by Marian Tee
He sized up the rest of his group – brash, heavy-smoking businessmen from Shanghai, mostly middle-aged – and knew exactly why they had requested their tour guide to come dressed like a strict teacher with a naughty little secret.
Bullies on the outside, the billionaire concluded idly, and masochistic Mama’s boys on the inside.
“Good evening, boys.” Her accent was thicker than usual, and she planted her hands on her hips as she spoke, the position causing her to thrust her breasts forward. An audible gulp could be heard from the other men of his tour group, and he wouldn’t put it past them to silently pray for the woman’s blouse to burst open.
“Is it everyone’s first time to come to RLD?”
When the other men started speaking at the same time, her lips pursed in disapproval, and everyone shut up.
Something about the way she acted was familiar, but the billionaire couldn’t quite place where he had seen the same gesture before.
“For tonight’s tour, I expect all of you to behave. Because if you don’t—-” Her brown eyes narrowed behind her large glasses. “I’m going to be very, very mad – and then I’ll have no choice but to punish you.”
As the Chinese businessmen tripped all over their words in their haste to assure her of their good behavior, realization dawned on the Dutch billionaire. If he wasn’t mistaken, her every word and gesture was patterned after vintage teacher-student porn films——
Cheeky little minx. He almost, almost laughed, and he probably would have if they hadn’t moved on to the next stop. She launched into her next spiel.
While the other men in his group constantly fought over the right to stand next to her, the billionaire deliberately remained at the back, content to savor the way her seductive voice caressed his ears.
When they stopped in front of a sex window, she wagged a finger at the group, saying, “Now, boys, it’s very, very rude if you knock on all the windows when you have no intention of hiring the nice girls behind them.”
“Time is a commodity for our sex workers, so we must respect their time.” More finger wagging, but she also wetted her lips at the same time to soften the blow.
The strategy proved effective, with everyone’s heads bobbing dutifully.
He had to admit he found the sight just as stirring, and he would probably be as secretly aroused as the others as well if not for one thing—-
The way she had wetted her lips was too exaggerated, and instead of looking seductive as her tongue came to lick her lips, she had looked like – for the first second or two – she was sticking her tongue out as an expression of disgust.
It had him discreetly coughing this time, the only way to cover his amusement. He had a feeling the ploy was inspired by yet another scene straight out of a porn flick.
“If all you want is a little bit of visual pleasure, then please consider going to a peep show. It’s only a few euros for two minutes, and if that’s not enough, then there’s also an adult theater where you can watch from thirty minutes to an hour. Nin ming bai ma?”
The Chinese businessmen laughed and clapped their hands at her fluent delivery, all of them looking fit to kiss her feet.
When the tour officially ended, the men asked to have their photographs taken with her, to which she haughtily agreed, still very much in character. She posed gamely and patiently with the Chinese businessmen one at a time, striking one different pose after another.
“Group picture,” one of the businessmen yelled.
Everyone cheered and scrambled to crowd towards their tour guide.
The Dutch billionaire stepped forward, murmuring affably, “Let me take the picture.”
“Thank you.”
“Xie xie.”
“You are so very kind.”
The billionaire only smiled as he took the iPhone offered to him and counted one to three before clicking on the camera button on the screen. He wasn’t being kind. If anything, he was being generous because he knew after this tour—-
She was his.
Chapter Two
“And that’s all the client asked for? That I come in casual clothes?” Ilse balanced her years-old iPhone between her ear and shoulder as she struggled to get out of her clothes in the shortest time possible. She had only ten minutes before her next booking, which – albeit totally unexpected – was very much welcomed.
“Ja.” Yes.
The vagueness of the request annoyed Ilse, but a job was a job and she decided to shrug it off. Once she met the VIP, she could play it by ear from there. As she squeezed herself into her jeans, she asked Gloria about Erik.
“On the way to your place already, so there is nothing for you to worry about,” her boss answered reassuringly. “Jan is in good hands, I swear this on my gold-digging heart.”
“Great.” Her voice became partially muffled as she pulled her shirt down. “That’s all I need to know. “Doie!” Goodbye.
Ending the call, she kicked her killer heels out of the way, slid her feet into her sneakers, and then began collecting the pieces of clothing that littered the floor. Shoving them into the bag she had stowed neatly under the bed, Ilse stepped out of the room and smiled gratefully at Charlene. “Thanks for loaning me storage space.”
The sex worker blew her a kiss. “May you be blessed with a huge tip, gekkie.”
“I’ll share it with you if I do.” Ilse tossed the promise over her shoulder as she hurried towards the door. Outside, she broke into a run unceremoniously, uncaring about the way the other people gaped at her, and she made it to her meeting place just in time.
Situated atop one of Amsterdam’s few remaining swing bridges, Café Alles occupied every inch available of the historic steel structure and was a landmark in itself. With walls made entirely of glass, the café offered unparalleled views of the Red Light District alongside a warm, inviting ambience brought in by its cozy table setups and soft, beautiful music that soothed the ears.
