by Galia Ryan
“Of course. Surely you didn’t think I would put you forward without ensuring you had the knowledge to turn the business around?”
“And what exactly would this training involve?”
“You would come and work for me.”
Stephanie did not flinch. “I’m sorry, Hélène. I am not interested in becoming one of your girls.”
“Of course not. I was thinking more along the lines of assistant manager.”
Chapter 26.
“A good agency works on a tiered system,” Hélène explained. “We have a number of girls I consider the best in the business; then we have those who show promise in that direction. Lastly we have the rank and file.”
“And how do you grade?”
“Attitude. There’s no other way. Of course a girl’s attractiveness comes into it, as do her age and body shape. Then there’s her education and background to consider. Beauty, intelligence and sexuality—the Holy Trinity.”
Stephanie thought about her girls. “And what about a sense of fun?”
“Important, too,” Helene conceded, “provided it is balanced with professionalism. An escort who drinks too much when she is with clients or over-indulges in other drugs can devalue the entire agency. And with that goes everything you’ve worked for.”
“Interesting. I hadn’t considered that.”
Stephanie realised she had little idea of what went on at her parties. Naturally she had attended the first one, the one she had arranged for Sam. But after that, she had left the girls to their own devices.
“And does your agency offer any other services?”
“Other than straight sex, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Some girls will perform a little light BDSM if required, but other than that, no. I tend to leave that side of things to the professionals.”
“So, you have no dungeon hidden in the basement? No whips and chains hanging on the wall?” Stephanie asked with a smile.
“No. Although, if you’re interested in that sort of thing, I can arrange a meeting for you. You know,” Hélène paused, tilting her head as if the idea had just struck her. “It might even be a good idea. Get an understanding of what BDSM is really all about. Occasionally we do have a crossover, so a little knowledge is always useful.”
“I can’t deny that I’m curious.” Stephanie brushed at an imaginary mark on her skirt, a complicit smile playing on her lips.
“Good. I’ll arrange for you to meet someone. Now why don’t we start your education by going over last week’s booking activity?”
Giselle was a dominatrix.
Upon leaving school, and aware she hadn’t the qualifications to consider medical school, she had opted to become a nurse. At first the long hours and limited salary hadn’t bothered her. Her focus was on helping others. She was naturally compassionate and had the ability to put her patients at ease.
But real life soon intruded, she told Stephanie over lunch.
In her early twenties she drifted into the sex industry as a means to supplement her income. The first time she had been asked to whip a client, she was shocked. He’d hidden a riding crop down the leg of his trousers and asked her to use it on him, eagerly explaining he didn’t need to have sex with her.
“So what exactly did he want?” Stephanie asked, eyes wide with incredulity. She might have only just met Giselle, but she couldn’t image someone so normal looking being involved in something as extreme as domination. Why, she looked almost angelic. Her long dark hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and she was wearing only a trace of makeup. Not that she needed it, Stephanie thought, slightly envious of the girl’s flawless complexion.
Perhaps that was the attraction. Take away the jeans. Dress her in a corset, give her a whip, and you have, what? A delicious combination of heaven and hell?
Giselle was mopping up the last crumbs on her plate. “He needed to be punished. Why? I have no idea.”
“So what did you do?”
“Doubled my usual fee.”
“And did he pay?”
“He couldn’t get his wallet out fast enough!” Giselle laughed.
“Tell me more about what you do,” Stephanie said. “I have so many questions. Wait, though. Let’s have another glass of wine.”
She attracted the attention of their waiter.
“And more of those delicious bruschettas,” Giselle said.
Once their order was taken, Stephanie placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “So, start at the beginning.”
Giselle smiled. “Well, the first things to understand are the keywords to my business—consensual, safe and sane. I will only take on a client if I’m one hundred percent sure he meets the criteria.”
“Fair enough.”
“Then you have to understand a client’s needs.”
“Psychology.”
“Exactly. And like I said, it’s not sex. Guys who went to public school often ask to be caned. Being spanked with the hairbrush or slipper is a mother thing.”
“And you don’t think it’s all a little weird?”
The girl shook her head. “Not anymore.”
“Have you ever refused anyone?”
“Yes. Have you ever refused to have sex with anyone?”
Stephanie paused, then said, “Touché.”
“To be honest with you,” Giselle said, “I don’t think you will get too many clients who expect this type of treatment. They might want to be tied up, or blindfolded. They might even want their arses smacked. But that’s as far as it will go. You should be able to screen out those who want special treatment anyway. And that’s where I—or someone like me—comes in.”
Stephanie translated, “Your details are discreetly passed to the client.”
Giselle nodded firmly. “Exactly. It’s a win-win situation all round.”
