Lost In Between: Finding Me Duet #1

by K. L. Kreig

  Then he asks something of me I can’t deny him. Something he knows I won’t say no to, because while I have no compunction telling other people to fuck off, I am loyal to my family. I’d do anything for them, especially my father. I’d do anything to help him achieve his dreams.

  Running Wildemer & Company was always my dream, but it was never my father’s. While he ran the family business for over thirty years and did a hell of a job, it was never his passion. He did it to please his father, not himself. He did it to fulfill his familial obligation, all the while forgoing what he wanted to accomplish. It wasn’t until he retired a few years ago that he started truly living his dream. And his dream is in jeopardy.

  This is my curse, I think. My weakness. I’d like to think it’s the only one I have.

  I’m a ruthless businessman. I make multimillion-dollar decisions every single day. I co-own a company worth over a billion dollars and growing. I’m responsible for thousands of lives, thousands of families. I’m steadfast in my convictions, my beliefs, my rules.

  But I am devoted to my family. Every flawed one of them.

  I have no problem telling anyone else no. Anyone except the ones I love, that is.

  5

  I arrive at the Four Seasons a full thirty minutes late. I’d called Randi so she could give Mr. Graber a heads-up as we always work through her or her liaison instead of contacting the client directly. To say she was less than happy is an understatement, but at least she was sympathetic.

  “Your performance reflects directly on me and my ability to effectively manage my business. Good, bad, or indifferent. You’re late, I lose money. You’re sick, I have to scramble. You act like a cunt, I’ll cut your fucking head off before you know what’s happened. Clients don’t like to pay top dollar for mediocre, Summer. They come to me because I’m the best. I employ only the elite, the cream of the crop. My business depends solely on you, and your livelihood depends on me. Like it or not, we need each other, but make no mistake—you fuck up, you’re out. I have a hundred girls waiting to take your place.”

  I don’t how many times over the past two years I’ve heard those words in one form or another. She rules the baby she created from nothing with an iron fist and ruthless bravado, making no apology for it. But for whatever reason, Randi does have a soft spot for me, so while I still have to meet all of her impossible standards and endure a lecture every time I screw up, I also get leeway others don’t.

  Pushing everything about this day away—my mother, the accident, and the gorgeous, arrogant bastard still dancing behind my vision—I take a calming breath and slip into Summer, the only name any of my clients know me by.

  Tonight, I’ll play a sophisticated and slightly haughty socialite accompanying my very rich older “friend” Paul Graber to Seattle’s next Democratic mayoral hopeful’s big fundraiser. If all goes well, this will turn into a regular occurrence. Dinners. More fundraisers. Anywhere a man like Paul Graber wants to be seen with a beautiful woman on his arm. I’ll even travel if that’s what he requires, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my day job.

  My hope is this client can turn into a regular. While I’ve never been fortunate enough to have a regular before, there are definite pros and cons. Of course, the only pro I care about is a steady income.

  But the cons? There are many, the biggest of which is attachment. I’ve seen one too many of Randi’s employees either fall hopelessly in love with their client or vice versa, and this is no movie. There is no red ball gown, million-dollar jewels to return, or raunchy sex on pianos in darkened ballrooms at three in the morning.

  For some in this lifestyle, that’s what they’re looking for. The golden goose. Maybe even love. I don’t know. For me this is a way to make ends meet until I can build my own business successfully enough that I don’t need the extra money. I am not looking for a boyfriend, husband, or sugar daddy. I don’t want expensive jewels or to be set up in a penthouse apartment with a black Amex on the nightstand. I want to do a job, period. Professionally, without messy emotions attached.

  Besides, I don’t believe there can be a happily ever after riding on the coattails of clandestine negotiations and false fronts. But hey, that’s just me.

  “We’re here,” Abraam announces as he slows the vehicle to a subtle stop. Pasting a smile on my face when my driver opens the door, I exit the limo.

  Randi has two simple rules when it comes to her men and women.

