by T. K. Leigh
His laughing gradually dies down. “Yes. I have seen The Usual Suspects.”
“Then you know why I call you that. You’re like an enigma, a ghost story wives can threaten their husbands with if they act like assholes. ‘Better treat me well, or August Laurent will come to my rescue.’ So how does one become August Laurent? Or is it a combination of Keyser Söze and the Dread Pirate Roberts?”
“The what?”
“The Dread Pirate Roberts,” I repeat. “Please tell me you know what that’s from; otherwise, I’ll have to question my faith in the human race.”
He laughs again, and I find myself melting into my chair from the sound. “The Princess Bride. One of my absolute favorite movies. But the book is better.”
“It always is. So, did you get taught the ropes from the August Laurent who came before you? Like in The Princess Bride?”
“No. It’s just me. But you do give me an idea for when I’m ready to hang up my hat.”
“Hang up your hat?”
“I can’t do this forever. Unfortunately, what I do has a time limit. Or an age limit.”
“And that’s the only reason you’d walk away? When you age out, so to speak?”
He considers my question for a moment, then answers, “Yes.”
“But what about finding a wife? Settling down to have a family of your own?”
“You assume I don’t already have one,” he jests, bemused. I picture him leaning back in a chair, brushing his masculine fingers against his lips, much like Julian does when I say something amusing.
“I think it’s a valid assumption. Not sure how practical it is to do what you do and be married. I doubt any woman would put up with that. I wouldn’t.”
“And you’re right. Which is why I’m not involved. Nor do I plan to become involved with anyone in the near future.”
“Don’t you want that?”
“Want what?”
“A real relationship.”
“I’m happy with my current situation. It satisfies me in a way you’d only be able to scratch the surface of.”
“I understand that,” I say quickly. “Obviously, you enjoy…whatever it is you do. Otherwise, I doubt you’d be doing it. But aren’t you lonely?”
“How can I be lonely when I have the pleasure of keeping beautiful women company?”
“You keep them company. But who keeps you company?” I press. When he doesn’t immediately respond, I continue. “Everyone wants to find love. Real love. True love. It’s what wars are fought over. That and religion, but I suppose one could argue love would enter into that equation, too. Throughout our adult life, every decision we make is generally for the purpose of love. What is so important about remaining on this path that you’re willing to sacrifice finding love?”
There’s a pause on the line. When he finally speaks again, his voice is a bit softer than it was mere seconds ago. “I’ll tell you what, Miss Fitzgerald, since you seem to believe so strongly in the concept of love… If I ever find someone worth giving this all up for, I’ll gladly grant your magazine an exclusive photo shoot and you can plaster my face from here to kingdom come.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” I remain silent as I absorb his words. Then he clears his throat. “I believe we’ve gotten off track again.”
“Right.” I snap out of my daze. “We were talking about how you became August Laurent.” I bring my pen back to my notepad.
When he speaks again, he sounds different, less emotional, more business-like. “As I mentioned earlier, it just kind of happened.”
“There must have been some propelling event that made you stop and say, ‘I’m going to be a male escort for a living. I’d be damn good at it.’ What was yours?”
“I promised a friend I’d take her to her brother’s wedding.”
“A wedding date turned you into an escort?”
“She’d recently broken up with her boyfriend, who also happened to be the best man. She was the maid of honor. To say it was awkward is an understatement. Since she was still upset, she was anxious about seeing him. I offered to go as her date and do everything to make her ex regret leaving her. I did just that.”
“You pretended to date her? And no one caught on?” This has my curiosity piqued, considering the agreement I’d made with Julian.
“I suppose you could say I’m a good actor. But I was a good actor because I knew how important this was to her. And it worked. During the entire ceremony and reception, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He even suggested they give the relationship another shot. But after one weekend with me, after I spent the time to treat her the way I believed she deserved to be treated, she realized what she felt for her ex wasn’t love. That she deserved so much more from a relationship than a guy who refused to support her dreams.”
There’s something in his tone, almost like he’s silently asking if his story sounds familiar. And it does. Then again, he could be making it up to get me to sympathize with what he does for a living.
“So how did one wedding date turn into a career of empowering women, as you like to put it?” I ask, not wanting to dwell on my recent breakup with Trevor.
“Not long after that weekend, I started getting other requests to accompany more women to important events, mostly weddings. Now, over fifteen years later, it’s evolved into more than accompanying them for a weekend wedding. Some women hire me for a month at a time to help them through a difficult time in their lives. As you’ve found out, you can’t run an Internet search and book me. It’s all by referral. My clients require a certain level of privacy, as do I. What keeps me in business is the fact that the only people who know who I am are my clients. To everyone else, I’m simply an old friend of the family or wealthy donor to whatever cause the family is championing at the moment.”
“And no one’s put the pieces together?”
“I do believe that’s another question, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“No. Simply a necessary follow-up.”
There’s a lightness in his tone when he answers. “I like you. I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy talking to you.”
