Escort

by Skye Warren

  “Actually,” Bea says from behind me. “Your holding company owns the holding company which owns the holding company that owns this hotel. And my lease on the penthouse still stands. And I’m telling you to get out, too.”

  He narrows his eyes. “I can void your lease. You know that.”

  She takes a shuddery breath. “Then do it.”

  Slowly he picks himself up, looking like an old, broken man. But when he stands up straight, he stares down at us like we’re trash. No, I’m the one he sees as trash. And he’s right about that. “You don’t want to cross me,” he says to Bea. “I would have given you everything.”

  “No,” she says softly. “You would have taken everything. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  He gives me one final look—an appraisal, this look. As if considering the man who could have killed him. Weighing whether he would survive another fight. No, he wouldn’t. Not even Bea could save him if he challenged me again. Nothing could save him if he hurts a single wild, copper-colored hair on her head.

  Perhaps he senses that, because he turns and limps out of the room, keeping his head held high.

  As soon as the elevator doors close behind him, I turn to Bea. “Are you all right?”

  She holds up a hand as if I might hurt her, which makes me freeze. “I need you to go, too.”

  Shock is a thousand tons of bricks on my chest. They make it hard to breathe. Harder to speak. “I’m sorry, Bea. I didn’t mean for that to happen in front of you.”

  “But you did mean for it to happen, didn’t you? That’s why you came last night, without me even having to pay. Not because you’re interested in me, not because you’re a friend. So that you could find out something about the owner of the hotel.”

  Shame is acid in my gut. “I care about you, Bea.”

  A small smile. “Is that the company line? The official response when a client is foolish enough to think she’s special to you?”

  “It’s not a line. I care about you more than I should, more than I imagined was possible. More than I ever cared about a woman before. Mon Dieu, I let him go unharmed for you.”

  “You only had access to him because of me,” she shoots back.

  There’s a tear down the center of me, its edges singed with guilt. The past and present. Revenge and a woman I can’t ever have. “What will you do?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Look for somewhere else to live, most likely. Edward probably has his lawyers looking for a loophole in the contract right now. I mean, it’s not going to be hard. They wrote the contract when my trust leased the penthouse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. What you said… what happened to your mother… to you, it’s horrifying. I can’t believe that he… and well, somehow I’m not as surprised as I should be. He’s always thought he was above the rules.”

  Relief suffuses me. She understands. “I knew he might have ties to this hotel, but that’s all. I did not know for sure that he was the owner. It might have been a dead end, but that isn’t why I came last night. I came because I wanted to see you.”

  She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she looks at me again, her eyes are clear. Poor little rich girl, he called her? How can he look at her, standing here like a goddess, and think she is anything but strong? “I understand why you did it. More than you know.” She has a sad little laugh. “I used to dream about getting my hands on the Somali pirates who killed my parents. Not that I would have been able to… you know, choke the life out of them.”

  “I stopped. I stopped for you.” How could that not be enough? Why doesn’t she see? That was everything to me. My driving force. I gave up my past for her, for a chance at a future, and now I’m left with nothing.

  Her eyes glisten with tears. “But I can’t trust you. God, I barely know you.”

  “You do know me,” I say, urgent. “What you said in the video… that was all true.”

  “You saw that?” She shakes her head, sad and lost. “I can’t trust anything anymore. Not even myself. I thought Edward had my best interests at heart, even if he was a little pompous about it. But he was a monster all along. You need to go.”

  “What if he comes back?” What if he forces his way inside this penthouse? What if he pushes her down on the bed? Bile rises in my throat, knowing what he’s capable of.

  She shakes her head. “I can protect myself more than you think. More than he thinks.”

  “Let me stay. We don’t have to do anything. We won’t have sex or even talk if you’re not ready for that. I’ll sleep on the couch, but I’m not going to leave you alone.”

  “It’s my decision,” she says, and I can see her shutting down. I can see the walls come up around her like the marble walls of L’Etoile and the high windows. Like the private elevator that only she can use. “And if you don’t listen to me, you’ll be as bad as him.”

  Dread squeezes my heart. “I would never force you.”

  “Then go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Den is quieter in early afternoon, a steady hum of conversation instead of the raucous crowd. I’m surprised to see Sutton sitting in an armchair in front of the fire, a beer dangling from its neck, the glass beaded with condensation.

  I sit down in the chair next to him. “A little early,” I say, nodding toward the beer.

  It’s an invitation for him to tell me what’s wrong. He takes a swallow before answering. “Needed a break from the office.”

  “Problems in paradise?” I ask, my voice light. The construction and real estate company he owns with Christopher does well. And so far there hasn’t been conflict between the two men. I suppose it’s only a matter of time. They’re both strong-willed and stubborn in their own ways.

  “You could say that.” Sutton leans forward and sets down the beer between his boots, studying the ground like it has the solution to life’s problems. “There’s this woman.”

  I groan. “No talk of women. Not today.”

  His eyebrows go up. “You love talking about women.”

  “Only good things. And I have no good things to say today.”

  He laughs. “Don’t tell me Hugo Bellmont finally met his match. The virgin?”