  One: Never use your real name.

  Two: Never let your client pick you up at home. We either drive ourselves or she pulls out a chauffeur-driven car or limo for bigger, high profile events like this to ensure her investments shine.

  “Have a nice evening, ma’am. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks, Abraam.” I give him a fleeting smile and turn my attention to scan the area for Mr. Paul Graber, whose picture I studied again on the way here. It doesn’t take me long to spot him waiting with another handsome gentleman by the roped-off entrance.

  As I approach him, I understand why he’s been married three times already. His pictures don’t do him justice. For an older man, he is good-looking in a George Clooney sort of way.

  His thick hair is graying around the temples. His face is clean, free of whiskers. If the way his sharp black suit fits his lean frame is any indication, he’s still very active. He exudes confidence, control. And the smile he gives me should put me at ease, but there’s something else there. Something that feels a little…off.

  He takes my hand and runs his lips lightly over my knuckles. It gives me the shivers, though not in a sexual way. More like an I’m headed into a cemetery at the witching hour way. “Well, Randi wasn’t exaggerating when she said you were stunning,” he says genteelly, that hair-raising smile back on his face.

  Since I had about thirty minutes to shower and dress, Sierra fixed my hair while I quickly applied my makeup. She complained the entire time about being hungry, but she did a knockout job with the quick and simple updo she threw together.

  I have tendrils of blond locks cascading around my face and down my back, which complement my smoky, sultry makeup perfectly. My black, floor-length, fitted dress is simple, yet elegant. And knowing Paul Graber stood at only five feet eight inches, I opted for one-inch, open-toed heels on my five-five frame.

  “Thank you. My apologies for my tardiness.”

  He takes a step back, allowing his eyes to deliberately rake over me.

  This is part of the job, being scrutinized, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hate it. I knew what this job entailed—and what it didn’t—when I took it, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy being treated like a commodity. I feel slimy residue left behind everywhere his gaze touches. It makes me feel dirty, used.

  His heated eyes finally find mine again, and I swallow, hoping to restart my saliva glands, which seem to have dried up from this awkwardness. A quick glance at the man standing behind Paul shows that he’s hungrily taking me in as well. I’m already starting to feel like chum in the water on Shark Week.

  I take long, deep breaths, working to relax my jaw.

  “I’m a stickler for punctuality, but I have to say you were certainly worth the wait. You are lovely,” Paul says softly. His compliment slithers down my back like a poisonous snake ready to strike. “Shall we?”

  He crooks his arm and holds it out for me to take. I slip my hand underneath, setting my palm lightly on the top of his elbow, and he leads me inside, the unknown guard dog following behind.

  At first touch, I get the completely opposite feeling of the one my Drive By invoked. Where he was fire underneath his cool façade, this man is ice shrouded in refinement. Where he was cloaked in mystery, this man is easier to read than the alphabet. Where my thoughts had run rampant with uncorked desire, this man makes me want to put on a chastity belt and throw away the key.

  The question that’s weighing on my mind the most, though, is why, oh why do I wish I were standing here with that smug bastard wh
o wouldn’t give me the time of day instead of the man currently looking at me like he’d just as soon take me in the back room and fuck me instead of mingling with a bunch of rich, pompous snobs?

  I don’t know, but I know I don’t like it.

  We mingled. We ate dinner. I suffered through a blowhard politician giving the same regurgitated speech I think all politicians are spoon-fed about tax reform, public education funding, and bringing back the middle class. We mingled some more. I smiled. I fawned. I made appropriate small talk. I made Paul Graber feel like a god, which is my job and it’s a job I do well.

  I excused myself from him a while ago when I needed a break from the mind-numbing discussion of zoning permits and tax incentives to hit the restroom and get myself another gin and tonic.

  I allow myself two cocktails when with a client.

  This is my third.

  I may even have a fourth.

