Fallen from Grace

by Laura Leone

  "And," she added, "don't stay late—even if Alice tips you nicely, Kevin." When he didn't react, she continued, "Because you'll be leaving for the island right afterwards."

  He paused. "That afternoon?"

  "Yes."

  "For how long?"

  "Two nights. Until Friday."

  He looked up.

  She saw his expression. "Yes?" she asked coolly.

  He shouldn't say anything. But he did, despite knowing it was a mistake. "I've gone out of town three times in four weeks. Three days last week, an overnighter the week before. And before that, I did that weekend job at the last minute when that new guy, Trevor, got sick and couldn't go."

  "And you'll be going away again. Next week."

  "Can't someone else go?"

  "I've interviewed the client and determined that you're the one who's right for the job. She's seen your photos and agrees." She arched her brows. "Is there a problem?"

  He didn't want to go away again so soon. "No problem."

  "Good," she said.

  He didn't let himself think about it. Feel it. Want what he wanted. Hell, he didn't even know what he wanted.

  All the same, he heard himself asking, "I'm definitely coming back on Friday?"

  "Yes. Be sure to check in. I may book you for the following day."

  "No," he said.

  "What?" Her tone was exquisitely calm and courteous. It almost always was. But he knew how much she hated the word no.

  "I have plans."

  She looked at him. He looked back without saying anything. Almost anyone who worked for her would feel compelled to start babbling explanations in the face of that cool, impersonal gaze. But not him. Not anymore. He had learned.

  "What kind of plans?" she asked at last.

  "I only need Saturday," he said, deliberately not answering her.

  Her lips curved, and he realized she hadn't expected him to answer. Not anymore. She was just testing him to see if the door was still locked. It was her way.

  "All right," she said. "No work on that Saturday."

  "So what's the job on the island?"

  She picked up one of the file folders on her desk and handed it to him. He knew he'd be expected to study it here. Client files never left Catherine's office.

  "Movie producer," he murmured, perusing the file.

  "She's bringing her new lover to the island," Catherine explained. "They want you to watch them together, and the client wants to watch you with her lover."

  He glanced at her sharply, ready to throw down with her if he had to.

  "The lover's another woman," she clarified. Businesslike, calm. She hadn't even been toying with him. It was just a lapse in communication.

  He went back to studying the file. "Any singularities?" he asked, using Catherine's tidy word for dysfunctions, vices, and fetishes.

  "Some drug use."

  "Right," he acknowledged without looking up.

  Catherine insisted that none of her employees use drugs. Ever. But some employees were a little weak-willed, whereas she knew that Kevin wouldn't touch the stuff. He'd never done drugs, not even when he was living on the streets. She also knew he could handle whatever emotional confrontations arose on this job—working a couple was often fraught with their relationship problems—because he never crossed the line, got involved, lost his head, or said the wrong thing to a client.

  Catherine's agency leased a fully-staffed luxury villa on a small island in the Golfo de California, off of Baja. Kevin's job would include meeting these two clients at the private airport there and ensuring that their entire visit went smoothly. He usually went there with a solo woman or else as part of a large group which included other agency employees. This particular job might be a little stressful; but at least these clients had only booked two days.

  When he finished reading the file, having memorized everything relevant, he gave it back to Catherine. "Anything else?"

  "Yes." She picked up another file folder. "I've got your schedule for the rest of this week."

  "All right." He took the folder from her.

  "Gayle Thompson," Catherine said.

  He nodded. "I remember her from last year." An Australian businesswoman in her late thirties, slightly uncomfortable about having a hired escort, but even more uncomfortable about eating alone in a strange city in another country. And wealthy enough to pay for a costly dinner companion.

  "She liked you, she's asked for you again."

  "How many evenings?"

  "Three, starting tomorrow night. Pick her up at the hotel at seven o'clock every evening. Dinner, possible sight-seeing, nothing else."

