In Your Wildest Dreams Page 2

  "Pour me another, Jake. And a second glass of wine for the lady."

  He drew his gaze to Charles Winthrop, a married forty-something scotch-on-the-rocks who came in every Thurs day night for a little adultery. The lady on his arm this evening was Tawney, a brunette Chablis who couldn't be a day over eighteen.

  "Sure," Jake replied, scooping ice into a glass and reaching for Winthrop's favorite brand of scotch.

  As he poured the drinks, Winthrop slid one hand from Tawney's hip up to the side of her breast. "Drink up, honey, and we'll head to a hotel."

  Winthrop handed Jake a twenty and said, "Keep the rest." A common statement from the men who climbed the steps to Sophia's secret third floor. They figured big tips bought Jake's discretion.

  What they didn't know was that he didn't care. He didn't care that Winthrop was screwing around on his wife, and he didn't care that, at the moment, he was doing it with an obscenely young girl, likely younger than Winthrop's own daughters. Once upon a time, he did care—about people, about righting wrongs, about trying to fix things in his own little corner of the world. But those days were gone.

  "Have a good evenin'," he murmured as the couple strolled away. He didn't mean it. But he didn't not mean it, either. He really didn't give a damn either way, so long as he earned his paycheck. That's what life was about for Jake the last two years—earning a paycheck, and sleeping.

  The paycheck was easy—he worked at Chez Sophia a few nights a week, setting his own schedule. It didn't take too many hours behind this particular bar to make a decent living when you picked up hundred percent tips all night long. And as for the sleeping, it was getting better lately. He hadn't had a nightmare in a couple of months.

  But the thought brought to mind the dream he'd had the other night. He couldn't ever recall a dream being so detailed, so intense, so erotically raw. What the hell had that been about?

  It's your dick complaining.

  Probably. Couldn't blame it. The last time he'd had sex had been....too long ago. But every time a girl came on to him these days, he found himself bored, apathetic. He

  just wanted in look the other way. Wanted to go home and go to bed alone.

  Of course, other than the girls at Sophia's, he didn't run into many. Because other than work, he stayed in. Lifted weights. Slept.

  "This is no way to live," Tony had told him a few weeks ago when he'd shown up at Jake's place unexpected.

  "You live your life, I'll live mine," he'd said. "I'm doin' fine."

  Tony had nosed around, peeking in the near-empty fridge, spying the piles of dirty clothes in Jake's bedroom. "Yeah, right. Fine."

  Jake knew he wasn't fine just as much as Tony knew it, but he only wanted to be left to himself, left free not to feel—anything.

  Now he remembered that waking up from the dream had left him with a vague, nagging sense of guilt that had stuck around for hours. Damn, couldn't even outrun feelings in his sleep. Couldn't even dream about something as simple as sex without it getting complicated.

  Wiping down the bar, he scanned the crowd for Miss Chardonnay again. She wove slowly through the well-dressed men and scantily clad women, but seemed to be doing a lot more moving than stopping or talking. "Not gonna get picked up like that, chere," he mumbled.

  Maybe she was a cop. He made a mental note to ask Tony if he knew anything about an undercover vice operation. But he didn't think things were quiet enough at the NOPD that they'd started actively pursuing misdemeanors. Not unless somebody knew for sure that other crimes were tied in. He knew Tony suspected they were, but since Tony didn't have enough to move forward, Jake doubted anyone else in the department did, either.

  Or maybe she was a reporter, looking for a story. Prostitution was practically a tradition in the Big Easy, but the men who "shopped" here in the "high-priced hooker zone," as Tony called it, were often public figures, guys who expected discretion because they had a lot to lose. List their names in the newspaper and, well... he was sure that kind of expose could garner any journalist some major attention. So that idea actually held a little water.

  Either way, though, she was playing with fire. You didn't play games with men as rich and powerful as the ones who came to Sophia's third floor. If anyone else developed the same suspicions he had, things would get ugly real fast.

