Mine Until Morning

by Jasmine Haynes

  No Second Chances

  moments where she stored his scent, his taste, his feel for the days and weeks when he was gone.

  Tonight, she’d done her job to perfection. Both princes were pleased beyond their wildest imaginings.

  In their fiefdom, it was considered bad form for a man to enter the marriage bed without first learning how to properly satisfy his wife. In addition to taking his virginity, her job had been to teach the young prince how to pleasure a woman. While it had been physically satisfying, it was nothing compared to the feel of Royce’s cock inside her, his tongue on her, his fingers stroking her. Yes, Royce had certainly brought changes to her life. She no longer relished a new date or looked forward to a regular. None of them compared with what she felt when she was with Royce. The emotions added so much to the physical act. She nuzzled Royce’s hair. When he was young, his hair had been thick and dark, the texture of silk. Shot with gray, it was coarser now. His body was thicker, his muscles honed; his cock stayed harder longer. He was like fine wine, better with age.

  She didn’t think about all the years they’d missed, the things he’d had with another woman, like children. She ached thinking of him with sweet little darkhaired girls. She had only that one regret, but motherhood was never meant to be for her. Except for that one hole in her life, she loved who she was and what she was.

  Even as she’d been dreading the day Royce finally asked for more. He wasn’t going to let her hide him away for much longer. It was actually rather amusing—

  or karma—considering how he’d hidden their relationship from his family and the entire town of Prosperity when they were teens. One day soon, though, there would be a reckoning. She’d felt his increasing withdrawal when she refused to commit or even talk about the future.

  There was a possibility he might be able to forgive her for the things she’d kept from him all those years ago. She might be able to make him understand why she’d done what she had, why she’d disappeared. But he wasn’t going to forgive the secrets she was keeping from him now. 185

  No Second Chances

  2

  THE PHONE RANG, AND ISABEL IGNORED IT, STARING AT THE DOOR

  through which Walker Randall had just exited. Funny how things popped up at just the right time. Or the wrong time, depending on the perspective. It was too much to be mere coincidence. As if there were some grand design. Walker had found his special lady, and Isabel had Royce.

  We’re not people for deep relationships.

  She’d always liked Walker. He was good to women, truly enjoyed them, admired them. She was sure he had depth in there somewhere, but for the most part he skated through life.

  In truth, she was the same. Until Royce returned, she didn’t have meaningful relationships with men. She had women friends, close ones. But really, did she go deep with them? For the most part, she listened, acted the sounding board, dispensed advice. She rarely asked for any, revealed very little. No one knew about Prosperity. Or Royce.

  Then again, until Royce came back, she hadn’t needed advice. Not for years. Not since she’d settled into Courtesans, found she loved it, found herself. Whatever you decide now is what you’ll be stuck with. Whether it’s the lie or it’s the truth.

  That was what she’d told Walker. She knew from experience. She was stuck with her lie. Even if she wanted a real relationship—God, did she even know what that was?—the lie was all-encompassing. To maintain it, she had to give up Courtesans. Or tell Royce everything. Walker could probably fake it and be fine. For her, there was no way to avoid being outed. Eventually. She should listen to her own advice. This wasn’t like her. She’d become the frightened seventeen-year-old terrified of discovery. If anyone had found out . . . Of course, thirty years of experience had taught her that discovery was exactly what she’d needed back then. With discovery, her life would have been so different. But would it have been better? It was a rhetorical question that had no bearing. There was only now. She hadn’t exactly lied to Royce. How can you be lying when you reveal absolutely nothing? She’d kept his questions at bay, frozen him out, afraid she’d actually have to tell a lie. Once she did, well, hell, where would the lying stop?

  186

  No Second Chances

  “It’s going to end badly,” she whispered aloud. The words seemed to fill the office, bouncing off the walls, until she wanted to cover her ears. Whether she told him the truth, lied, or continued saying nothing at all, they were living on borrowed time. Just as she had been thirty years ago. This was not like her. Leaving him the first time had almost killed her, but she wasn’t seventeen anymore. She was confident, strong, sure of herself. If she lost him again, well, hell, she’d lived through far worse. She was a survivor. She would survive this.

  But oh God, how she’d miss him.

  HE’D COME IN ON FRIDAY NIGHT INSTEAD OF MONDAY AS HE NORMALLY

  would. So he could see her. As it was, the San Francisco office was taking 25

  percent of his time versus the normal 10 to 15 percent he usually dedicated to a start-up. Most men would call him pussy whipped. He’d spent the weekend loving her. She’d spent it fucking him.

  Something had to give.

  Monday afternoon, Royce took the bull by the horns and made a dinner reservation at Chez Louis, a popular restaurant two blocks from the office. When he’d called Isabel, he got her voice mail and left her the time and the place. He was not going to fucking hide in out-of-the-way places anymore.

  “Would you care for a cocktail while you wait, sir?” The waiter was tall and thin with a long nose he looked down at Royce.

  “Campari and soda and a champagne cocktail for the lady. She’ll be here momentarily.”