  Paul Graber and his “associate,” Ian, have turned out to be handsier and harder to handle than an eight-legged sea monster. My hopes of having him turn into a regular have effectively been flushed down the toilet. Turns out either they don’t understand the rules or they weren’t quite truthful about the type of service they were looking for. When I check in at the end of the evening, I’ll have to give Randi a heads-up.

  Randi has varying types of escorts for varying client tastes. Some are exactly what you’d think an escort is. He or she will do absolutely anything—anything—a client desires… for the right amount of cash.

  But I’m not one of them.

  Turns out there are a lot of people who want nothing more than to hire eye candy for an evening. No sex. No goodnight kiss. No expectations after the car door closes. It’s a niche market that Randi has capitalized on and a side of her business that’s more than doubled in the past twenty-four months.

  I’m what Randi has dubbed a “party favor.” We look pretty, we adorn our clients, we dote, we mingle, we act the part we’re given, and we go home at the end of the “date” a few hundred or thousand dollars richer, with our legs shut and our pride intact. I could make three times the amount I do if I sold more than my time, but I won’t. I may be desperate for extra income, but I’d never sell my body or my conscience to do it, not that I judge those who do. It’s just not right for me.

  Most of the time, this job is okay. Sometimes even enjoyable. I meet interesting people. I dine at the finest restaurants. Drink the most expensive wines. If I wanted to make a living doing nothing but this, which many of Randi’s employees do, I could. At three hundred fifty dollars an hour, it would be a very lucrative one.

  But hanging like a pretty bauble off the arm of some rich man isn’t the life I want even if that affords me the financial freedom I crave. I’m not sure what that life is anymore, and I think that’s part of my problem. I’m floundering. If I’m honest, I have been for a long time.

  I fell into acting because it seemed like I’d done it my entire life. I was good at it. I had to be the strong one. I had to pretend as though I was holding everything together on the outside while I silently fell apart on the inside. I foolishly thought I could make a living out of it. Then everything changed again, and I had to grow up fast.

  So here I stand, leaning against the beautiful golden art deco wall of the awe-inspiring Four Seasons ballroom, drowning the sorrows of my shitty day and my financial woes in a tumbler of liquor, disappointed this night is not turning out as I’d hoped.

  Needing just a couple more minutes to myself before rejoining my “date,” I’m sipping my cocktail and watching impeccably dressed power-hungry men and women with superiority complexes expertly work the room, kiss asses, and vie for the upper hand when someone sidles up next to me.

  “Now what’s a sweet pretty thing like yourself doing unprotected in a room full of ruthless predators?” a throaty male rumbles close to my ear. It’s the sort of deliciously deep voice that instantly wets a woman’s panties regardless of what his face looks like, and without so much as looking at this man, I already know he plays in the big leagues.

  Even though I would bet this guy has the sexy looks to match his even sexier timbre, I don’t give into temptation to verify it. For two more minutes I just want to be me instead of this false front I’m forced to wear. I put my glass to my lips and tip it, eyes forward.

  I fully expect him to leave when his question is greeted with silence. He doesn’t. He stays right beside me, and we stand quietly for a few beats together.

  Then I start to feel bad. Maybe he needed a break as much as I did and I’m just being a bitch for no reason. Maybe he’s just trying to be nice. What a novel concept. Maybe I should return the favor.

  I notice a beautiful, statuesque brunette gazing our way, and if I’m not mistaken, she has a little venom in her eyes.

  “She yours?”

  “Who?”

  I nod to the woman who’s discreetly trying to watch our little interaction out of the corner of her eye. “The brunette with voodoo eyes.”

  He laughs loudly, drawing a few eyes our way, including hers. “Voodoo eyes?”

  “Yeah. I think maybe if she had one of those little dolls in that tiny purse, she’d be hexing it and stabbing needles through the eye about now, hoping she’d blind me.”

  He takes a few seconds to respond before he mumbles, “I think maybe you’re right.” But he doesn’t elaborate, making me wonder if she’s one of the many women he’s left heartbroken. More than likely.

  “Your first time at one of these?”