“So you agree to do the story?”
“I swore I’d never do this, but there’s something about you that intrigues me, so yes, I’ll agree.”
“And I can publish what you tell me?”
“Unless I tell you it’s off the record. And I’ll require strict approval before it’s printed. This is non-negotiable. Under no circumstances are you to reveal any information that may allow people to figure out my true identity. My anonymity is all I have, the only thing that keeps me doing this.”
“Absolutely. Not a problem.” I can’t help but beam, my eyes lighting up. I want to dance, shout, tell the world I was somehow able to get August Laurent to agree to have a story written about him. I have no idea what angle this will take, but from this brief conversation, I get the feeling he’s interesting enough that any angle will have women flocking to read the article.
“On that, I’ll let you get on with your day. I always say to leave on a high note. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the smile on your face right now.”
A warmth spreads through me at his words. It takes me a minute to grasp the hidden meaning. When I do, I shoot up, my heart racing as I feverishly scan the crowded coffee shop for any man on his phone.
“Have a good day, Buttercup.”
“Wait!” I beg, but my plea is met with silence. I look at my screen to see the call’s been disconnected. I hastily gather my things, shoving them into my bag, when a woman wearing the café’s uniform approaches.
“For you, miss.” With a smile, she places a white plate containing a chocolate hazelnut pastry on my table. “Enjoy. It’s our most popular item.”
I frown. “I didn’t order this.”
“A gentleman did. Requested it be sent to you.”
“Who?” I ask frantically, my voice bordering on desperation.
She stands
on her toes, trying to peer over the heads filling the busy coffee shop. Then she inhales a breath, pointing toward the doors.
“That’s him. Right there. Brown hair. Sunglasses. Gorgeous suit.”
“Thank you!” Adrenaline pumping through me, I sling my bag over my shoulder, dashing through the coffee shop, trying to keep him in my line of vision. When I step onto the sidewalk, a body slams into me, causing me to lose my balance, propelling me forward onto my hands and knees.
“Watch where you’re going next time, lady. Fucking tourists.”
“I’m not a tourist, asshole!” I shout, getting back on my feet, no thanks to anyone walking by. Dusting myself off, grateful the only injury is to my ego, I scan the bodies passing, not one of them matching that of the man I observed leaving the café.
Frustration fills me. I was so close to unmasking the August Laurent. Still, I know more about him than I did an hour ago. But now I’m desperate for even more information, to find out what makes him tick, why he feels the need to hire himself out as a companion. He says he empowers women. That’s a reason they hire him. I want to know his reasons, too.
As I’m about to head toward Central Park to see if he went in that direction, even though I know it’s probably futile, my phone pings with an alert. It’s not unusual. I get dozens of emails every hour. But something makes me pull my phone out of my bag and open my email.
To: Evie Fitzgerald
From: August Laurent
Subject: Special Place in Hell
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
You do realize there’s a special place in hell for people who walk away from the Steam Room’s famous chocolate hazelnut pastries. They are quite…sinful.
Kindest regards,
A
Smiling, I type a reply as I walk, no longer frantic about finding him now that I have his email address.
To: August Laurent
From: Evie Fitzgerald
Subject: Already Going
Dear August,
I’m already going to hell. I figure either go big or go home. So I’m going big, starting with leaving that pastry on the table. In my experience, delayed gratification only heightens that first taste.
E
I hit send, unsure what came over me to act so bold. I suppose we all feel a level of power behind the safety of a computer or, in my case, a phone, which pings again.
To: Evie Fitzgerald
From: August Laurent
Subject: Deal with the Devil
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
Now I’m intrigued as to what you’ve done to have earned a ticket on the proverbial Highway to Hell. And even more intrigued by your interest in delayed gratification.
I hope you have a productive Monday. I’ll be in touch soon and we can continue our conversation…speaking of delayed gratification.
A
Damn. He’s smooth.
Chapter Seventeen
My eyes are transfixed out the window of the town car on Wednesday as Julian’s driver, Reed, maneuvers along narrow streets where the wealthiest members of society play for the summer. High hedges and security gates prevent the outside world from peeking in, but it doesn’t stop me from gawking at the sprawling estates that pop up every quarter-mile. The closer to the shore we get, the larger and more impressive the properties. This is some serious money.
When I don’t think the houses can get any more extravagant, Reed pulls off the main road, stopping outside a secure gate. After punching in a code, the impressive steel gates open, allowing us entry. My heart thumps in my chest as he continues up a long, stone driveway.
I haven’t seen Julian since Friday. Hell, I haven’t even spoken to him since our conversation Saturday, apart from an email from his assistant telling me that his driver would pick me up today at ten in the morning. At first, his curt tone left a sour taste in my mouth. Maybe it’s a good thing. I’ve already felt myself wanting to blur some of the lines I insisted we draw. How much longer will they remain if he continues to flirt with me?
