He laughed. It was a pleasant laugh that almost coaxed an answering one from her, but she was still too flummoxed to respond properly.
“I hope to take you in several places. On some, too. Maybe even under some.”
She really needed an interpreter. “I’m not usually stupid, sir, but you’ll have to excuse me when I say that I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I’ll make this really simple, Gabe.” He leaned closer and placed a hand on her doorjamb, looking at her very intently through the storm door. “Your sister hired you a male prostitute, just like she promised.”
Her jaw dropped.
She was cuter than he’d expected from her sister’s “lovely and intelligent and fun” description. Not lovely, exactly, or even pretty, but definitely cute. She looked more used to laughing than to mouth-gaping.
Dark brown hair a little longer than chin-length curled every which way, giving her features an almost fey cast. Her face was plain but pleasant—straight nose, brown eyes that studied him with something like shock, nice lips, slightly pointed chin. Average.
She might be more than cute if she wore something else, something more form-fitting. The white-dusted, faded T-shirt hung straight to her thighs, hiding any curves she might have. The straight-legged, baggy jeans didn’t help, either. Definitely thin. Maybe too much so, but that hardly mattered in his line of work.
“She. Did. Not.”
Ah, she finally got her mouth closed enough to work right. Good for her.
“Indeed she did.”
“Oh, no.” Now that she had her words back, she seemed determined to use them all at once. “She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even know how to begin. Plus, you don’t look like a gigolo. No leather, no chains, no thong. Huh-uh. I don’t buy it.” She cocked one hip and crossed her arms. “She might have sent you here to punk me, but that’s as far as I’ll believe.”
He had never figured out why first-timers were so set on that stripper/sadomasochist idea of escorting. Not everyone was into whips and bondage. He certainly wasn’t.
“Mike suggested that my best chance of even getting in the door was to look like anyone else and be honest up front.”
She blinked slowly, deliberately. She’d done that a couple of times, now that he thought about it. It was kind of cute.
“Actually, that does sound like her. And you know her name. And mine.”
She bit at her lower lip, her teeth a flash of white against the pale pink of the plump flesh. He loved it when a woman bit her lip. Something about it went straight to his groin.
“But I just can’t believe she actually did it. Is this a joke?”
Smiling and putting a little interest into the expression, he pulled his cell phone from his jeans pocket and flipped it open. Mike’s number was the last one he’d called, luckily. He’d lost his way after getting off the main highway and needed directions. He pressed send and offered the little doubter the phone.
Her eyes wary, she opened the storm door just wide enough to take it, then jerked her hand back inside and pulled the door shut again. He wanted to laugh, but something told him she wasn’t in the mood. Reading women’s whims wasn’t easy by any stretch, but he’d made a career out of it, and his instincts usually served him well.
She put the phone to her ear, and her eyes popped wide open. “Sis?” She sounded incredulous, almost faint. “Yeah, he’s on the porch. No…no, I don’t already have one.”
He did laugh then. It didn’t take a psychic to guess the other side of the conversation. But her incredulity immediately turned to irritation, so he obligingly turned and stepped away from the door. He stood at the edge of her sprawling, covered porch and eyed the winter-dead yard. She didn’t exactly live outside of town, but neither was she situated in the heart of it. She had neighbors, but the closest was a comfortable distance away.
Nicely tended yard; nothing fancy. No difficult landscaping, though it was hard to tell under all the brown February grass. Huge, old trees—oaks, perhaps?—dotted the lawn and shaded the house. The house itself was average-sized and looked to be two stories high. White siding with charcoal shutters and good windows. A godawfully ugly porch swing that looked pretty comfortable, once he got past the color. Green, maybe? Did they make a green that shade? Had it mutated as it faded?
The storm door swung open and he turned, his right eyebrow raised in question. She didn’t look pleased, but neither did she look angry.
“I guess you’d better come in.”
Mike had bought her a gigolo for her birthday.