  The man bustled away. Being a little before six, many of the tables were empty, the busboy wandering through to light the candles in the center of the white linen. Boasting fine continental cuisine, the ambience was elegant and dimly lit, the cloth napkins gold, the crystal glassware sparkling. Royce had been led to a booth. While intimate with high seat backs, it was not hidden in a back corner.

  She was five minutes late. When he saw her, something hummed to life just below his skin. In heels, she was a couple of inches taller than the maitre d’

  guiding her. Classy yet sexy, she’d covered her red silk tank with a lacy seethrough blouse over a midcalf pencil-thin skirt that forced a seductive wiggle into her walk. Heads turned. She outshone women ten years younger. His pulse 187

  No Second Chances

  thrummed along his veins, his physical responses to her immediate and overpowering.

  She smiled as she slid into the booth, her lips a deep, seductive crimson like a movie star from the forties. The maitre d’ flapped a napkin across her lap. Beneath the blouse and tank, her breasts were pert, mouthwatering. She was beautiful yet maddeningly unapproachable. “Dinner at Louis’s was a lovely idea,” she said as if she hadn’t been avoiding trendy nightspots for six months. When push came to shove, she’d acquiesced graciously. The waiter arrived with their drinks, admiring politely without being sleazy as he set her champagne cocktail in front of her. She afforded him the same courteous smile she’d given the maitre d’. Isabel was always appreciative of those who served her.

  The thought gave him an inward smile. Yeah, just as she appreciated how he served her. Sometimes he wondered if he touched her beyond the physical. Alone again, she laced her fingers, leaning forward with her elbows on the table. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure? I didn’t expect to see you until later tonight.”

  He usually ended up at her place by eight or eight thirty. He wasn’t sure what hours she worked—sometimes she was already home; sometimes she arrived later; then there were times when she called him and said she wouldn’t make it to the flat until close to midnight. There were always the questions he never asked. What was she doing? Who was she with? She never offered explanations.

  “I was looking forward to some fine food and good conversation,” he said. Her gaze flickered
. She recognized he had an agenda despite his innocuous statement. “When do you have to go back?”

  He shrugged. “Tomorrow.”

  The bubbles fizzed in her glass as she sipped the champagne. “I assume you have some sort of . . .” She paused, perhaps searching for the right word.

  “Ultimatum?” She laid it out as a question.

  “No.” He didn’t like ultimatums. When you made one, usually you were the loser. “But I want more, and you keep turning me down. We need to come to some sort of agreement on that. Or at least discuss it.”

  She picked up her menu, opened it, and he prepared himself for another avoidance tactic. Instead, she gave him the unexpected. “You’re right. We’re at a crossroads.” She glanced at the waiter watching expectantly from across the 188

  No Second Chances

  room. “Let’s order. Then we’ll talk.”

  She gave the menu a cursory once-over, then snapped it shut, mind made up. A sense of foreboding crept along his skin, but he chose, ordered, waited until they were once again alone.

  “My life is complicated,” she said, meeting his gaze. Isabel had become direct, no mincing words, a prep for the old “things are complicated, we shouldn’t get too involved” routine.

  His thigh muscles tensed beneath the table. “It’s only as complicated as we make it.”

  She held up her hand. “I’m not done yet.”

  “Go ahead.” He was pissed suddenly. Fuck. He hated being helpless, yet she had the upper hand. She’d had it from the moment he’d seen her six months ago. He’d wanted her badly, like the proverbial hound dog sniffing after the sexy little poodle.

  “I’ve decided you should know exactly what the complications are so you can determine your course of action.” She made it sound like a fucking business venture.

  “I’m all ears,” he said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. But yeah, he was so goddamned pussy whipped. He could not let go. She sat back, folded her arms beneath her breasts, tapping one elegantly polished nail against her lace-covered biceps. “I own an exclusive agency catering to the needs of rich, powerful men and women.”

  Jesus, she made it sound like an escort service, loosely defined, of course. “I understand that your business is important to you. I have no intention of interfering with that.”

  Isabel leaned forward once more, and, elbows on the table, she clasped her hands and steepled her forefingers. “Royce, my agency’s primary goal is satisfying our clients’ fantasies.” She waited a full three beats. “Their sexual fantasies.”

  THE ONLY MOVEMENT WAS THE TICK OF A MUSCLE ALONG ROYCE’S jaw, and the flutter of her heart against her breastbone.

  “You mean, like ...” His brow furrowed, his gaze roving her face, touching her almost intimately. “A whorehouse?”

  Anyone else, Isabel would have laughed. With Royce it stung. “Courtesans, 189

  No Second Chances

  not whores,” she said softly, but with an edge. Silence stretched. Her skin itched under his gaze. Then he shook his head, chuckled. “This is some sort of joke, right?”

  She shook her head. She’d never told anyone before, never dated in the traditional sense. People came to her, referrals, clients, potential courtesans. She’d never had to explain.

