“Whose house is this?”
“Mine for legal purposes, but it belongs to Sinful. Nothing goes on here, of course. It’s just a room and board, if you will.”
A very high-end room and board, Amara noted, as she looked around. “What does training consist of?”
“It depends. Mine is simple: I take your measurements, buy your clothes, and teach you how to read people in open settings. If you walk into a restaurant; if you attend a ball with someone; my job is to teach you how to act according to each setting. Philip... he likes to handle the more intimate things.”
Amara stilled at her words. She took a large gulp of wine before setting the glass down with a shaky hand and wringing them together under the table. The words intimate and Philip were making her feel sick.
Vivienne chucked. “He doesn’t do the actual training. He just likes to ensure that it’s getting done. He’ll have one of the girls show you the ropes.”
“I see.”
Vivienne shook her head. “How many men were you with before your recent ex-boyfriend? Sexually.”
Amara felt her cheeks burn, and looked down at her hands as she answered.
“He was my second.”
“Do you get emotionally attached when you have sex with someone?”
“Are we going through a checklist?” Amara asked, glaring at Vivienne.
“So the answer is yes?”
Amara sighed as she mulled it over. She’d only been with Colin and her first boyfriend. Both guys she’d known for a while before they’d gotten to that.
“I guess so...”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Will Philip make me have sex with him?” Amara asked in a whisper.
Vivienne laughed. “Make you? With his looks, I doubt it takes a lot of convincing.”
“I don’t care if he looks like David Beckham, I don’t want him touching me!”
Vivienne rolled her eyes. “Philip doesn’t make women have sex with him. He gets randy watching more than he does doing. I don’t think he’s touched a woman in Méchant.”
“Okay...” Amara said slowly.
“Do you have any further questions?”
“I do.”
“But you’re exhausted.”
“Very.”
“Write your questions down, and ask me later. You may also ask Philip.”
Amara nodded, knowing she wouldn’t, and went back to her room. She changed into a loose t-shirt and shorts and lay in bed with the lights off. As she closed her eyes, the only thing Amara could think of was Colin. It hadn’t even been forty-eight hours since their final goodbye, and she already ached to hear his voice. More than the stars, she thought as she lay there. What a bittersweet goodbye.
They’d been running around the empty lot, chasing each other with water guns they’d confiscated from the ten-year-old boys that lived in the neighborhood. The boys had been told to get rid of them, and that’s what they were doing when Colin and Amara walked by their house. They were on their way to the empty lot they now frequented. The two of them normally drove there, but the beautiful fall weather had encouraged them to walk that day. Amara had planned a picnic for them, and getting soaked with water guns was the last thing on her mind when she’d dressed in a long white dress. Nonetheless, she had fun running around, acting like a child again.
“Come here, baby,” Colin said.
“No way in hell,” Amara retorted as she tried to regain her breath.
“I’m not going to squirt you! Look, no water.” He shook the water gun in his hand before tossing it on the ground.
Amara walked over to him cautiously and squealed when he picked her up in his arms. He wrapped a large towel around her, the one they’d taken to sit on, and snuggled into her.
“Hmmm... Jasmine,” he said, breathing into her neck.
Amara shivered, and he held her tighter. He sat down on the ground, taking her down with him, situating her between his legs. They ate their sandwiches just like that, intertwined, as they talked about work and school.
“How many kids do you want?” Colin asked randomly.
“I don’t know... maybe four.”
“Four?” He sounded surprised.
Amara turned her head to face him. “What about you?”
Colin shrugged. “However many you want.”
A wave of happiness surged through her, and a huge smile spread over her face. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, trying to deflect.
“It’s going to happen,” he said, placing a soft kiss on one side of her mouth and then the other.
He lay her back on the towel and positioned her beside him. With her head on chest, she placed her hand over his heart, where she belonged.
“Won’t you get sick of me by the time you want kids?” she asked against his chest.
Colin chuckled, and she looked up at him. “That’s when we’ll have them—when I get sick of you.”
Amara laughed and smacked his arm playfully. “Now I know how much you love me!”
He grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her, shifting his body so that he covered her. “Oh, Mara. More than the sky,” Colin whispered against her lips before his mouth devoured hers.
Tears escaped Amara’s eyes as she thought of him and of the memories they shared together. She hated herself for leaving him.
“Jasmine,” Amara whispered to herself. “Jasmine Oliver.”
She didn’t think Colin would approve of her using his middle name, but it was one thing that she could hang on to in the days to come. Maybe she was a masochist after all.
AMARA STEPPED IN to the walk-in closet and sorted through the clothes there —mostly lingerie, shoes and purses. Everything was brand new; each tag displaying a bigger designer name than the previous one. She wasn’t sure what to wear to Méchant, but her eyes kept wandering over to a little, flower-print dress. The neckline plunged, so she couldn’t wear a bra with it, but that didn’t matter since she rarely wore one anyway. Picking up the hanger, she placed the dress over her head and stood in front of the mirror to measure how short it was. The hem was way above her knees, but Amara was proud of her muscular legs, and she liked to show them off.