  She’s not a virgin anymore, but I don’t mention that. I’m sure he can fill in the blanks. I put up a finger for the cocktail waitress, because today we are drinking early. “Apparently you’ve met your match, too. Tell me about her.”

  “It’s not like that. I mean, she’s beautiful. Smart. Like crazy smart.”

  “Does she use words too big for you?”

  He snorts, not bothering to argue the point. Sutton is basically a genius; he just hides it behind a Southern drawl. “That’s not exactly the problem.”

  “Then what is it?” The waitress brings my brandy, and I take a sip.

  “Christopher. She’s his stepsister. Or at least they used to be. I’m a little hazy on the background except that I know there’s something there.”

  I look into the fire so he can’t see that it troubles me. There’s history between Christopher and this Harper. And if it comes between them, it will disrupt more than the company. It will disrupt the Thieves Club, a friendship I’ve come to enjoy greatly. “History is in the past, my friend. So what are you going to do about this?”

  “The only thing I can do. The only thing I’ve ever done.”

  The answer is simple for a man as hard and ambitious as Sutton. “Go after her.”

  He nods. “I would prefer that it didn’t interfere with business.”

  “I would have preferred that also, but here we are drinking at three in the afternoon.”

  We lapse into a contemplative silence. I didn’t come here expecting to see anyone I knew. Sutton knows better than to push me when I don’t want to talk. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it usually has to do with Melissande. And history. But history is in the past, as I said.

  So what am I going
to do about it?

  The moments that follow are a brief reprieve, but in the back of my mind I know what I have to do. Revenge has been the thing that drove me for years. Now it will be something else, but no matter what I choose to do, I’ll be left alone. That’s all I deserve, really.

  The waitress returns, this time with a note on her tray. Hugo Bellmont, it says on the front.

  And inside: Come upstairs. – D

  “I have been summoned,” I say to Sutton, dropping the note on the small oak table between us.

  He reads it with surprise. “What’s your business with him? Do you need backup?”

  It does feel good to have friends who would have my back, but he has his own problems. Problems of the female persuasion. And I need to solve this one myself. Need to solve it alone.

  At the bottom of the stairs I pass by Penny, who is Damon’s girl. I recognize her from around the Den and from our one meeting at Beau Ciel. “Good afternoon,” I tell her with a small bow.

  Her cheeks turn a little pink. It used to bring me pleasure that I could make any woman—even ones contented in their relationships—blush, but instead there’s only emptiness. “Damon’s waiting for you,” she says, revealing that she knows more about his business than some people would suspect.

  “Merci. And do you have any words of advice for me? He has quite a reputation.”

  “Don’t believe a word they say. I mean, some of it’s real, but you’ll never really know which parts.”

  “Very reassuring,” I say drily. “You are a good match for him, to be sure.”

  She laughs. “He’s a softie inside.”

  I’m still shaking my head, a small smile on my face, when I reach the top of the stairs. It is only such a ridiculous statement as Damon Scott being a softie that could make me laugh. It occurs to me that perhaps that’s Penny’s goal, to cheer me up against all odds. In which case she truly is a good match for the man who sits at a desk set far back in a dark room.

  He does not look up when I enter, but I know he hears me. There’s nothing that happens in the Den that he doesn’t know about. Maybe even in the whole of Tanglewood.

  “Good afternoon,” I say, neutral. “You asked for me?”

  Of course he did not ask. It was a command. I do not take offense, not if he delivers what I need him to do. He looks up and sets his pen down. “Our deal. Do you still want it?”

  I step farther into the room but don’t bother to sit, not even when he inclines his head at the oversize leather chairs in front of the desk. This isn’t a deal I want to sit for. “Melissande. You want her ruined. You haven’t told me why, and I don’t imagine you will. But I agree to that.”

  “And in return I will ruin Edward Marchand. The owner of L’Etoile.”

  This is what it feels like to be torn in half, the halves pulled away completely. I’m two pieces now, the one from the past and the one adrift. “No.”

  One eyebrow rises. “No?”

  Well, that’s something at the least. I have managed to surprise Damon Scott. “Instead I wish for you to purchase the hotel for me. I will provide the money, but the owner may take some persuasion.”

  Damon leans back, pondering. “I have some knowledge of your portfolio. It’s significant. Probably enough, but only barely. You won’t have anything left.”

  And with Melissande ruined, I won’t be able to work in this town. At least not for the prices I normally command. She will do her best to blackball me and probably succeed.

  It does not matter. I don’t matter, not if it means Bea can be safe.

  “Do we have a deal?” I ask, my voice even.

  “Consider it done.”

  I set down a flash drive on his desk. It contains photographs I took in her office late last night of her ledger, written in her own handwriting. Names and dates and dollar amounts. The fact that she’s a madam is well-known in the underworld of the city. No cop would make a move on her for selling sex. Half of them are under her payroll. And the other half… well, she would be out within twenty-four hours and make it her mission to destroy them.

  That’s why I’ve circled the names of boys and girls I know to be under eighteen. It’s a dark truth of the sex industry that this happens. When they don’t have a good family, when the system fails them, it’s the only way they survive. There are clients who prefer the young ones.

