickly holds up her hand. “I know you, Evie. You get attached to people. Hell, you were with Trevor for twelve years.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Still, you’re not the type of girl who does random hookups. You’re either all in or all out. There’s no in-between with you. I just…” She blows out a breath. “I don’t want you to fall for this guy and end up getting hurt because this is only a business deal for him.”

  “It’s nothing more than a business deal for me, too. Weren’t you saying I deserved to have some fun this summer?”

  “That is true. And Trevor certainly does deserve to have the fact that you’re dating one of the most eligible men in New York shoved in his face.” Her eyes focus on me. “And it will be shoved in his face. Not by me, but Hamptons’ parties are a hotbed for gossip columnists. Gossip websites will publish photos of you together. You won’t be able to keep it quiet for long.”

  “Julian doesn’t want it to be kept quiet. He wants us to act as if it’s real.”

  “And there’s no part of you that wishes it were?”

  “Of course not,” I respond quickly. “I’m not interested in him.” I straighten my spine, exuding all the confidence I can muster just as the sound of my phone ringing rips through the space. I dart my eyes to the screen, a warmth filling me when Julian’s name pops up.

  “Not interested, you say?” Chloe teases, getting up from the couch. “Your wide smile and increased breathing indicate otherwise, Evie.” She narrows her eyes on me. “Just be careful.”

  With that, she disappears into her bedroom, allowing me to speak with Julian in private.

  Not wanting to sound overly eager, I blow out a long breath, then bring the phone to my ear, answering in a sultry tone.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Guinevere. As requested, I’ve emailed you an itinerary for the next two months.”

  His tone is clipped, formal, almost as if I’m merely another call he has to make in conducting business. It’s like he’s a different person than the man who left me a panting mess on Chloe’s front stoop last night. Did I imagine it all?

  “Please check your calendar and let me know what conflicts you may have. I prefer to know in advance. Like you, I’m not fond of surprises.”

  “All I have planned this summer is work,” I answer in a tone matching his own.

  “There are some events that may occur during the week, so I’ll need you to take the time off, if it can be arranged.”

  “I don’t foresee a problem. Like I said last night, my boss doesn’t mind if I work out of the office, as long as all my work is turned in by my deadline.”

  “Also, my personal stylist needs your measurements to pull things for you. She’ll be reaching out to you sometime today. She’s located in Midtown. You can either go to her or she can come to you.”

  “Personal stylist?”

  “If you’re to act the part of my girlfriend, you need to dress the part. Don’t worry. You can keep the clothes when the summer is over. My stylist has a list of things you’ll need. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday?” I ask, feeling overwhelmed as I not only attempt to absorb the difference in demeanor, but the reality of what pretending to be this man’s girlfriend will entail. "But—”

  “Take a look at the itinerary. I’m sure it will answer all your questions. If not, the number for my assistant is included. Goodbye, Guinevere.”

  “Goodbye, Julian.”

  But the line’s already dead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Steam Room is particularly busy Monday morning as I sit at my usual table with the perfect view of the counter and dining area. The murmur of low conversation competes to be heard over coffee beans being ground and employees shouting orders to each other. I’ve yet to indulge in any of their pastries, but I feel my hips getting bigger simply from sitting here these past few weeks… Calories by osmosis or something like that.

  I do everything I can to focus on how to determine which of the men on my list of possibilities is the real August Laurent, like I’m playing my own version of To Tell the Truth. Instead, all I can think of is Julian. How sweet and charming he was Friday night, then how cold and distant he seemed during our brief phone call. All weekend, I reminded myself it shouldn’t matter, that it’s only a business relationship, that it’s not real. But I felt something. Was he really that good of an actor?

  The itinerary he sent is quite extensive. There’s something requiring my presence every weekend. It boggles my mind to think people live this way. Galas. Fundraisers. Art auctions. Pool parties. Bonfires. And this is a normal summer. I already feel like I don’t belong, and I haven’t even stepped foot in the Hamptons yet.

  I try not to think too much about it, concentrating instead on the copious notes I’d made the previous week. As I flip through them, I’m unable to shake the feeling I missed something. None of the men on my list scream escort. Maybe August Laurent isn’t in town. Maybe something came up and he had to take some bored housewife off to a remote island in exchange for a ridiculously obscene amount of money.

  As I’m about to pull up the web browser on my laptop to sort through another one of the dozens of articles I found online theorizing about who he could be, my cell rings, the number to my work line popping up, indicating it’s a forwarded call.

  “Evie Fitzgerald,” I answer. There’s no immediate response. When I’m about to speak again, a voice interrupts.

  “A little birdie said you’ve been looking for me.” The deep baritone hits me in my core. Gravelly. Mysterious. Bemused. There’s a hint of an accent. French maybe? It’s not obvious. Just enough to make me believe he’s not American-born.