  “Yes,” I find myself answering truthfully.

  “It can be a little overwhelming.”

  I hum noncommittally, staring straight ahead.

  “You from around here?”

  “Montlake.” While I live in a two-bedroom condo with Sierra in Beacon Hill now, I did grow up in Montlake, so it’s not really a lie.

  “Fancy. You here with someone?”

  Aaaand it begins. I force myself to hold in an exhale of disappointment.

  “I’m Noah, by the way.” When I don’t respond, he prods, “And you would be…”

  “Unavailable,” I retort with just enough heat to make sure he gets the point. I keep my eyes fixed on the way the moonlight shines off the dark waters of Puget Sound, still not looking at the man behind the silky voice.

  Dark and deadly chuckles deeply. I fight the smile tugging my mouth.

  “I don’t need your marital status, dollface. I can see by your empty left hand—you’re single.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  “Yes. They can.” Did I make that up, or did his voice just drop an octave from husky to huskier? “For example, you looked a little lost over here, and I thought you needed to be rescued, but I think perhaps I was mistaken.”

  “So, you don’t think I’m lost anymore?” I ask sarcastically, finishing my cocktail.

  “No. You’re lost, all right. I just don’t think you want to be found.”

  My breath catches at his perceptivity. My head snaps in his direction, and…

  I was right. His face does match his sinful voice. He’s undoubtedly gorgeous and intense. No wonder Voodoo Eyes is jealous. I would be too if this guy had crushed me.

  His lean form, covered in shiny charcoal material, towers above me. Dark eyes penetrate mine, searching for secrets he thinks he can find but won’t. I feel an immediate attraction to him, but it’s different from the one I felt earlier today toward the guy who rammed into me. That one was visceral. It came from someplace deep inside me that this guy could never reach. But I feel a sort of strange kinship with him, as if he could be a really good friend if I let him get that close.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?” he asks again in a low, coaxing voice. Ninety-nine percent of women would give in, let their name flow like hot lava hoping to burn a path into this man’s heart.

  I’m not one of them.

  Pushing back from the wall I was leaning against, I hand my empty glass to a passing waiter and
turn my full attention to the smooth-talking Adonis holding it up with me. “All right, take off your shirt.”

  “Excuse me?” One of his brows quirks up in amusement.

  I let my eyes drift down his solid, masculine form, hoping like hell this doesn’t backfire on me. “Your shirt. Take. It. Off. If I’m forced to make a decision now on whether to fuck you, I need to look at the goods first.”

  His gaze floats briefly around the room, and for the first time I gather I’ve made this confident man a little uncomfortable. I bite my lip to suppress a smile.

  “Who said I wanted to fuck you?”

  “Don’t you?” I challenge. What in God’s name are you doing, Willow?

  “I—” He chuckles, shaking his head slightly.

  I take a step closer, looking up his six-foot-plus height and lower my voice. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  An entertained smile stretches his face, making the skin around his eyes crinkle slightly. “Who the hell are you?”

  “There you are, Summer. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” a male voice slurs. The fumes from the bourbon Paul’s been drowning in all night almost make me dizzy when they drift over my shoulder.

  Noah’s brows lift at the mention of my name—my fake name. I cringe a little. I hadn’t been Summer at all while I was bantering with Noah. I’d been Willow, and I’d actually enjoyed myself for the first time in a long time.

  “I’m sorry I was delayed, Paul. I was just heading back from the ladies’. This gracious gentleman saved me from a rather nasty fall when my heel caught on the carpet.”

  My eyes slide to Noah. I almost laugh at the confused look he has about my sudden change in demeanor. His gaze drags from mine to meet that of the man standing by my side, whose hand now rests possessively at the small of my back.

  Yeah, I didn’t miss that. Neither did Noah.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Noah Wilder,” Paul says. “Surprised to see you here.” He sticks out his free hand, which Noah takes in a firm shake.

  “Keeping my options open.” He winks. “How’s business, Paul?”