  Which is one of the reasons Melissande wanted me all those years ago. She probably enjoyed that I worshipped her at the beginning, as well. But it wasn’t long before she put me to work.

  Damon nods. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

  No, I have experience with pleasure. This was something else. “You’ll let me know?”

  “It will take a couple days. I’ll be in touch.”

  And this is how you make a deal with the devil. By selling the most valuable thing I have for the only person worth anything to me. Losing L’Etoile will be nothing to a man like Edward Marchand. It will not ruin him, not when he has a hundred other more valuable properties. Decades of searching for revenge, only to give it up in a single afternoon.

  But it will mean freedom for Bea, which is the most important thing now. The only thing. I traded everything for her to feel safe, for her to never again tremble in fear.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I have an entire bottle of brandy sitting on the counter.

  And beside it is a stack of papers that constitutes the signed and executed contract rendering me the new owner of L’Etoile. When Mama worked as a maid, I looked at the hotel with awe, with anger, with distrust—but I never imagined I would own a place like it.

  Now I am the proprietor.

  Well, I won’t become too comfortable with the title. I will have to face Bea soon so that we can transfer the title to her name. It won’t matter if I promise never to evict her or coerce her into anything. Only when she owns her suite free and clear will she truly feel safe.

  Not tonight, however. Tonight I plan to get very drunk. After spending all day at a lawyer’s office, signing away almost every last cent I own, it seems the only fitting thing to do. At least I did not have to see Edward there. He signed the night before. Putting up quite a protest, Damon said, but in the end the Scott name held enough clout—and enough fear—in the city to convince him to sign. And Edward ended up fairly compensated for the hotel, something that I cannot help but dwell on tonight, with my bank account and investments depleted.

  I reach for a glass as the door buzzes. Is it Melissande? I haven’t heard from her, but I imagine that won’t last. She will have some words for me once she realizes what I’ve done. Unless Damon makes it hard enough for her that she has to leave Tanglewood.

  My phone is open to Bea Sharp’s page, where nothing new has been uploaded for a week. Her longest break, except for the one time she had the flu, one of the comments says—but even then she posted an update to let everyone know. The fans are in a frenzy about the absence, worried and dramatic, but none of it compares to the intensity of my own guilt.

  I felt bad for making her cry the first night, but this is worse. I hurt her. Not her beautiful body but the tender heart inside. No wonder she kicked me out.

  My finger flicks across the screen, and the security app appears. I stare at the photo a long second, trying to blink away the mirage. It’s dark outside, but the light clearly illuminates her upturned nose, her green eyes. Her copper curls. “Bea,” I breathe.

  She’s here. Why is she here? How is she here?

  I press the button to buzz her in the main door downstairs, but I don’t wait for her to climb the stairs to my loft. Instead I’m out the door and running down to meet her, my heart pounding louder than my footfalls, hope a wild and unmistakable beat. I catch her up in my arms as she falls, trembling, afraid. “What are you doing?” I demand, my throat tight with fear for her. Not that she would be in danger in the world, but she will feel as though she is. Her body will undergo the same stress, the same reactions as if she were kidnapp
ed by Somali pirates even if nothing happens.

  “I took a cab,” she whispers, her voice shaking.

  “Mon Dieu.” I don’t wait for her to give me permission this time. I lift her and carry her up the stairs, my stride fast and steady. Once we’re inside the loft, I shut the door and think about where to put her. Nothing about this place is what she’s used to. Sleek modern furniture instead of embellished antiques. Crisp leather instead of thick brocade.

  The bed, I realize. The white sheets on my bed aren’t trimmed with lace, but they’re close enough. No other woman has ever spent the night with me in the bed, but it feels completely natural that Bea would be there. I stride into the bedroom and set her down gently, pushing the hair back from her face. “Why did you do it, Bea?”

  “I had to see you.” Her lower lip trembles, and I’m terribly afraid she’s going to cry.

  “You could have called me. I would have come.”

  “No,” she says, a little too loud. This is when I realize that she is more than afraid. She’s perhaps tipsy. “I have to apologize to you. God, you had just seen the man who… And then I told you to leave.”

  She’s definitely crying now, tears thick in her throat, fat drops on her copper lashes.

  “You are killing me,” I tell her honestly. “Don’t cry.”

  Her lip trembles while she makes a valiant effort to stop. It isn’t quite enough. “I couldn’t stop thinking about your face when I asked you to go. And after everything you’d done. The picnic. You wanted me to get out of there, and I should have, a long time ago, and now I have to leave—”

  “Shhh.” I consider telling her about the sale of L’Etoile. I could show her the contract in the next room, but that will only raise questions of why Edward had been willing to part with it. The important thing is that she calm down now. I’ll tell her about the hotel later. “Don’t worry about that. Everything will work out. I promise, Bea.”

  “It’s fine,” she says, quite loud, and I realize she’s more than tipsy. She’s completely wasted. “I did it. Look! I’m outside the hotel right now, and I’m not freaking out.”