Parisian weather in the springtime seemed to be lovely. According to the weather channel, it would be in the low seventies, so as long as she wore a jacket, the dress shouldn’t be an issue. Amara grabbed a pair of pink heels and a bright pink purse by one of her favorite designers, stuffed cosmetic essentials in it, and headed out the door.
She was walking around the foyer in search of Celeste, but found a tall, thin, blonde instead. From the back, she looked like a runway model —the ones that pranced around in lingerie because they didn’t have an ounce of fat to cover. Then she turned around and proved that she could definitely be one. She had high, rosy cheekbones and big, blue eyes. Amara and the girl sized each other up in an instant.
“Nice purse,” the girl said, by way of greeting.
Amara looked down at the purse she was holding in her bent elbow. “Thanks.”
“You should wear darker eye liner. It would make the gold in your eyes pop more,” she offered.
“Ummm... thanks... are you a makeup artist?” Amara asked, knowing she wasn’t.
She seemed to catch her drift and fought a smile. “Courtney,” the girl said, extending her hand.
“Amara,” she responded, shaking her graceful, but thin hand.
“Is that your real name or the one you’re using here?”
“Real.”
Courtney snickered. “And you introduced yourself with it?”
“Is Courtney a fake name?”
Courtney laughed. “No. I was just kidding. You only use the other one for work stuff. Mine is Chloe, I figured it would be easy to remember. Courtney, Chloe. What’s yours?”
“Jasmine.”
Courtney made a face. “That’s so... eh.”
“I like it.”
Courtney shrugged. “Whatever. You going
to Mêchant?”
“Yeah, first time.”
“Hmm...” she scrutinized Amara’s body again. “I heard Philip picked you.”
“I wouldn’t say he picked me.”
“Do you owe him something?”
“Sort of.”
“Then he picked you.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“It always is when it comes to Philip. I’ve been with him for five years. Five. I feel like Hugh Heffner’s girlfriend most of the time—on his arm, looking pretty. In his bed—not getting any —just keeping him company. Training girls whenever he decides he needs a new one. Fucking them... that’s probably the best part, come to think of it.” She looked at Amara again and licked her lips.
“That sounds...”
“Amazing. Not many people can say they get to seduce beautiful women for a living and then afford to buy themselves a Porsche, right?”
“Probably not.”
Courtney stared at her for a long moment. “You look exactly how I pictured you would.
“What does that mean?”
“Thin, olive complexion, exotic eyes... but yours...” she didn’t finish her sentence, only stared into Amara’s amber eyes as if she was trying to figure out if they were real.
“What about them?”
“They’re just different. Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of you, Jasmine,” Courtney said with a wink as she stepped in closer. She traced Amara’s face with the tips of her fingers and trailed them down the front of Amara’s dress, nestling her hand between her breasts. Amara didn’t know how to react; she froze in disbelief, her mouth agape. When the girl didn’t pull away, Amara cleared her throat and took a step back.
“What was that for?”
Courtney grinned. “What?”
Amara gaped at her, but didn’t answer.
“You better get used to it, Jasmine,” Courtney purred as she walked away, leaving Amara completely dumbfounded. Courtney looked over her shoulder one last time and laughed. It was as melodic as the sound of her soft voice, with a wicked finish. It made Amara smile. It could have been worse.
AS SHE DESCENDED in the elevator, Amara caught a glimpse of the American driver she’d heard about. He smiled as Amara approached and opened the back door of the black sedan.
“I’m Josh. You must be Jasmine,” he said.
She tried a friendly smile, but the nervous flutters invading her stomach made her plump lips form a grim reaper-like smile. Amara, or Jasmine, since she was now on the clock, ducked into the car and put her seat belt on, her anxiety obvious by her white-knuckled grip on the door handle, and by the continual bouncing of one of her legs.
“So, Jasmine, where in the States do you hail from?”
“New York,” she said.
“New York, New York.”
Amara let herself relax a little, sagging into the leather behind her and releasing the breath she’d been holding. She looked at Josh’s blonde hair and blue eyes in the mirror and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
Amara shook her head. “It’s just... I had to come all the way to Paris to get an American driver.”
Josh chuckled. “No kidding.”
“Not that I should talk,” she said, shrugging. Amara’s native accent may have sailed long ago, but her olive skin and light, amber eyes with their almond shape, announced her heritage. Still, Amara was raised in the United States, around American people; submerged in the culture... and shunned by most of her extended family.
Joshua chuckled and played with the radio as Amara looked outside. The view of Paris really was breathtaking. She wondered if she could roam around the city whenever she wanted, but remembered Naveen’s words.
“Is it really dangerous here?” Amara asked.
“Where in New York did you say you were from?”
Amara bit her lip to contain her amusement. “Naveen said it was really dangerous and I should only go out with you guys.”
“Oh,” Josh drew out. “He only says that because we had an incident, so we think people know about the house.”
“What kind of incident?”