  Not that he cared. He didn't.

  She was a big girl—she surely knew what she was getting herself into.

  He didn't care, but then ... why did he keep watching her. Why did he give a damn why she was here? Since when did he even pay attention to the people who came to his bar? They were all drinks to him. Bloody Mary’s, whiskey sours, rum and Cokes. Merlots, Cabernets ... and chardonnays.

  Over the next half hour, the lush interior of the room became more pronounced as the crowd thinned, pairing off for the evening and moving on to hotels or apartments.

  Once or twice, he saw the blonde talking—with other girls, a few men and found himself wishing he could hear their conversations, since they would probably reveal

  to his practiced ear, whether she was here looking to make money like any good escort or whether she'd come for something else.

  "Just don't say anything to get yourself in trouble," he murmured as he studied her across the room conversing with Malcolm Unger, a prominent local attorney and a

  whiskey neat—and just one example of a guy who wouldn't like finding out he was flirting with someone who might be a reporter.

  By eleven-fifteen, only a handful of customers dotted the velvet-and-brocade room: a drunk parish judge with an expensive hooker perched on each knee, and a group of young corporate types laughing and drinking with three girls. And Miss Chardonnay, who strolled swiftly past the bar, high color in her cheeks, breasts bouncing gently with each step.

  "Chere," he said.

  She looked up and, when their eyes met, stopped.

  He held out one arm, motioning her closer.

  Although she complied, wariness filled her gaze.

  "Get yourself a date for the night?" He'd had to ask, couldn't help himself.

  She pulled in her breath, looking affronted by the question. Nope, no way was she a working girl—they weren't that sensitive. "Dates" were their job.

  "Um ... no, if it's any of your business."

  Another dead giveaway. A woman who looked like that, in a room full of men seeking sex, and she hadn't found any takers? He tilted his head, let her see just a hint of suspicion. "I find it hard to believe a lovely lady like you didn't get an offer tonight."

  She released a soft breath, looking nervous, but also determined. "I... made a few dates for other nights, if you must know."

  Possible, but he still wasn't buying. The third floor was all about instant gratification. And damn if he knew why he gave a shit, but something just beneath her surface seemed so innocent that he had to press on.

  Just this one, last time, he promised himself. Just this

  one last time, you can try to save somebody. After that, it was back to working and sleeping and not caring.

  "Listen, chere, you got anyplace to be right now?"

  She blinked, looking uncertain, and gave her head a light shake.

  "Good. Hang around a little while."

  Her eyes widened. They were a soft, inviting shade of blue. "Why?"

  He let the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. "Nothin' too terrible, bebe. Just want to talk to you a minute. What do you say? Stick around while I close up the bar?" He motioned to the right. "There's a little room just around the corner. You can wait there."

  Her gaze sparkled with hesitation, a hint of fear.

  Did she think he was going to proposition her? If his suspicions were right, he'd probably just scared her shitless. Good, that was the point. "How about it?" he asked again. "Stay?"

  Miss Chardonnay bit her lip, then slowly nodded.

  To his surprise, he felt that nod tightening his groin, "Good chere. See you soon.

  Chapter 2

&n
bsp; Sex had never been her thing.

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t had it—she’d slept with a few guys.

  But she’d just never understood the overwhelming power sex had over people, the all—consuming force it seemed to be. And although she’d tried to “get it”, she’d spent the last ten years, since losing her virginity in college, wondering what all the fuss was about.

  Now Stephanie looked around the small room he’d sent her into, in awe. The outer room was opulent, but this space? Downright decadent. Red silk and velvet abounded. Even the antique ceiling tiles were painted red. Mounds of red pillows and bolsters, some with gold embroidery, others sporting large tassels, cushioned the lush red sofa she sat upon. Red brocade wallpaper provided the backdrop for sensual paintings with a Renaissance—period feel, featuring naked women draped with swathes of fabric. Warm dark objects filled the room—a globe on a thick cherry pedestal, a grandfather clock—and countless red velvet stools and ottomans sprinkled the small space. A room

  That belonged in the most extravagant bordello, she thought. A room made for sex. A room that almost made her want to have sex. Everything in it made her want to touch.