Stephanie was in her apartment going through the financial accounts of the ailing agency. They certainly made for poor reading. The entire business would need restructuring. The first thing she would have to do was recruit new girls. She would take Hélène’s advice and advertise at first. She would be highly selective, and take only the best. After that, word of mouth would bring the right applicants.
At that moment, the phone rang. She considered ignoring it. It would only be someone wanting her girls, and if they were that interested they would call back.
Then again, business was business.
She reached over and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Ciao, cara mia.”
Stephanie was absolutely still. “Giancarlo? Oh my God!”
“Surprised to hear from me?”
“Yes. Where are you? You can’t be in the Sudan, or the line wouldn’t be this clear.”
“No. I’m at home.”
“Home. As in Italy?”
“The very same.”
“Oh, my God,” she repeated. “When did you get back?”
“Last week. Didn’t you get my letter?”
“Er, no.” Stephanie guiltily remembered the unopened envelope propped beside her bed.
“So, what are you doing in Cannes?” he asked. “No doubt working for some big shot legal outfit, and schmoozing with billionaires?”
“Not exactly. The truth is I’m still finding it hard to get a good placement.”
“You’re kidding? With your brains?”
“My thoughts, too. But hey, forget me. What about you?”
“Well, I’ve got a couple of weeks off, and then back to the Dark Continent again.”
“You’re returning to Africa? I thought you were only going to be there a year.”
“I volunteered to go back.”
Stephanie swallowed down her disappointment. “Oh.”
“Anyway, now that I have tracked you down—and by the way, that was not easy—shall we get together?”
“Yes, why not. Where?”
“Why don’t I come to you? I could do with a little sophistication, although it might be a
shock to the system.”
“When shall I expect you?”
“How about Tuesday? I’ll check the flights and let you know the time.”
Tuesday. Two days away.
“Sounds good. Hey, how did you find me?”
“Your friend Gabi. I called your home number. Your stepmother told me she might know where you were.”
Gabi. Thank God they’d kept in touch.
Stephanie went on a cleaning rampage. Every part of the apartment was scrubbed or polished. She bought new bedding. Five hundred thread count, pure white Egyptian cotton. He deserved a little spoiling. As she queued up to pay for her purchase she’d wondered at his sleeping arrangements in Africa. Would it be too hot there for a sleeping bag? Probably. Definitely a camp bed though. And mosquito netting.
Next she bought candles, dozens of them. She would place them all around the apartment, but mainly in the bedroom. She needed music, slow and sexy. And wine. Oh, and she would need to feed him. He would probably have lost weight over there.
Flowers. They would add the perfect touch of natural colour. Another thing he might have missed.
In the airport arrival lounge she discovered her concerns had not been unfounded—he had lost weight. But she couldn’t get over how tanned he was. The colour was so different from the fake orange-browns she had become used to seeing. He was weathered, that was the word. Weathered by the sun. The sleeves of his denim shirt were rolled back, and his forearms looked powerful. Sitting beside him in the taxi on the way to her apartment, she couldn’t help but be aware of his presence.
Was this still Giancarlo? What had happened to effect such a change in him? She’d thought he’d been different in London. This man was almost a stranger.
Then he turned to her and smiled. “You okay?”
“Mmm.”
She wanted to touch him. To feel his warmth and vitality beneath her fingers. He must have sensed her thoughts for he reached for her hand and squeezed it.
It was going to be all right.
She felt strangely shy as she opened her front door.
“This is nice,” he said. She could hear the appreciation in his voice.
“Yes. I was really lucky. Managed to knock them down to a price I could afford.” It was only a small lie. “Throw your bag in the spare room. It’s that door over there. Bathroom is through there. Glass of wine? Or a beer?” she heard herself babbling.
“Do you know what I would really like to do?” he called from the bedroom.
“No?”
“Go out. I’d like to wallow in a little hedonism and lavishness for a change.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Okay if I shower first?”
“Of course.”
She tried to find something to do. It was no good. She couldn’t help thinking about his body under the shower. His broad back, his narrow hips. The dark hair across his chest that thinned and reached down to his belly button. The line of hair that continued below that. She wondered what he would say if she walked into the bathroom and offered to help soap him. It was tempting. But she thought better of it.
All she really wanted was for him to take her in his arms and kiss her. Her body ached to be held. It was as if there was a magnetic current coming from him, and she could do nothing other than respond. She had hoped they would make love the moment they arrived home. She wanted to melt into him, become part of him.
But a bit of delicious anticipation wasn’t unwelcome.
She looked up.
He had changed into chinos and a white shirt. His dark hair was slicked back and still damp.
He looked sexier than ever.
They walked to Le Suquet, to a restaurant that had become one of her favourites. The manager was pleased to see her, and his eyes twinkled as he took in Giancarlo. As if to show his approval, he seated them at one of the better tables. The wine-list was produced with a theatrical flourish.
