"You haven't been selling yourself for very long, have you?"
"Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. What difference would it make, anyway?"
He advanced, intently studying her face, forcing her backward a few steps until her backside nudged the desk. "Was I your first john?"
"My first john!" The term pricked her with foolish pain. Of course he considered himself her john. And the lovemaking that she would cherish forever had been something tawdry to him. What had she expected? Uncertain of his motivation for asking the question, she hedged. "I don't know if I should be flattered or insulted."
"Just be truthful."
That was one thing she couldn't be. With anybody. Ever. "Did I seem like a rookie to you? Were you dissatisfied with my performance? Have you come for a refund?"
She almost hoped that he had. She hadn't taken the crumpled wad of bills from her skirt pocket yet, though three days had gone by. He'd paid her for sex. She hated the sight of that money. Yet, she couldn't give it away. It was the last thing Trev would ever give her. She would tuck it in with the few mementos she'd been allowed to keep from her former life—if he didn't want a refund.
"If I was dissatisfied," he said slowly, "would you give me a refund?"
"If that's what it takes to get rid of you."
He searched her face and probed her gaze as if trying to drill a peephole through her facade. "You know damn well I was satisfied," he finally muttered.
A slow welling of warmth rose in her at his intensity.
"And I've never heard of a prostitute offering refunds," he said. "I was your first paying customer, wasn't I? And I hurried you into it. Pressured you into it."
She suddenly recognized the emotions that drove him—a dangerous mix of concern and self-blame. She should have known he'd be concerned about a woman he'd slept with—even a prostitute. That concern would certainly turn to guilt if he felt in any way responsible for her actions. It seemed that he did.
"Do you honestly think you led me astray?" she scoffed, determined to absolve him of all responsibility, to send him on his way before his "knight in shining armor" syndrome compelled him to do something rash
"I think I made your first venture into prostitution easier for you. Opened the door, so to speak."
"You did open the door," she admitted. "But only the one to the stairwell! Rest assured, Mr. Montgomery. You weren't my first john. I've been turning tricks for years." She wished she could toss in a few shockingly graphic details—just to lend her credibility—but at the moment, possible details eluded her. Where, she wondered, had she gone wrong in her role of prostitute? "What made you think you were my first?"
"Your hesitation. Your fear. The tears you tried to hide when you left me." He pressed closer, his voice growing softer, his gaze more intimate. "The passion of your kiss. The tightness of your body. The authenticity of your climax."
Heat blazed in her skin. And not only from embarrassment. With merely a sultry gaze and a few gruffly uttered words, he'd managed to arouse her.
She tore her gaze away from him.
"The way you blush," he continued, running the back of a finger in a leisurely path down the curve of her heated face. "Oh … and the fact that you charged me fifty dollars."
Surprise forced her gaze back to his. Had she overcharged him? "You—you don't think fifty was … fair?"
His mouth bent in a rueful, chiding way, yet something like affectionate indulgence warmed his eyes. "You have to know that you could charge a hell of a lot more."
Oh, my. She'd undercharged him. How to explain that? "I, uh, gave you a discount because, um—" she chewed on her bottom lip "—because I had to leave early." There! That made perfect sense.
"You mean, if you'd stayed the whole night, you would have charged me more?"
"Much more," she confirmed. "Double."
"A hundred dollars."
"Yes."
"For the whole night."
His deadpan tone made her wonder if she should have upped the price another notch or two.
Before she had time to reason it out, he said, "A woman like you could charge five, ten, maybe twenty times that for a whole night."
She blinked in sheer amazement. She could? "Maybe that's true wherever you're from, but here in Sunrise—"
"Would you like me to find out the going rate, here in Sunrise?"
Alarm coursed through her. He might start checking into her story! "I don't care what anyone else charges. I do business the way I see fit."
"Why are you doing this business at all?"
"That's none of your concern," she snapped. "So please, just get the hell out of my life."
"That's exactly what I want to help you do," he growled. "Get the hell out of your life … whatever that hell may be."
His fervent concern touched a chord deep in her heart. If only she could run to the shelter of his strong, warm arms and put an end to her misery.
"Let me help you, Jen." He reached out and took firm possession of her shoulders, his gaze serious and compassionate. "I know you're not happy. You can barely hide your anguish. And you can't have been selling yourself for long, or you wouldn't be as … as…" He struggled for a word, then shook his head, looking thoroughly frustrated. "You're new at this business. I know it. I was your first customer. I hope to God your only customer."
The temptation was strong to assure him that he was and always would be her only "customer." But that might add to his sense of guilt, make him feel even more responsible for her—and then she'd never get him to leave.
"You weren't my first customer," she said, feeling desperate, "but everything else you're saying makes sense. You've made me realize that prostitution isn't for me. As of right now, I'm finished with it," she swore, striving to inject passionate sincerity into every word. "I'll never do it again."
He didn't look as gratified as she'd expected. In fact, his expression didn't lighten at all. "You don't mean that. You're only saying it to get rid of me."
"No, no, I do mean it. Prostitution is a terrible profession, and I—"
"If you're serious, let me arrange for you to stay with a good friend of mine for a while. Dr. Jane Parsons. She's a social worker and psychologist in Santa Monica who works with women. She'll help you through the worst of the transition, Jen, so you can make a good start toward a new life."