  "Same as last year." No sex, no physical contact, no overtures or hints. Gayle Thompson wanted a dinner date without the unwanted pressure a real date might put on her for something more.

  She would also want, as he recalled, to talk his ear off each evening about her business—before moving on to pumping him about his life. He tried to remember what lies he had told her last year, but couldn't recall now. Oh, well, maybe she'd enjoy all-new lies this year. One thing he did remember: she was eye-crossingly boring. However, at least she was sober and amiable.

  And he could be home before ten o'clock each night.

  He tried not to think about it. Feel it. Tried not to want what he wanted. He didn't even know what the hell he wanted.

  Oh, Jesus, I'm playing with fire. I know I'm playing with fire.

  He should stop. But he couldn't. Didn't want to. Couldn't.

  He knew it was wrong. Knew that with all his heart. He had passed the point of pretending to himself that no harm would come of it. God, it was wrong.

  Yet he still couldn't stop it.

  "There's one dinner that's pre-arranged," Catherine said, "a banquet on the third night. I've booked you into restaurants on the first two nights."

  "Huh?"

  She looked at him. "Am I boring you?"

  "Oh," he said. "Dinner. Gayle. Right."

  She folded her hands. "What's going on, Kevin?"

  Instead of answering, he asked, "Is there anything else, Catherine?"

  She held his gaze for a long moment. He didn't squirm, back down, or try to rush her.

  "Yes," she said. "One more thing. You're taking over a weekly appointment of Derrick's. Effective as of tomorrow morning."

  "A regular of Derrick's?" That surprised him. Derrick was an exceptionally good-looking man who loved money, expensive things, and sex. Derrick liked being an escort and was not prone to canceling his appointments—unlike that new guy, Trevor, for whom Kevin had already filled in twice in two months.

  "Yes," Catherine replied, "a regular of Derrick's."

  He accepted the client file from Catherine but didn't open it. "What happened to Derrick?"

  "He got drunk on the job the other night. Embarrassed a client."

  "Ah." On the other hand, Derrick wasn't exactly bright. "He's being punished."

  "He knew the rules. He broke them."

  The rules were very specific: only one drink on the job, and only if you could handle it. If Catherine found out you'd had a second drink, you didn't get paid for the job. As for getting drunk... Oh, yes. This would cost Derrick some income. And knowing Derrick, he'd be angry about it.

  "What does Derrick's regular get?" he asked, opening the file.

  "A massage and whatever else she wants," Catherine replied.

  "What if she wants Derrick?" Regulars didn't like sudden switches like this.

  "I've already dealt with it. And you're not to discuss him with her."

  "Of course."

  "It's a two-hour appointment," Catherine continued, "and she always pays the full fee, even if you're done sooner."

  An easy gig, then. Derrick would indeed be angry about losing it. Especially if the client tipped, too.

  He studied the file while Catherine rose and came around the desk. He felt her gaze on him, but he ignored it until he was done reading. Then he put the file folder back on the
desk and looked up at her.

  She was in her mid-forties now, and still a very beautiful woman. Dark-haired, sloe-eyed, with a feminine build, graceful gestures, and exquisite taste. Everything about her presence spoke of money, culture, and discretion. In truth, he suspected her origins were no grander than his own, but he had once, long ago, believed she might be royalty in exile—and even now, he didn't wonder at the memory.

  She was leaning against the desk, her arms folded across her breasts, her legs crossed. She wore a pale suit of wild silk, and he had no doubt that her stockings were silk, too. Her long-lashed gaze softened as she studied him, letting a little fondness creep into her cool expression.

  It made him wary.

  "We..." She smiled at her own hesitation. "We haven't really talked in a long time."

  "Really talked?" he repeated.

  "Yes."

  He considered this. "No, we haven't. Not since you so generously helped me stay out of prison."

  "Things don't have to be this way between us," she said gently, overlooking his sarcasm.

  He rose from his chair. "I believe that's been my point all along."

  "You're angry."