  She took a deep breath, emotionally tired.

  When she hadn’t been dodging men with a sexual gleam in theirs eyes, she had managed to ease into a few conversations with other escorts, but it seemed no one knew Tina. No one. It made no sense and Stephanie’s heart dropped even further recalling each fruitless discussion.

  By the time the sexy bartender had asked her to stay, she’d been so spent that she’d gone blank on how to respond. Instinct had said run, but her body had hummed with the same unaccountable desire she’d felt on meeting him.

  Not that she planned to do anything with him. It was surely just the wine and the necessary sensuality of the evening making her feel these things. Things she hardly ever felt. Earlier, she’d told herself she had to feel them tonight, and it had led to this: sitting here waiting for a stranger and having no idea why.

  Her only productive thought at the moment was that maybe he could her find Tina. Maybe he could give her other places to look, people to ask. Melody had promised this was the premiere spot for high—priced escorts, but maybe there were other locations she didn’t know about.

  Stephanie looked up when he walked into the room—he seemed to fill the small space, and the mere sight of him set her senses on fire all over again. What was it about this guy? His eyes seemed to touch her physically.

  He took a seat on the sofa across from her. Above his head, a naked woman longed on a chaise.

  When he didn’t say anything right away, just sat there looking at her, the silence pushed her to speak. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “What’s your name, chere?”

  “Stephanie Grant”

  Like before, he gave his head a slight, questioning tilt.

  “You know what I find odd, Stephanie Grant?”

  Her skin prickled. “What’s that?”

  “I’ve met a lot of escorts here, but you’re the first one who’s ever used her last name. Any good escort knows usin’ only first names keeps the fantasy real and the money flowin’.”

  Heat rose to her cheeks. It made sense, and only then struck her that there were probably privacy concerns, too. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Well,” she fudged, “I didn’t realize I was still on the clock.”

  She couldn’t interpret his slight smile—she only knew his very presence made her hotter and more nervous by the second. His voice came low. “What I wanted to tell you, chere, is that I don’t believe you.”

  She blinked and her heartbeat sped up. “About what?”

  His sexy grin faded, but his eyes still bore through her. She wasn’t used to having a man look at her with such intensity—nit in business, and certainly not in pleasure.

  “I don’t believe you’re a hooker. And I don’t know why you’re pretendin’ you are, but I got news for you, beb. The men who come here wouldn’t like findin’ out you’re lookin’ to do anything but take their money and make ‘em smile. You don’t wanna mess around here. You’ll get yourself in real trouble, Stephanie Grant.”

  It was all she could do to keep breathing. “Why on earth would I pretend to be an escort?”

  His serious gaze never wavered. “You tell me.”

  “I can’t, because you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He let a sigh of irritation. “Look, I’m tryin’ to do you a favour. You’re gonna get hurt if you mess with this crowd.”

  “No, you look, I didn’t come here to be harassed by a bartender. So I think I’ll just be leaving now.” She pushed to her feet, intent on marching from the room, but he stood quickly, blocking her way.

  She drew in her breath and lifted her eyes to find their faces only inches apart. Their bodies too. His musky scent permeated her senses.

  “How much?” he whispered.

  She drew back slightly. “How much what?”

  “How much do you charge?” His warm breath seemed to infuse heat into her veins as the loaded question ran all through her.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Consider it a test.” His eyes gleamed in the dim lighting.

  Melody had told her how much, she was sure of it—but she’d never expected to get this far into a conversation about it, and the bartender had rattled her. “A hundred and fifty,” she guessed, thinking it sounded like an appropriate amount for an upper—tier lady of the evening. Hadn’t she seen movies, TV shows, where regular street hookers charged only twenty, thirty, fifty dollars?