As Madilyn Bailey belted out her version of Earned It from the speakers, Ilse worked hard to catch her breath while rapidly scanning the café for her VIP client. Guy in a pinstriped suit, glass of pink lemonade on his table, Ilse recalled from Gloria’s list of identification marks.
Gotcha.
She found him seated at the end of the bar, and her VIP client turned on his stool almost at the same time, his gaze finding her unerringly.
Oh!
Ilse’s body jerked in recognition.
It was the silent, mysterious guy from her earlier tour!
She stared at him in shock, and even though he stared back at her with equanimity, she had a feeling he was amused by her reaction. It would have been quite disgruntling if not for the fact that she was still struggling to get her composure back.
Although she had been very careful not to make any eye contact with him during the tour, Ilse had been awkwardly aware of the way he had stared at her the entire time. It had made her self-conscious, but it had also been...flattering.
And now he was doing it again, Ilse thought uneasily. She had the oddest urge to run away, her instincts clamoring for her to flee before it was too late.
But...a job was a job, and impoverished people like her couldn’t afford to be fussy.
Ilse forced herself to walk towards him, and although she knew she was being fanciful, the way his gaze followed her every move made her think of the way a man would look at his newest, shiniest toy.
Lazily, because he knew the toy was already his.
Possessively, also because he knew the toy was his.
A ferocious frown crinkled Ilse’s smooth forehead at the thought. She would have no problem with the way he was looking – if only she wasn’t the one he was eyeing like a toy.
By the time she reached him, Ilse had made up her mind, and she had her dialogue ready.
But then he came to his feet, and when Ilse had her first good look at him up close, she promptly forgot all about the words she had practiced in her mind.
My goodness, Il
se thought disbelievingly.
He was quite, quite taller than she expected him to be, and even if she had been in her killer heels right now, Ilse knew the top of her head still wouldn’t reach his shoulders. He was also exceedingly pretty – the way only movie stars should have a right to. He grew his hair just a little bit longer than what was usual, and the ebony-black waves looked so invitingly soft she had the strangest urge to feel it for herself. His eyes were a vivid shade of blue, his cheekbones aristocratic in its prominence. The rest of him was just as impressive, the magnificent breadth of his shoulders accentuated by his exquisitely hand-sewn suit.
But what really took her breath away was how wicked he felt.
He had BAD BOY written all over him, and Ilse frowned. He was, in a nutshell, the very opposite of her, and the urge to flee returned with a vengeance.
In the four years Ilse had been working as a tour guide, she had become a good judge of character. One look at this gentleman – if he could even be called that – and she knew he was trouble.
She crossed her arms over her chest, saying disapprovingly in Dutch, “You are bad news, mijnheer.” She was normally more tactful than this, but she had a feeling there was no need to be so with this man. He just didn’t feel like the type of man to cost Ilse her job if she rejected him.
“How can you say that,” he drawled out mildly, “when you don’t even know me?”
But he was also the type of man who wouldn’t so easily give up once he found himself a toy he wished to acquire and play with until he lost interest.
Well, that toy would not be her.
“I don’t need to know you,” she informed him bluntly, “to understand the kind of man you are. And because I do not want you to waste your time, let me tell you now, mijnheer. I am not interested. You are not my type.”
“You slay me, mevrouw.” He had switched to English this time, his tone cultured, and Ilse’s frown became more pronounced. Oh, how sly! How had he figured out she had a secret thing for men who were bilingual?
“At least let me prove myself first.” He moved towards a vacant table and pulled out a seat for her.
“It will do you no good,” Ilse muttered even as she grudgingly took the seat he offered. A job was still a job, and she didn’t want to give him any reason to ask for a refund.
When he took his seat, he chose the one adjacent to her, and Ilse stiffened when their knees bumped under the table, the contact causing a spark of electricity to jolt through her body.
When her eyes flew to him in suspicion, he released a laugh. “Surely you can’t blame me for the way your body reacts?”
Oh, blast it, he wasn’t only wicked, but he was charming, too!
Ilse scowled, and he grinned. “You hate the thought of being attracted to me that much?”
She nodded vehemently, causing him to laugh again, and Ilse’s teeth gnashed.
Ongelooflijk!
Incredible!
Another thing she used to think ridiculous was the way her friends described some men’s laughter as sexy...until now.
“Would you like to order anything?”
She shook her head.
“Are you certain?”
“I don’t drink when I’m on the job.”
“Then a glass of water or—-” He gestured to his glass of pink lemonade. “Perhaps something like this?”
She had to ask. “Is that really yours?”
“If I say it is?”
“I’d say it’s just your way of getting women to think you’re cute.”
He chuckled. “You are even more entertaining than I thought.”
“And you,” she returned sweetly, “are more annoying than I expected.”
“Such strong words.” He gazed at Ilse under hooded lids, murmuring, “Every hatred is caused by love.”
Ilse leaned back, stunned. Ongelooflijk!
“You recognize the quote,” he observed.
“Thomas Aquinas,” she supplied warily.
“Impressive.”
She stiffened. “You think people in my line of work don’t read?”
Unperturbed by her tone, he answered lazily, “To be honest, schatje, I believe most people your age don’t even know who Thomas Aquinas is.”