  "Your perception is as sharp as ever."

  "I feel... things might have been different if I hadn't let so much distance come between us."

  "We've never had enough distance between us."

  She put her hand on his jacket and used it to pull him closer. "But things could be different now," she offered in a seductive whisper.

  Their gazes locked and held. A new tension filled the room.

  He was surprised. There hadn't been anything like this between them in years. He couldn't even remember the last time she had touched him. And his infatuation with her had ended several lifetimes ago, as had his sexual obsession.

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "I've missed you." Her voice caressed him.

  "When have you had time to miss me?"

  "I've always missed you."

  "What next? You'll tell me you'd like it to be the way it once was?"

  She smiled, pulling him still closer. He let her. "No," she said. "We can't go back. No one can. And you wouldn't want to."

  That much was true.

  "But we can go forward," she continued, her voice so soft he wouldn't have heard her if they weren't standing toe to toe with their breath brushing each other's faces.

  Her breasts rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm beneath the pale silk of her bodice. He smelled good perfume and expensive soap. Catherine nudged his knee with hers and let him see a thousand promises in her wide, dark eyes.

  He had forgotten how good she was at this.

  She murmured, "We can give each other things we couldn't before."

  He looked at her mouth, so lush and ripe. "I gave you everything I had."

  "Everything you had then."

  "It's still all I've got, Catherine."

  "No," she said, "you're growing into all your potential now. As a man." She leaned forward to brush a damp butterfly kiss on his lips. "As a lover." Another kiss, deeper this time. "As a partner." Her tongue touching his was so full of erotic promise, so rich with forbidden nuance. Once upon a time, he'd have felt like an eager stallion. "And now," she murmured, her voice dark with heat, "you're finally ready for all I've got."

  Good shot. Full marks for effort.

  He snorted, pushed her away, and stepped back. Her expression blazed with momentary fury before she masked it.

  "Nice try," he said. "What are you after?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "There's something you're not telling me."

  It caught him off guard. She was good. Oh, yes. Looking back now, he knew he'd never had a chance. Not from the very start.

  Still, he didn't play her games. Not anymore. "There's a lot I don't tell you."

  "But this is something special."

  He felt violated. He didn't even wonder how she guessed. Didn't let himself wonder what she guessed. "Are we done now?"

  "If I find out you're free-lancing again—"

  "I'm not. You keep me too busy, and I'm not as young as I used to be." Who was?

  "If you're lying to me..."

  Their eyes met. Hers were intense, but he wasn't sure what he saw there. He prayed she couldn't see anything in his.

  "I'm keeping my promises to you," he replied.

  She continued to hold his gaze for a long moment, evidently trying to decide if she believed him.

  Finally she said, "Good."

  He turned to go, not caring whether she was done with him now or not. Even so, he paused in the doorway when she said his name.

  "What?" he snapped over his shoulder.

  "I'd hate to think," she said in a gentler, warmer voice, "that you've forgotten you're lucky to even be alive."

  That got him, as she knew it would. He didn't look at her, but his banished memories came flooding back, and he knew she was telling the truth. "I haven't forgotten," he said.

  "Good," she repeated.

  #

  "Maybe he's gay," Miriam said.

  "Gay?" Sara bleated.

  Miriam looked at her. "Would it bother you so much?"

  Sara sat back in her chair and stared at her Mu Shu Chicken, suddenly losing her appetite. They were eating in Chinatown. Miriam, who lived and worked in Palo Alto, was in the city for a seminar and had an hour free for lunch, so she'd offered to treat Sara.

  And they were talking about Ryan. Again.

  "Ryan. Gay." Sara tried out the idea. Then rejected it. Forcibly. "No. I can't believe it."

  "Why not?"

  "No way."

  "Let's review," Miriam suggested. "A gorgeous, charming, employed man of twenty-six. He has never mentioned a girlfriend, past or present. He's never brought a woman home, not even for a cup of coffee, never mind for, shall we say, a romantic interlude."