For the second time that day, Jennifer had to swallow hysterical laughter. The last thing she wanted was a "new life." And since when had he become such good friends with Jane Parsons? Jane had been one of her customers at the hair salon, but at the time, Trev hadn't known her. Despite the fact that she should be glad he'd become close with women in the community, jealousy squeezed her nearly breathless. She had to get rid of the man before her emotions got the best of her! "I can't afford the time away from my day job to go traipsing off to Santa Monica."
"I'll find a professional counselor who can help you here, then."
"Thank you, but my future is none of your affair—so please butt out!"
"Just as I thought. Your biggest concern is to get rid of me, isn't it? Makes me wonder why."
He plied her with a searching gaze that escalated her panic. She was getting herself deeper into danger. She didn't want him dwelling on her desire to escape from him. She needed to put an absolute end to his interest in her. Obviously, the I've-seen-the light tactic wasn't the way. He would probably try to keep tabs on her for the rest of her life.
"Do you know why I want to get rid of you?" she burst out, her voice strident with barely subdued panic. "Because you're delusional, that's why. You're not my first customer, or my fifth, or my twentieth. I've had so many, I've lost count. But for some reason, you think you're special. You think you can take over my life."
"I'm not trying to take over your life. I'm offering to help you. Forget professional counseling, since it obviously makes you uncomfortable. But if you're in a desperate financial bind, I can help you get a better paying job, or arrange for a long-term l
oan, or—"
"I don't want your help!" she cried, horrified at the feeling that she might, at any moment, break into sobs. "And yes, I was lying just to get rid of you. I enjoy moonlighting as a hooker. I like the excitement. And the extra cash. Not because I need it desperately, as you seem to think, but just to have more spending money. You know, for designer clothes, and diamonds, and spiffy shoes."
"If all that's true, why are you holding back tears?"
"I'm not," she croaked. Her throat closed completely, and she pushed against his broad, solid chest, shoving free of him. Pacing across the small office to a somewhat safer distance—near the corner where her beanbag koala bears sat hugging on top of her computer—she struggled for control. When she finally regained her voice, she said over her shoulder, "Leave, Mr. Montgomery, or I'll call the police. I'll swear out a restraining order against you, if I must."
Trev didn't reply.
That rather surprised her. He usually had an answer for everything. Could he have finally seen the pointlessness in trying to rescue a woman from herself? Only when she'd gathered her composure reasonably well did she risk another glance at him.
He stood with his legs splayed, his arms crossed, his golden-brown gaze impaling her—the very picture of male obstinacy. "Go right ahead. Call the police. I'm ready when you are."
* * *
4
« ^ »
Jennifer squared off with her macho adversary in uneasy silence. What would he do if she did call the police?
It didn't take her long to realize she couldn't risk finding out who knew what Trev might say or do. Though she doubted that she could be arrested for prostitution on his word alone—especially since he had been her john—her entire life revolved around the need to avoid raising questions, suspicions or undue notice. The slightest hint that she moonlighted as a prostitute would force her into a harsh spotlight, in the community and here at the agency. Her job references would be at stake, as would the references she'd need to rent another decent apartment. And if worse came to worst, the U.S. Marshals Service might get wind of the problem. Trev could cause endless trouble for her.
Then there was the possibility that he himself would dig into her background—and discover that she hadn't been barred from the hotel, and that she'd been living in Sunrise for seven years, the exact amount of time Diana had been missing.
No, she couldn't call the police.
Abandoning her attempt at threatening him, she closed the distance between them with her hands outstretched. "Please, Trev, listen. I know you're feeling guilty for … buying my services. Your conscience is trying to make you atone by placing responsibility for me onto your shoulders. But you're not responsible for the choices I make, and there's nothing you can do to change them."
"Thanks for the psychoanalysis, Jen, but—"
"No, please—" she caught his face gently between her hands "—don't argue. My life is complicated, and I'm asking you, begging you, to leave me alone. Your interference will only cause me trouble." She regarded him in imploring silence, her palms pressed against his smooth-shaven skin, her heart filling with painful tenderness. If only he weren't so good and kind and noble. If only she didn't love him so much.
She shouldn't be with him. Saddened by that knowledge and shaken by her tumultuous feelings for him, she lowered her hands from his face. The loss of physical contact released them both from a stare that had gone on too long, penetrated too deep.
"Answer me one thing, Jen," he said, breaking an oddly poignant silence. "Do the complications in your life involve a pimp?"
She frowned. "A pimp?"
"Do you work for a pimp?"
She supposed she shouldn't be so surprised at the question. It made perfect sense that she would work for one. In fact, as she thought about it, a pimp seemed like an excellent idea. A way to convince Trev that she had formidable protection.
"Actually, I do work for a … a very powerful man. He watches over me and handles every problem I run across. He's extremely protective. And that's why it's important for you to leave me alone. I wouldn't want him to think you've become a … problem." She paused to let the implication sink in.
His gaze narrowed. "So that's it. That's who you're afraid of."