Oh. He was probably right, and she said grudgingly, “You have a point.”
“Speaking of your age—-” He paused. “May I ask how old you are?”
Seeing no reason to lie, she answered him truthfully. “23.”
“Ah.” A faint grimace crossed his lips. “I’m 32. Is that too old, do you think?”
When she only allowed herself to shrug in answer, he chuckled again, and Ilse hated the way her toes curled inside her sneakers. Ongelooflijk! She couldn’t even remember the last time someone from the opposite sex had made her feel this...this much.
“It just occurred to me I’ve neglected to introduce myself.” Pulling out a card from his wallet, he handed it to her, murmuring wickedly, “Jaak de Konigh, at your service.”
Ilse’s toes curled harder, the last three words making her recall the porn films she had watched, which showed all the ways a man could service a woman.
Lieve heer!
Dear Lord!
He really was bad news, the way he made her imagine such shameful thoughts—-
The import of his name sunk in a moment too late, and her gaze flew to him, Ilse demanding under her breath, “You’re a de Konigh?” It was the most famous surname in Netherlands, and the fact left her even more bewildered and suspicious. This man had royal Dutch blood running in his veins, for heaven’s sake! Why was he even wasting time with her?
“De Konigh is my last name, yes,” he acknowledged, and after a pause, he asked silkily, “Does this please you?” When Ilse only allowed herself another shrug, his gaze became shrewdly contemplative, and she quickly willed herself to remain expressionless.
“Is it only me you distrust,” he asked suddenly, “or men in general?” When she started to shrug, he shook his head, saying in a soft, cajoling voice, “You may be honest with me, schatje. You have my word as a de Konigh that I will never hold the truth against you.”
“I appreciate the words, Mr. de Konigh, but I’d rather not take the risk.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, murmuring, “Unfortunate, but also understandable.”
But his tone was too relaxed, and Ilse had a feeling her answer hadn’t shocked him at all.
How frustratingly unpredictable this man was, but even more annoying was how he always seemed two steps ahead of her.
“Very well then...” Even though his tone remained light, there was nothing casual about the way he looked at her—-
Lazily, possessively, and this time, she would throw in intensely, too, like she was a toy he wouldn’t let go...even if it turned out the toy wasn’t his in the first place.
“I’m going to do something that I’ve never done before.”
Something like fear skittered down her spine, and Ilse suddenly realized she was way out of her league with this man. “Mr. de Konigh—-”
But it was too late.
“For you, schatje, I will lay all my cards on the table, and I hope it will convince you to return the courtesy.”
Her fingers nervously balled into tight fists on her lap. “Mr. de Konigh—-”
“I want you.”
She choked.
“And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to have you.”
What?
“You have intrigued me since the first time I saw you. I still remember that day very clearly, and it had been quite entertaining, watching you handle the Greek boys I was babysitting, making them toe the line like an army sergeant.”
Ilse remembered that tour very clearly, too. She had shown up in military greens and had ordered the boys to answer her with a ‘yes, ma’am’ at all times. Another memory occurred to her, and she tried not to grimace. My goodness, wasn’t that also the tour where she had gotten carried away just a little bit,
and she had “punished” one of the boys by making him recite a rather naughty tongue twister?
The thought had her peeking warily at her VIP client, and when she saw the way his blue eyes smirked at her, she asked stiffly, “You were truly there?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he confirmed with an unrepentant grin. “I wasn’t officially part of the tour, but since they were my responsibility, I also followed the group from behind and—-” His blue eyes shamelessly caressed her as he spoke, and Ilse fought to control her body from reacting to the way he was gazing at her. How horribly brazen this man was, with the way he could just sit there and look at Ilse like he was undressing her with his eyes.
“I don’t mind telling you that watching you act like an army sergeant was one of the best decisions of my life.”
“Thank you, mijnheer,” she answered coolly. “I also do not mind telling you that I think you either have a very boring life—-”
His lips twitched.
“Or you have remarkably weird tastes in women,” she finished.
The words should have effectively put him in his place, but instead she found the tables turned as her VIP client murmured musingly, “What was that you made the boy say again? Peter Pecker pecked a pack of pickled peckers—-”
Oh!
Try as she might, she couldn’t stop her cheeks from reddening, and seeing it, he threw his head back with a laugh. Knowing that they were both aware he had won this round grated on her, and Ilse snapped, “I see nothing funny, mijnheer.”
“Call me Jaak,” he invited like he hadn’t noticed the irritation in her voice.
“Mijnheer,” she countered stubbornly.
He looked at her in amusement. “You’re a remarkably sore loser.”
Because it was true, she pretended not to have heard anything but instead said politely, “It’s getting late, Mr. de Konigh. I’m sure you must have more pressing matters to attend to, so if we could commence with the tour...” Ilse started to stand up but froze when long, elegant fingers encircled her wrist.
Heat ignited from within, a scorching, tempting sensation that only burned hotter when her frustrated gaze lifted to meet his, and he murmured in that beautifully accented and wondrously flawless English of his. “You haven’t yet asked me what kind of tour I want yet.”