As the house comes into view, my jaw grows slack. It’s a sprawling three-story, shingle-style historic home that’s obviously been updated and taken care of rather well over the years. The pristine exterior has a sweeping lawn out front, the grass greener than any I’ve seen recently. Then again, I’ve been living in New York for the past several years. The only grass I see is when I visit Central Park, which isn’t often. It’s amazing how much you take the little things, like grass, for granted until they’re no longer part of your daily life.
Reed brings the car to a stop, then hurries to open the door for me. Immediately, a woman in her fifties or sixties rushes out of the front door, hustling along the stone walkway. She wears a dark suit dress, her hair pulled into a tight bun at her nape. Her kind blue eyes are filled with joy as she approaches me.
“You must be Guinevere.” She holds her hand out toward mine, shaking it excitedly. “I’m Camille, the head of staff.”
“Head of staff?” I repeat. “You mean there’s more than one person?”
She laughs merrily at my question. “Of course, dear. At least during the summers. Someone must ensure the household runs smoothly, particularly during parties. But the rest of the year, it’s just me keeping his Manhattan apartment in order. Reed will bring your things up to your suite while I give you the tour.”
With wide eyes, I follow her up to the front door, unable to mask my complete awe and amazement when she pushes it open and we enter a grand foyer, the ceiling over thirty feet high with a stunning crystal chandelier. It’s a circular room with a single round table holding a floral centerpiece of red roses, white lilacs, and blue orchids, tying in with the Fourth of July theme of the weekend. I step closer, the familiar aroma of powder-fresh flowers floating through my senses.
Camille leads me past a curving staircase and into an open living area. The cream-colored walls have wood and stone accents, the high-end furniture made of heavy wood. It’s a stark contrast to the tiny room and pull-out couch I’ve been sleeping on, which seems ready to collapse if I breathe too hard.
“This is the living and informal dining area.” She brings me to an expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows lining the eastern wall and I take in the panoramic views of the pool deck overlooking the ocean. I find it a bit of overkill to have both an ocean view and a pool, but what do I know?
“Wow.” It’s all I can manage.
I’ve seen places like this in the movies or online, but never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined being here myself. It’s crazy to even consider that this will be my life for the next two months. I wonder if this is how Cinderella felt when Prince Charming whisked her away to his castle after he finally found her. Did she realize her life would be forever changed when she called her Fairy Godmother and went to the ball? Is my life about to be forever changed, too?
“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Camille comments.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so…majestic.”
She places a hand on my bicep, her smile warm as she meets my eyes. Her soft-spoken and caring demeanor reminds me of my grandmother. “Wait until tomorrow morning.”
“What’s tomorrow morning?”
“Sunrise. I checked the weather report. It’s supposed to be a clear day, which means the sun coming up over that horizon…” She points out the window, “is sure to be fantastic. If you want to get up early to watch, I’ll make sure to have coffee prepared. If you like coffee, that is. I’ll need a list of any allergies and food preferences, as well as any other items you’ll need on hand during your time here.”
“And you’ll get them for me?”
“Of course,” she answers, as if it’s no big deal.
“So if I say I like to snack on apples dipped in peanut butter, you’d get them?”
“What kind of apples? And do you have a preference for brand of peanut butter?” She withdraws a notepad from her suit jacket and proceeds to jot down notes.
I blink repeatedly at her proficiency. The closest I’ve ever been to this level of pampering was the one time I’d ordered room service. I thought having someone bring food to my hotel room was magical. That’s nothing compared to this.
“I… It was just an example.”
With a warm smile, she returns the small notepad to her pocket. “It’s Mr. Gage’s desire that you have everything to make your stay comfortable. So anything you need, please let myself or any of the other staff members know. Okay?”
“Okay.” With every second that passes, I feel more and more like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Well, if she weren’t a prostitute. Still, there are similarities, like the way she gawks at his lavish lifestyle, not used to anyone waiting on her. The way she’s confused about which fork to use. I can completely sympathize with her struggle there.
I continue to follow Camille as she shows me the formal dining room, library, theater room, game room, and even a gym. I want to ask for a floor plan of the house so I can find my way around. Or at least a bag of breadcrumbs.
Finally, we head up the staircase and down a long hallway lined with what I assume to be expensive artwork, coming to a stop outside a wooden door. When she opens it, revealing a large bedroom, I step onto the lush carpet. The aroma of fresh air mixed with the sea breeze flows in from an open window, and I walk to the far wall, the views of the ocean just as breathtaking up here.
“There’s a balcony,” Camille offers as she strides toward a pair of French doors, pushing them open. “Right out here.”
I follow her out onto a large wrap-around balcony. A pair of chairs sits in front of the windows to my room, a small side table placed between them. Another pair is placed several hundred feet down, as well, in front of windows to what I assume to be another bedroom.
“That’s Mr. Gage’s suite,” she explains, gesturing toward the end of the balcony to the north. Then she nods in the opposite direction. “And those are additional guest bedrooms, but will not be occupied during, well…during your little arrangement.”