Crazy? Yes. Unthinkable? Darn near. Impossible? Obviously not. After all, one stood in her kitchen, leaning casually against her sink with his hands in his jeans pockets, looking for all the world like any other handsome guy on the street. No pun intended.
“Just so everything’s clear, I cannot imagine actually having sex with you.”
His mouth twisted into a pout. An adorable pout, actually, though she had no doubt he knew exactly how good he looked with his lip pooched out.
“You don’t even know me, Gabe.”
She rolled her eyes, unswayed by his easy charm. “Exactly. I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name.”
“Blade Savage, at your service.”
A snort snuck past her attempt at civility. “Uh-huh.”
He grinned, the expression devastatingly attractive, but again, she doubted that he was unaware of its effect.
“Look, it’s nothing to do with you personally. You look like a nice enough guy, and you must have said something right to get past my sister, who’s no one’s fool.” Pausing, she grumbled under her breath. “Usually.”
His grin twitched, those deep green eyes lighting up, the skin at the corners crinkling. She hurried on before he could say anything to make her laugh. Laughter had always been her kryptonite where men were concerned.
“I don’t know what she was thinking, but I don’t have sex with strangers. Hell, I don’t even have sex with people I know.”
He tilted his head to one side, his eyes dancing. “That leaves you in a cold, lonely place.”
“No, it leaves me the hell alone, which is how I like it.”
He opened his mouth to comment, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“Okay, okay. At any rate, my sister did pay you for two hours. Since we are absolutely not going to knock boots for any of that time…” She paused, quirking a crooked and slightly smug grin. “You’re going to help me bake. Hope you brought your apron.”
She couldn’t read all of the expressions that crossed his face, but the sheer range and breadth made her smile. At least she’d caught him off guard for once. It may never happen again, but it served him right for so totally putting her off her game from the start.
Finally, he nodded, acknowledging the point scored. His smile was no less devastating for being the first real one she’d seen from him.
“I’m not sure I have the expertise required for this little exercise.”
Flicking on the burner under the butter mixture, she smirked. “I’m sure a man of your talents will find a way to make it an experience, rather than an exercise.”
Her one-up lasted barely five seconds.
“Baking. Hm. It might just become my new favorite foreplay.”
By all rights, he should be bored out of his mind. In the past half-hour, he’d made no progress and hadn’t removed a single article of clothing.
She plugged her MP3 player into a set of speakers on top of the microwave, treating him to a surprisingly good selection of music. He heard everything from Metallica to Meat Loaf and had yet to want to skip a song. She obviously had good taste.
But she carefully directed the conversation away from any of the hints and insinuations he worked in. Her continual avoidance of his trade both amused and chagrined him. She was a tough nut to crack, but he became more and more determined to enjoy the treat inside that seemingly impenetrable outer shell. By now, it was a matter of pride.<
br />
The unstated challenge was what kept him from committing metaphysical seppuku as he watched her form dozens of little balls of filling and then dip them in chocolate. Over and over. Stab the little ball. Dunk it in melted chocolate. Turn it this way and that until all the extra chocolate runs off. Drop it on waxed paper. Fill in the little hole with more chocolate. Smooth until no sign of the hole remains. Repeat repeatedly.
Her attention to detail alone should have sent him tearing out his hair in boredom, but he couldn’t help thinking about drizzling her with some of that chocolate, then licking it back off, paying as much attention to his job as she did to hers. He liked chocolate.
“Have a Coke, if you like. They’re in the bottom of the fridge.”
And every now and then, she remembered that he was, for all intents and purposes, a guest in her home and offered him some comfort or other. It was…endearing. Not something he was used to.
Of course, watching someone putter around the kitchen wasn’t exactly in his job description, either.
“Are you hungry?” Finally finished with a veritable armory of little chocolate-covered cannonballs, she slid the works into an empty shelf in the refrigerator. “I can make you a sandwich or something before we tackle the cookies.”