  "Discreetly phrased," Sara said.

  "He dresses wonderfully. He's—hello!—a model. He nurtures stray animals and is good with plants. He has good taste in furniture. He smells nice, is well-groomed, and, as far as you know, has no revolting habits." Miriam sighed. "Sara, Sara, how could this man be anything but gay?"

  "Oh, now if that isn't just catering to every stereotype imaginable," Sara chided. "That's like saying if a strong, independent woman reaches her mid-thirties without having married or lived with a guy, then she's obviously a lesbian."

  "Oh. Good point," Miriam muttered.

  "I mean, that describes me. And I'm completely straight! I don't even like going to an all-women's gym."

  "You don't like going to any gym."

  "Ryan goes to the gym," Sara said, unable to get her mind off the guy. "Religiously. I mean, like, almost every day. If he's home, that is. He travels a lot for his work—photo shoots on location." She sighed wistfully. "I've seen him without his shirt a couple of times... Oh, my God, he has a great body." She clutched her head in her hands and moaned, "Of course, he's gay! He'd have to be! Because that's the way the world works. A man like that is either taken or gay. Always! Without exception!"

  "I admire the way you're facing up to reality," Miriam said. "Does it bother you that he's gay?"

  "Of course it bothers me!" Seeing how taken aback Miriam looked, she lowered her voice. "I am not keeping my perspective about this man. I swore I would. I've tried... Well, okay, maybe not hard enough."

  "Maybe if you asked him about this, and got it all out in the open?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so. He's like that damn cat of his."

  "His cat?"

  "She was a starving stray. She's shy and wary. You have to be patient and let her come to you. Ryan's the same way."

  Miriam frowned. "He's been coming to you since the day you moved in, Sara. I was there. I saw the—"

  "Don't say click."

  "And when I visited you last week and he popped in to say goodbye to you on his way out of town, if I hadn't known better, I'd have thought you two were a couple. Y
ou have private shared jokes, you finish each other's sentences, you seek eye contact with each other about every three seconds... And you can't say goodbye to each other in under a half hour. So I don't see why you can't ask him about his love life."

  "Because he doesn't like to talk about himself. I mean, yes, he talks to me all the time, and there's nothing he ever actually refuses to discuss. But there's a lot he doesn't want to talk about. He's good at changing the subject or evading the question. And I... I feel like it would be a violation of our friendship to push. I feel like I've got to wait for him to come to me."

  "If he is gay, why do you think he wouldn't tell you?" Miriam probed.

  Sara shrugged. "Maybe he's not ready to come out. He said he was raised in Oklahoma. Maybe he's from such a traditional background that being gay is unthinkable, so he hasn't even admitted it to himself yet."

  "I don't think so," Miriam said. "His whole unconscious manner is too comfortable—and too sexual—for that."

  "You're right." Sara sighed. Whatever Ryan's sexual proclivities were, he wasn't in denial about them, even if he was maddeningly discreet. "Maybe he just assumes I know."

  "Maybe, but if he's never said anything to you to indicate that he is—"

  "Maybe he wouldn't. Or maybe he did and I missed it. Ryan is very delicate about any kind of sexual comment or innuendo."

  "He does have awfully good manners," Miriam conceded.

  "He might think it's in bad taste to talk to me about his sex life."

  "Or maybe he's afraid if he just came out and said he was gay, you wouldn't accept him the way you do now." When Sara didn't reply, she asked, "Would you?"

  "I've lived in the Bay area all my life," Sara reminded her. "It's not like this would be something new."

  "But you've never been this close to somebody gay, have you?"

  "I've had gay friends."

  "No lesbian friends, I notice."

  "Well, you know." Sara rolled her eyes. "Lesbians."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "It does!"

  Sara eyed her. "Why does it matter?"

  Miriam poked grumpily at her food and shrugged. "Because maybe this is what Ryan senses in you."

  "That I don't like lesbians?"