  “For what exactly?” he asked.

  Still more heat consumed her. “For one…go—round.”

  He didn’t smile, but his eyes filled with satisfaction. “Wrong answer, chere.”

  “What?” She hadn’t known there was a wrong answer. He still stood so close that she’d have sworn he could feel how fast her heart beat.

  “The goin’ price for a lady of your calibre is four hundred an hour, two thousand if I want to spend the night.”

  “Her eyes flew wide as her chest tightened. “If you…?”

  Only then did his wicked little grin reappear. “What’s wrong, Stephanie Grant? Do I make you nervous?”

  “Of course not.” Sell it. Somehow. “One guy’s the same as any other. I just…”

  He tilted his head. “Don’t you think a lowly bartender’s got that kinda cash? Surprise, beb, I do. And if you’re really in the business you say you are, then this would be easy money. Not sure why you didn’t leave with any of the other men, but maybe it’s my good fortune, no?”

  “No,” she said. Unequivocally.

  His fingertips grazed the length of her arm, rising onto her bare shoulder to stop at the thin strap there. Heat filled his touch and it was all she could do not to shiver. “Why not?” he asked.

  She had no idea how to answer without blowing her cover.

  He saved her the trouble by sweeping a tantalizinly soft kiss across her lips, tasting of cool mint. Her body blazed with wild desire and she gasped, trying desperately not to feel—but at the moment, she felt more than any man had ever made her feel before. A stranger. In a modern—day house of ill repute. It didn’t make sense.

  But then, what did? Did it make sense that she was masquerading as a lady of the night? Did it make sense that Tina was missing—could be somewhere dead or dying for all she knew? Put in that context, her current circumstances seemed a lot less bizarre.

  “What do you say, chere?” he purred in her ear, the soft Cajun accent melting over her, warm and encasing. With that, he brushed another sinfully short kiss over her mouth, leaving the same hint of mint, the same liquid lust pouring through her as he smoothly swept her into a loose embrace, lowering her lengthwise onto the velvet sofa. She lounged among the plush pillows as he grazed his palm over her cheek, jaw, neck in a slow caress.

  She could have left a minute ago—she could have walked away. But she hadn’
t, too caught up in his dark allure, and now she lay beside him, reaching for an answer. “No,” she finally whispered.

  “No?” To her surprise, his sexy expression revealed a hint of amusement. “You came here tonight to make money, didn’t you?” His heated voice whisked down through her, somehow making even those words sensual, tempting. “You came here to sell your body, chere. Why shouldn’t I take you up on it? Unless…” His voice stretched out the s sound.

  She bit her lip. “Unless what?”

  He leaned near her ear, his voice quiet, deep. “Unless there’s a reason you’re resistin’.”

  Was she? Resisting? His palm closed full around her waist, his thumb brushing dangerously near the underside of her breast, and still she didn’t make a move to leave.

  “Unless” he went on, “you aren’t what you claim. Unless you aren’t really here to sell all these pretty curves.” His hands glided down her waist, hip, thigh, as if outlining her.

  She heard her own breath, broken and labored, and wished the room were darker, wished it were okay to pull him to her and do everything she suddenly wanted to do. Press his body against hers, let him touch her—everywhere. Take him inside her.

  He lowered more soft kisses to her neck, the reached behind her ankle to slide his hand slowly up her stocking to the spot behind her knee. Her heavy breath mingled with his now, the only sounds in the red room.

  “Last chance, chere,” he whispered, his palm edging higher.

  Even as a shot of hungry pleasure blasted upward, she said, “No. Stop.”

  He never flinched, only lifted his mouth to breathe warm in her ear. “Tell me why.”

  “What?” She could barely think.

  “If you really were an escort, you wouldn’t make me stop, no?” His voice was a low growl. “You’d let me have you.”