  “And does this little birdie have a name?” I ask coyly as I scan the coffee shop. It could have been someone else, maybe a wrong number, but it’s too much of a coincidence. My gut says this is him, that he somehow heard I’ve been sitting in this café every morning on a quest to figure out who he is.

  There’s a chuckle on the other end, a low rumble. I picture him in a perfectly tailored suit, leaning back in the chair of his office, the beautiful cityscape of New York in the background, the brilliant summer sun beaming through the windows. Or maybe he’s like the rest of wealthy Manhattan society and spends his summer in the Hamptons, which would account for why I haven’t seen him. Perhaps he’s just now waking up at ten in the morning with a view of the Atlantic Ocean and is calling me from the balcony of a luxurious beach house he purchased with the proceeds of taking advantage of women.

  “I never reveal my sources. But I’m intrigued to know how you found out about my little secret.”

  I smile, lifting my coffee to my lips. “Like you, I never reveal my sources. Your story caught my attention, and I’d like to learn more. As would my readers.”

  “I’m sure they would. Do you realize how many people have been where you are? Sitting in that very café at a table close to the counter, yet still with a great view of the dining area, notebook out, scribbling down notes about every man who’s come in to order a chocolate hazelnut pastry?”

  I swallow hard. I don’t know why I assumed I could outsmart this man who appears to take his privacy to a level I’ve never seen. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that other people had done this very thing. And where are they now? Did they give up because the man truly is a ghost? Did he call them and tell them it’s a lost cause?

  “You’re not the first, Miss Fitzgerald, although I will say you’re the first who doesn’t scream ‘reporter’.”

  “No?”

  “Trust me. That’s a good thing, considering the editor at your fine magazine doesn’t want her staff to be like normal reporters, which is why her publication’s kept circulation high, despite the changed environment.”

  “You’ve done your research.”

  “I always do.”

  “Well, since I don’t scream reporter, what do you
say to sitting down for a one-on-one interview?” I waggle my brows, even though he can’t see.

  “So you can write an article cheapening what I do, claiming something ridiculous, such as I take advantage of women?” There’s a teasing quality to his tone.

  “Do you take advantage of women?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Excitement bubbles in my veins as I flip to a blank page in my notepad, jotting down the date. “You answered a question. Does this mean you agree to be interviewed?” There’s no masking the hope in my voice.

  “Not yet. I’m sure you’ve realized by now the importance of anonymity in my line of work.”

  “I do… To an extent. But I’d like to understand better. That could be more effectively accomplished face-to-face. Perhaps an interview and a photo shoot.”

  He laughs once more, the sound light and natural. Not forced, like you hear so often during initial meetings. “I have to give you credit, Miss Fitzgerald. You certainly are persistent.”

  “No. Just stubborn. I am Irish, after all.”

  “I had a feeling you were.”

  “What gave it away? The last name?”

  “No. Your fiery personality.”

  “You don’t even know me,” I quip back.

  “Ah, but I do. You familiar with the old saying, ‘You write what you know’?”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek, not answering.

  “Well, I’ve read your column. In fact, I’ve read everything you’ve ever published at that magazine…print and online.”

  My jaw drops. “I’ve been there over five years now,” I say, dumbstruck. “I’ve written hundreds of articles.”

  “Just like I’m sure you’ve been scouring the Internet for information on me, the instant I learned a woman named Evie Fitzgerald from Blush magazine was looking for me, I did some research of my own.”

  “Is that right? And what did you find out?”

  “That you, Miss Fitzgerald, are extremely talented. Actually, I was able to skip a few days of ab exercises from the workout I got laughing at your work. You have a gift.”

  I blow out a laugh. “Sure. Tell my ex that.”

  “Your ex?” His voice rises in pitch, curious about my statement. I hadn’t meant to say anything like that. It just kind of slipped out.

  “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t—”

  “It’s obviously not nothing. Tell me.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but it’s okay.”

  “You want to understand what it is I do, why I do what I do, this is part of it. What I do isn’t as black and white as accompanying a beautiful woman to one event or another. It’s giving them the confidence they need, for whatever reason, to help them see what any man with half a brain should. So if you want greater insight into August Laurent, tell me about your ex.”

  “Are you bribing me?”

  “Not a bribe. But if I’m to agree to an interview, I’d like to know we’re on an even playing field. If you expect me to share personal information about myself with you, and the rest of the world, I’d ask you do the same in return…minus the rest of the world. So, if you tell me why your ex doesn’t think you’re talented, I’ll answer one of your questions.”

  I hesitate, considering his offer for a moment. I could tell him I’m not comfortable with this, but I really want this promotion. I want to finally write something with meaning, something people will talk about for weeks.

  “Because he doesn’t think what I do is something to be proud of. I suppose that’s why this interview is so important. This story can get me promoted to assistant editor…of the entire magazine. That will show him I am good at what I do, that I am a talented writer.”

  “Why does it matter?” August asks after a brief silence. “If he’s your ex, why do you care what he thinks?”