  Yet the explanation had never been this important. God, this was stupid. He wouldn’t understand. He’d walk away. It would have been so much better to let him do that before he knew the truth about her rather than after. She toughed it out despite the nervous sweat gathering between her breasts.

  “My agency is called Courtesans. I inherited it from the woman I worked for. She mentored me.”

  “The same person you inherited the apartment from?”

  “Yes.”

  He gulped his Campari and soda as if his throat was suddenly parched.

  “That’s a pretty damn lucrative business.”

  “Yes, it is.” Her chest tightened; her eyes hurt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have listened to Walker. The smart thing was not to tell.

  “So you’re like, what, the madam?”

  Why not say it like it was? “Yes, I am. I meet with the clients, supervise the matches to an extent, interview new courtesans, and design our training programs.”

  He choked on the Campari. “Training programs?” he echoed. He took something she was proud of and made it sound cheap and cheesy.

  “Our courtesans undergo a psychological intensive equipping them with all the tools necessary to ensure our clients’ fantasy fulfillment.”

  He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Don’t they just fuck?”

  His tone was worse than a physical punch. She’d been right; this could only end badly. But she would not let him make her feel ashamed. “No, that’s not all we do. If it was, you could get it on any street corner.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He put a hand to his chest. “I’m assuming a flat in Pacific Heights doesn’t come off the earnings made on a street corner.”

  Carrying a large tray, their waiter weaved through the sparsely populated dining room. He slapped open a folding table, set the tray on it, then laid their plates before them with a flourish. “May I get you anything else?” He waved a 190

  No Second Chances

  hand. “Sir, another cocktail?”

  Only ice cubes remained in Royce’s glass. “No, thanks.”

  Isabel smiled, said she was fine, while inside, she trembled. She felt like she’d been nicked by a speeding train, everything fine on the outside while her insides were all jumbled around. She’d never get her heart back in the right place. Royce picked up his knife and fork but didn’t cut into his steak. “So tell me—”

  She knew it was coming, wanted to close her eyes to hold it off.

  “—are you just the madam or are you a courtesan as well?”

  Her fingers felt frozen. The duck on her plate looked like a congealed mass. But she’d started the truth, he would get all of it, and she would not be ashamed. “Yes.”

  He looked at her, his gray eyes dark, hard, like slate. Her ears started to ring. Get up, run away.

  “Is that what you were doing on Friday night?”

  Her throat hurt. But she did not—would not let even a micron of weakness show. “Yes.”

  His nostrils flared with a deep breath. “Who?”

  Now that she’d started it, she would answer all his questions, as painful as that might be. “A prince,” she said. “And his son.”

  191

  No Second Chances

  3

  EVEN AS ROYCE SAT SILENT AND IMMOBILIZED BEFORE HIS DINNER plate, something inside him howled in agony.

  Isabel crossed her legs, leaning back against the booth, perfect and polished, as she pulverized his heart to dust.

  “You slept with them both?” he repeated because he couldn’t believe, couldn’t wrap his hands around it.

  “Technically, no. The prince only watched.” There was a glint in her eye. He could swear she was laughing at him. Or that could simply be his frame of mind. The questions tumbled through his brain so fast, he wasn’t sure which to ask or even if he wanted to know. “Why?” It could have referred to many things. She laid a hand on the table next to his, but didn’t touch. “It might be easier if I told you everything instead of making you ask for details one by one,” she said gently as if she were speaking to a mental patient or a plane crash survivor. Christ, he didn’t want details, and nothing would be easy, but at least he wouldn’t have to force too many words past his aching throat. “Sure.”

  She closed her eyes far longer than it took to blink, and for the first time he considered that perhaps this was hard for her, too.

  “I’ve been doing this a long time,” she said, stopping for a sip of champagne. Their food was growing cold, but neither of them ate. “I never thought I’d see you again, so it didn’t really matter.” She puffed out a breath of air. “I didn’t tell you in the beginning because I realized you would have a hard time understand
ing why I do what I do.”

  He made a noise. It might have been a chuckle, he wasn’t sure, yet he managed to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “That’s an understatement.”

  She gave him a long, hard, penetrating look. His skin heated beneath it, and he was forced to drop his gaze.

  “I like it. I don’t expect you, a man, to understand, but becoming a courtesan gave me power when I had none. It gave me self-respect when I was at the bottom.” Something unfathomable glittered in her eyes, and he wondered how far down the bottom had been. “I don’t think about sex the way most people do. It’s not immoral or sacred. It’s something to be enjoyed.” She held him with a level gaze. “I enjoy it even more when I get paid.”

  192

  No Second Chances

  Her words were like a sharp stick in his eye.

  “Until you came back into my life,” she added softly. He didn’t want to think about what that meant. As if he was special and she wanted to give it all up for him. But of course, that was not what she meant, since she’d kept right on doing it while she fucked him. He couldn’t breathe; his pulse pounded, his ire rising like a diver racing to the surface only to be hit by the bends.

  He stuffed it down, barely, letting a question squeak past his paralyzed throat. “How long?”