He smiled, bemused. “No, I’m okay. I was supposed to be otherwise employed at the moment, so I ate before I drove down. To keep up my strength, you know.”
She didn’t take the bait. “All right, then. Would you get into that cabinet to your left and find the baking soda and vanilla? I think I have everything else out already.”
As he watched her toss ingredients into a bowl and stir, he grudgingly admitted that Mike may have been right. He might not be able to sweet talk this surprisingly fascinating slip of a girl into bed. She seemed completely uninterested.
He really didn’t think of himself as a vain man, but something about her turning him down chafed. He’d never had a problem talking a woman into sex, even before he became a hired man. He knew he was good-looking and charming. His mirror and countless women’s sighs told him so.
So why was she baking while he stood here like an idiot and watched?
He tried not to scowl at the silent question. Just as he really started chafing about her inattention, he heard the opening lines of a song he hadn’t heard in nearly a decade.
The cheesy techno-mambo beat. It was perfect. Who knew “Mambo No. 5” could ever come in handy? Grinning widely as he watched her sway to the jaunty track, he made a snap decision and stepped up behind her, took her by the upper arm, and spun her around into a classic dancing pose.
She blinked up at him, surprised, so he took advantage and led her into a quick-stepping little mockery of a tango around the kitchen. She stumbled over her feet for the first few steps, then picked up on his rhythm and joined in with a smile. Her eyes glowed with fun as she let him swing her out to arm’s length and then pull her back in. They spun and laughed, quick-stepped and jitterbugged. No choreographer in the universe could have recreated the hodge-podge half-swing/half-mambo they concocted.
Even the listing of names in the verse was oh, so appropriate. Her eyes twinkled with laughter at the irony, and he couldn’t stop grinning. Didn’t want to.
Leering cheerfully at her, he blessed Lou Bega and all his ancestors. She laughed back at him, crashing into his chest when he pulled her in before he again flung her out to arm’s length. They’d gone from not touching at all to cavorting in each other’s arms, dancing badly in a kitchen, of all places. She didn’t seem to notice the discrepancy as he pulled her close and dipped her back over his arm as the last chords trumpeted out of the speakers.
She even kicked up one knee so he could grab under her thigh and complete the pose. He held her almost like he was paid to, and she laughed up at him with no restraint…and no sexual attraction at all. Apparently, she was just having fun.
And now he actually wanted her.
She must have seen some of that want in his eyes because her laughter stilled, her smile faltering. Her body went from yielding in his arms to trying to gently remove itself from his grip. He held on a little longer, lowering his face closer to hers, hoping she’d take the hint and let him kiss her.
She didn’t. “I need to add more flour or I’ll forget later.”
It wasn’t exactly a set-down, but he grudgingly gave up the ground he’d gained and stood her up straight, his hands holding on until the last possible minute. She grinned nervously, not meeting his eyes as she pulled away and brushed by him to get back to her blasted cookies.
Silence fell between them, even as another song played in the background. For the first time, he was actually uncomfortable in her presence. Surely, she hadn’t been unaffected by his touch. He would have sworn that she leaned up to him just the slightest bit before pulling away again. But she had still pulled away.
And then she chuckled, bringing him out of his scowling thoughts but conversely making him feel worse.
“That was the weirdest mambo ever.”
He was too smooth an operator. She didn’t quite know what to make of him. One minute, he all but oozed sex and looked as smug as any man who knows he’s getting laid. The next, he laughed like a real person and led her into an impromptu dancing conglomeration that had her breathless with fun. And the next—
She didn’t want to think about that. No way would she let his schmarmy charm roll her. He was a male prostitute, for God’s sake. And one that her sister—her sister!—had paid for. It was just too much to take.
So, why was her stomach all fluttery? Why could she still not catch her breath? She wasn’t out of shape by any stretch. She worked through a thirty-minute Tae Bo tape four days a week. No way would a few minutes of dancing and laughing leave her so breathless.