  “It’s not just proving it to my ex,” I respond, not wanting to admit I’m holding out hope that Trevor and I still have a chance. “It’s proving it to everyone who ever told me I should use my English degree to become a teacher instead of writing.”

  “Let me guess. Your parents perhaps?”

  I exhale a long breath. “You have to understand. Mom was an English teacher and shared her love for the written word with me. When most parents read their children Green Eggs and Ham, she read Pride and Prejudice. My father’s a former English teacher, but is now the principal of the high school. Even my older brother’s an English teacher. They thought I was crazy for wanting to use my degree in English to be a writer. They still don’t think I’m a real writer, since all I write is sex and dating advice. So the opportunity to write an article like this, then getting promoted where I can write more interesting and compelling articles… I finally will prove them wrong.”

  “Okay then,” he says after a protracted pause. “What would you like to know about me?”

  “Where to start?” I laugh, lightening the tension.

  “I find the beginning is usually best.”

  “I agree. So, Mr. Laurent—”

  “Please, call me August.”

  “Okay. August… How did you start doing…” I wave a hand around, “whatever it is you do?”

  “The local Escorts R Us was hiring, and I seemed to be what they were looking for.”

  My eyes widen. “Really?”

  “Certainly not.” He chuckles, something about it causing a shiver to roll down my spine.

  It’s an unexpected response and I adjust my posture, squeezing my legs together. He does have a smooth, pacifying voice. I could picture him as a sex phone operator, if that were even still a thing. Is that still a thing?

  “I hope you’re not always this gullible.”

  “Not usually, but there isn’t much reliable information on the Internet on how to become a high-priced and extremely sought-after escort.”

  “Why? Looking for a career change? In case the promotion doesn’t work out?”

  “I’d rather not sell my body for money.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you have it wrong, Miss Fitzgerald. Yes, men are typically only interested in one thing when they hire an escort.”

  “Sex.”

  “Precisely, although that’s technically illegal in most states. Escort services get around it by claiming the client is simply paying for the company of the employee.”

  “And why do women hire an escort, if not for sex?”

  “Companionship. That’s it. Women just want to feel something. They want to be romanced, feel adored. That’s what I do. On the record, I never set out to be in this profession.”

  “Is that right?” I jot down notes as he continues telling his story.

  “I doubt anyone says they want to be an escort when they grow up,” he jokes. “It just…happened. It was never about taking advantage of women when they’re feeling unguarded. I understand how it looks, especially when I’m selective to whom I offer my services.”

  “So you agree you specifically only choose women who are vulnerable?”

  “Their vulnerability means they need my services more than someone else. I come in not simply as a piece of ‘arm candy’, but to empower women who are at a time in their lives when they need to feel like they have value. At the end of the day, my goal is to make every single woman who hires me feel beautiful, like they’re worthy of being loved. That’s it.”

  “And it works?”

  “I like to believe it does. I help these women realize their worth. Realize they’re meant to be more than just something nice to look at while accompanying their powerful husbands to whatever society event is going on that week. Many of my clients grew up in wealth. From their earliest days, they were raised to believe their only role in life was to marry someone of equivalent social standing. It sounds antiquated, especially in these modern days, but trust me when I say the caste system is still alive and well, even here in the land of the free and home of the brave. The haves of this country want to keep the have-nots out of their circle. They’re
the equivalent of American royalty. They marry their daughters off to people in their circle, and the cycle is repeated through the generations.

  “These women are strong, resilient, and highly educated, but they’ve been mentally — and sometimes physically — abused for so long, they truly believe their only worth in life is offering a nice smile and making sure their bodies are in top physical condition so their husbands don’t stray to something younger…which I know for a fact they do anyway. Hell, I’ve even had some of my clients tell me their husbands offered them up to their associates in order to make a deal on a valuable piece of real estate or something else, viewing them as a piece of property. Nothing more.”

  “And you think what you do helps break the cycle?”

  “I hope so. Before many of these women sought my services, they believed their only option was to stay in a loveless, often abusive relationship. Their husbands made them feel like they were disposable. Some of them have never worked a day in their lives. Their husbands made them believe if they left the marriage, they’d have nothing. So they stayed, resigning themselves to a life of unhappiness. I give them the strength and confidence they’ve never felt, which helps them with the next step, whether it be filing for divorce or trying to make things work with their spouse.”

  “How do you claim to not take advantage of these women then? It sounds like they’ve been taken advantage of their entire lives. Now you come in and use their vulnerability to sleep with them.”

  “Who says I’ve slept with them?”

  “Have you?”

  “I believe that may be a question for another day, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  “Okay, but you didn’t answer my question about how you started doing this. Obviously, something must have happened in your life that made you become the Keyser Söze of the escort industry.”

  The line’s silent for a moment. Then he breaks into a throaty laugh. It’s deep, intense, and all-consuming. Everything I get the feeling this man is in real life.

  “The Keyser Söze of the escort industry?”

  “You do know who that is, don’t you?”