Giancarlo accepted it with a smile. Somehow she knew he was thinking of life in the Sudan and the obvious contrast.
“Red or white?” he asked her.
He was making a show of going through the options.
“What about a glass of champagne?”
“Good idea.”
Giancarlo handed back the list.
“A bottle of the Veuve Clicquot brut,” he ordered. His eyes were full of amusement as he reached for her hand. “Okay with that?”
She nodded happily. “So tell me all about Africa. I’m dying to know.”
His smile disappeared and he was quiet for a moment. Releasing her fingers he leaned back, as if to gather his thoughts. “It’s nothing like you could ever imagine. Yes, it’s hot and dusty, just as in any photo. But it’s also surprisingly vibrant.”
“In what way?”
“It’s hard to explain. It’s, like, an energy.”
He absently picked up his empty wine glass. She noticed that he was full of pent-up energy, continually moving and touching things.
“What about the people?” she asked.
“As varied as anywhere else. There are times we see only the locals. Then, days before the aid trucks arrive, others start drifting in. At first dozens, then hundreds. Sometimes thousands. If you ever stopped to think about the numbers it would be terrifying.”
“Go on.”
“After the convoy arrives, we get the militia. You can never tell their mood. Sometimes they are laughing and joking. Other times they just want to throw their weight around. Simon—he’s the one I mentioned in my last letter, the guy in charge—he deals with that side of things. He’s a little crazy if you ask me. Barters with them. Doesn’t seem to care when they wave their guns in his face.”
“You’re kidding! So, how dangerous is it?”
“When the militia are around it pays to be careful. But when they are gone, it’s no more dangerous than anywhere else.”
Their champagne arrived, and he fell silent. When the waiter popped the cork there was a loud bang, and he flinched.
Stephanie reached across the tablecloth to take his hand again. “Why are you going back?”
“I just feel that there’s more I can do.”
“Like what?”
“I wish I knew.” He laughed. “Crazy, isn’t it?”
“What about your career?”
“My legal career? There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
“So tell me about the people you work with.”
For the next hour he regaled her with stories. He spoke more of Simon, and a guy from Ireland called Dougal. And a girl, Jazz.
“Short for Jasmine?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not short of female company?” she teased.
“No.”
For a fraction of a second he had hesitated.
Interesting.
“Are there a lot of women out there?”
“Of course. No discrimination when it comes to volunteer work. But where we are, we’re a pretty small bunch. About a dozen or so.”
“So what do you all do when you’re not giving out food?”
“You name it. I do a lot of advocacy work, but we’re also involved in helping out with the kids’ education, and in medical centres.”
“It sounds very full on.”
“It is.”
“And that’s what you like?”
“I suppose it is.” He was looking into the distance, and Stephanie knew at that moment that he was thousands of miles away.
“I’ve thought a lot about you,” he said unexpectedly.
Her cheeks were suddenly hot. She reached for her champagne.
“Some nights,” he continued, “when I couldn’t sleep, I would lie there and try to imagine what you were doing right at that moment. Just ordinary stuff. Brushing your hair or reading a book. Maybe shopping for something new to wear. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” His grin was a little self-conscious.
“I don’t think so. I’ve thought about you, too
.” She said softly.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever think about us?”
“Yes.”
“And what was your conclusion?”
Stephanie was hesitant. “I think, given the chance, we could make a good future for ourselves,” she said carefully.
“Do you? I thought so too, once. I thought it was all I wanted. But now I’m not sure.”
She was stunned. This was not what she had anticipated.
He leaned forward again, placing his elbows on the table and clasping his hands as if in prayer. Suddenly everything was very serious. “I couldn’t explain it to my father,” he went on, “or my mother. Her dream was for me to be a highly successful lawyer and produce lots of bambini for her.”
“And that’s not what you want?”
“Not anymore.”
She paused. “So what do you want?”
“I’m not sure,” he said with a shrug. “I know what I don’t want, though. I don’t want to take up law.”
“Perhaps you just feel that way now.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
“So what will you do in the meantime?”
“Continue what I’m doing, basically. But on a full-time basis.”
“You want to stay in Africa?”
“Not necessarily Africa. Anywhere I’m needed.”
“And what about me?”
“That is why I’m here. I had to see you. Talk to you.”
She gazed at him and wondered why her heart wasn’t breaking. Oh, it hurt. But it was hurting as much for him as for herself. She could see he was finding it hard to put his thoughts in to words.
“So tell me,” she said, taking his hand once more.
“I suppose I had to know how important all this is to me.” He looked around. “Restaurants, cars, money.”
“And what do you think now?”
“It isn’t. I’ve been lucky enough to see another side of life. And that’s what I want.”
“Will I see you again?”
“I hope so.” He looked at her. “You know, as much as I believe this is the right decision, I have a feeling there will be many times I will regret it.”