And why couldn’t she stop sneaking little glances at him?
And why not get Mike’s money’s worth?
The question sideswiped her out of nowhere. Her eyes widened and the empty chocolate chip bag slipped from her suddenly lax fingers. Why not, indeed?
She immediately listed all of the excellent reasons why not. She didn’t know him. He was a male prostitute. She didn’t want to accidentally get pregnant. She didn’t want to accidentally get a disease. She didn’t have any condoms, though she never stopped taking the Pill. He was a stranger. She didn’t do casual sex. Her sister had bought him, for God’s sake.
But…why not?
Sure, those were all excellent reasons, but what did they matter? She was twenty-seven years old—twenty-eight in a few days—and very single. He obviously had her sister’s approval, and that was nothing to sniff at. Mike was about as easy to sway as a giant sequoia. Also, she’d never allow anyone with a disease near her little sister.
Plus, Gabe doubted any self-respecting, professional sex fiend would go anywhere without at least one condom on hand. While a condom and the Pill still weren’t one hundred percent protection against pregnancy, only abstinence was better.
And of course he was a stranger. He was a gigolo. On the plus side, she’d never have to see him again. She wouldn’t have to deal with his moods and his quirks and his underwear on the bathroom floor. She wouldn’t have to argue with him or placate his ego or worry about his extravagances.
Frowning, she stirred in an extra dash of flour to the already stiff cookie dough and then spooned big dollops onto a cookie sheet. Instead of talking herself out of this fiasco, she was talking herself further into it. Not good.
But he was certainly nice to look at. Strong, too. She hadn’t been unaware of the flex of hard muscle under her hands as they danced. She also hadn’t disliked the way his eyes lightened from emerald green to the color of an old Coke bottle in the sun when he laughed.
Worse, she hadn’t missed the twitch of…interest…while she was bent over backward in his grip and pressed against his groin. She might still be the skinny, gawky little sister she’d always been, but his body hadn’t seemed to mind. Maybe that was anothe
r perk of being a gigolo. Instant interest.
She shoved the first batch into the oven and closed the door, still frowning. Thankfully, he left her alone, apparently deep in his own thoughts. She needed to think without having to cross mental swords with him. Right now, she could only get herself into trouble that way. She was a sucker for witty, buff guys with dark hair and green eyes.
No one but Mike would ever know. Actually, even Mike didn’t necessarily need to know. It wasn’t like she had to tell her sister that her birthday gift had been received in every sense of the word.
And it had been a really, really long time.
Two batches later, she scraped the bottom of the bowl and felt no closer to an actual decision than when she began considering the possibility. He still hadn’t interrupted her thoughts, but a few stolen glances assured her that he wasn’t ticked off at her, at least. She had surprised a slight frown in his forehead once, but he quickly wiped the expression away when he noticed her noticing. Maybe he, too, was having second thoughts.
Sighing, she slid the last batch into the oven and counted all of her fine reasoning for naught. He was probably bored out of his mind and glad that she didn’t seem to want him. He was probably used to acting out fantasies and “escorting” beautiful women with big boobs and a ravishing hunger for his body. He was probably used to better. She couldn’t do this.
But when he pressed up against her back as she scooped the last cookie from the hot sheet and moved it to the cooling rack, she didn’t pull away. He wrapped his arms around her waist and bent to lay his cheek against hers, swaying their bodies slightly, and she let him, wondering exactly when she had lost her mind.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
“The loft. Upstairs.”
“Take me there?”
She did.
The house wasn’t a true two-story. The loft at the top of a quaint, wrought-iron, spiral staircase was homey and fairly neat, despite the clutter of books and NFL paraphernalia. He’d have to remember to ask her about that last later. He loved football.
My Gigolo: The Care and Feeding of a Male Prostitute Page 3