Joshua’s eyebrows skyrocketed to his hairline. “I don’t think I’m allowed to say. But this is a very exclusive company, Jasmine. We deal with a lot of rich, uppity types. The Prime Minister, his wife, and many others that use it, don’t want things leaking.”
Amara felt her eyes widen in shock. She knew the company had important clients, but prime ministers? She blew out a breath that whistled slightly.
“Yeah. Exactly,” Joshua added.
They drove through town, passing the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe until they turned into a narrow, winding, cobblestone road. Amara looked in both directions, wondering how the sedan even fit through the road without hitting the walls.
“We’re here,” Josh announced, stopping in front of a building with a small door. He escorted Amara from the car and waited for her to get out and look around before ushering her through a small, red door. She felt like Alice, walking through a tiny doorway.
“Everybody uses the door to the left of the building, but this one leads us right where we need to go,” Josh explained, ducking and crouching to step in.
Once inside, they straightened and Amara was able to look around. From the outside, you would never guess this old building could hold such splendor. It was vast, with all-white walls and furniture. Much like in the apartment, chandeliers were spaced out perfectly. Josh walked over to a full-sized bar and began moving the bottles and glasses until he found a jug of water.
“Thelma will be here to greet us soon,” he said as he poured himself a glass. “You want?”
“No, thank you.”
“Monsieur Joshua?”
“In here, Madame Thelma,” he called out.
“Oh thank heavens,” Madame Thelma said as she walked into the room. She was a very tall woman in a tight, knee–length, red dress that hugged her shapely figure. “Mademoiselle Jasmine.” She stepped forward and gave Amara a kiss on both cheeks as her eyes lingered over her face. “You are quite beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Amara/Jasmine responded, trying to get into a character that she didn’t know.
“Follow me. Monsieur, pick up is at four sharp. Merci.”
And with that, she dismissed Joshua. Amara turned and gave him a small wave, trying to hide the trepidation she was feeling as she followed behind Madame Thelma. They walked up the stairs, passing three closed doors with little red lights above the frames. All the doors were black with a big skeleton keyhole design in the center. When they reached a door with a green light on the top, Madame Thelma stopped in front of it.
“Green means vacant. Red is occupied.”
Amara looked at the doors again, and wondered if red meant they were having sex. She was surprised she couldn’t hear them from where she stood.
“How many other girls are there? I thought it was just me and C-Chloe,” she said, catching herself before she said the wrong name.
“Non, non, ma chére, you and Chloe are only... how do you say... exclusive?”
“Meaning that we don’t use the rooms?”
“Everybody uses the rooms. This is what Agence Méchant is for.” Thelma said, looking at Amara as though she was stupid.
Amara’s heart faltered as she considered what that would mean. Feeling her lip begin to tremble, she bit down on it hard and looked around the dimly lit hallway, searching for something—anything—familiar to help her feel comfortable. In the end, she found nothing familiar or homey, which was probably good. It was best she separated her old life from this one.
“Jasmine,” Thelma said, and Amara was reminded that there were some things she could never let go of or escape, like memories of Colin. And she really didn’t want to.
“Yes.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Amara replied, clearing her shaky voice and blinking back the tears she refused to let fal
l.
Thelma searched for a key and turned it in the hole. When the door opened, Amara felt like she was in a different world. Her eyes flew to the bed first, which was a golden four-poster with ivory sheets and big, fluffy pillows to match. Black see-through drapes adorned each pole, and matched the dark tile that covered the floor. Off to the side were two ivory and gold chairs next to a small table that matched them perfectly. What caught Amara’s attention though, was the mirrored ceiling.
“Do all of the rooms have that?” Amara asked, pointing up.
Thelma nodded as her gaze met Amara’s in their reflection. “Yes. You’ll get used to it. Each room is a different fantasy. This one is yours.”
Amara stared at her blankly.
“Your room, not your fantasy, dear,” Thelma said with a laugh as she walked over to the small table and picked up a laptop, bringing it back to Amara.
“Company computer. Everything you do on here will be on record, so please keep this for professional use only, unless you don’t mind the IT people reading about your personal life, and trust me, you don’t want OUR IT people reading that stuff.”
Amara was sure the emails she would receive would be worse than anything she could imagine writing in her personal account anyway.
“Cellular phone. This is yours. This, you may use to replace your old phone. Give your family this number and get rid of the other. Or we will,” Thelma added, correctly interpreting the struggle in Amara’s eyes.
“Why do I have to get rid of my old phone?” She’d had the same number for years, and liked it that way.
“Your cell phone is the least of your worries. You will be told when to come here. You will bring this with you. You take it home and every day check for emails. I will take photos of you now.”
Amara wrung her hands together. “What kind of photos?”
“You will dress like a belly dancer, and we’ll cover your face, leaving only your eyes.”
“I’d rather not dress like that. I’m Iranian, not Indian,” Amara said. Ironically, she’d worn something similar at a family friend’s wedding. She’d learned to belly dance for the performance she’d participated in. Everybody there was dressed that way, or in saris, so Amara would have felt like the odd man out if she hadn’t. Wearing that for photos that would go on the internet though?
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