"Afraid of?"
"You're not alone anymore, Jen." His eyes blazed, and his deep, quiet voice vibrated with angry sincerity. "I won't let him hurt you, I swear it."
"No, no, you misunderstood. He'd never hurt me. He's very good to me. We're friends. Close friends."
"And you sell yourself for him."
"Well, uh, yes, but—"
"Then he's not good to you. He's not a friend. He cares about you only as a product. An expendable product—or you wouldn't be afraid of him."
"I'm not afraid of him!"
"You're scared, and miserable, and alone. And this mercenary bastard, whoever he is, is taking advantage of that. He's trapping you into a way of life that can only destroy you. Tell me his name, and what rock he lives under."
The intent behind that demand horrified her. He was ready to hunt down a pimp. Although that pimp was nonexistent, fear gnawed at her stomach. Trev was too headstrong. He thought himself invincible. She'd been right seven years ago to withhold the truth about herself from him. If he knew the real dangers she faced—both then and now—he'd probably try to take on the crime bosses themselves!
And if he did interfere with the business of any bonafide pimp, he could attract the notice of the local crime lords—the last thing Jennifer wanted.
Alarm spurred her into anger. "Have you lost your mind? You're willing to do battle with a pimp, a dangerous criminal who, for all you know, could be connected with organized crime. And for what? A woman you don't even know. A working girl who doesn't want your help."
"I have a few powerful contacts of my own. I don't intend to take on any criminal without a solid plan and backup. And now that you've admitted he's 'dangerous,' I'm not about to turn a blind eye and leave you to his mercy."
"He's not dangerous to me. But if you stir up trouble, you'll be in more danger than you've ever dreamed possible!"
The extent of her anxiety stunned Trev. She was pale, wide-eyed and undeniably shaken. She seemed to believe that her pimp was all-powerful, and that no one could help her. But more surprising was the fact that she was worried about him—the john she hadn't wanted to see again. Grave though the situation was, he couldn't help feeling a little pleased by her concern. "Let me get this straight. You're worried about me."
Clearly taken aback, she stared at him in dismayed silence. The hard shell she'd been trying to hide behind had cracked, and her softness was showing. "No, hell no, I'm not worried about you," she blustered. "I just don't want you interfering in my affairs."
"You think I'll get hurt."
She let out a scornful laugh. "Do you really think I care?" Unable to maintain the scorn, though, she soon gave in to earnest passion. "But yes, I do think you'll get hurt if you go slaying dragons in the underworld, with or without a 'solid plan and backup.' You will be hurt … or killed. And nothing will be accomplished. Please, don't get involved, Trev. I am what I am, and you can't change it. And I don't understand why you'd be willing to risk your neck to try."
Trev didn't quite understand that, either. And yet, he'd do whatever it took to help her—more so now than ever. In her office with its work-cluttered desk, a coffee mug with a smirking smiley face, two little stuffed bears hugging on top of her computer monitor, and not one personal photograph anywhere in sight, she somehow seemed more real and more vulnerable than she had at the hotel.
He couldn't bear to think of her working nights on her back or knees.
In the clear light of day, she looked barely older than his kid sister, who had just turned twenty. Dressed in a demure navy-blue skirt and white blouse with little flowers embroidered around the collar, her dark blond hair braided and draped across one shoulder, her eyes wide with concern—for him—his "lady of the evening" se
emed utterly sincere, wholesome and adorable. He knew in his gut that she was, at heart, an innocent who had been trapped by desperate circumstances and manipulated by evil men. He couldn't help feeling protective.
He also felt drawn to her in an elemental way—as if he'd known her forever, and she was someone precious to him. Her likeness to Diana probably accounted for that. The sense of familiarity still gripped him by the throat and wouldn't let go. Even the secrets lurking in her eyes reminded him of Diana, who hadn't been without mysteries of her own.
Most provoking, though, was the sexual interest Jen stirred in him. Despite her pragmatic surroundings and demure clothing, despite her determination to send him away, despite his knowledge that she was a prostitute—a woman he should steer clear of—he couldn't stop wanting her.
When he'd first seen her today, he'd felt a wild surge of possessiveness, as if he had every right to pull her into his arms. When she'd cradled his face between her hands, his pulse had revved. And now, as she pleaded with her wide blue eyes, he remembered them darkening with passion, and longed to ignite that passion again. To taste her smooth, lush mouth, just one more time…
Had his memory exaggerated the effect of her kiss, of her lovemaking? Probably. He'd been in a vulnerable state of mind on Friday night, so soon after the legal declaration of Diana's death. Since then, he'd had time to collect his wits. What would it be like to kiss Jen now? If he did, he wouldn't go beyond a kiss. He intended to free her from prostitution, not exploit her further. But a kiss couldn't hurt her—and it just might free him from his crazy desire for her.
"Meet me when you get off work this afternoon, Jen," he murmured, his voice sounding huskier than he'd intended.
"Oh, for heaven's sakes, Trev!" Grabbing the lapels of his sport coat, she bunched them in her fists and tried to shake him. "What do I have to do," she cried, enunciating each word with every jerk of her arms, "to get it through your thick skull that I can't see you again?"
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