A soft chime signals my arrival. The doors slide open.

  I was prepared for any type of penthouse decor. Something lush and antique to match the lower floors. Something modern and sleek to appeal to the upscale traveler.

  What I’m looking at isn’t a penthouse at all. Not one I’ve ever seen.

  There’s a lumpy corduroy sofa in front of a gilded brick fireplace. A pile of old books about to topple over on a side table that probably came from Ikea. Through the room I can see floor-to-ceiling windows that would have been the focal point, but they’ve been covered by drapes. That alone would not be remarkable, except for the string of star-shaped plastic lights that traipse across them. It takes me a moment to realize that my mouth is open. Shocked. I’m shocked, which is pleasant enough considering it’s a novelty. How long has it been since something surprised me? And where is the object of that surprise? There is no woman to greet me. No seductress. No glamourous woman ready for the night of her life. God, what is that strange tightening in my chest? It feels like anticipation, deep and true, and it’s been a lifetime since I felt that.

  “Hello,” I call, stepping into the suite.

  There’s a thump from the bedroom. A woman pops her head around the corner, all frizzy hair and wild eyes and plump pink lips. She wears a black dress with a startling high neck, lace on top, the kind that a matron would wear—but her skin is perfectly smooth, her eyes wide. This is a young woman. Younger than myself, her clothes an anachronism. Her expression? Pure relief. “Oh thank God.”

  She sounds so sincere that I have visions of an orgasm emergency. A deficiency so intense she had to dial a twenty-four-hour line to have it fixed. There’s something undeniably hot about the idea of a woman in dire straits and me the only one who can help.

  “Hugo Bellmont,” I tell her, providing a small bow. “At your service.”

  And then I give her the smile. Not the megawatt one that I used downstairs. I give her the slow, suggestive one that lets her know every dirty thing that I’m thinking.

  It isn’t fake. It doesn’t need to be. Not with her whispery curls that I’d love to feel in my fist. Not with the pale freckles across her nose that I’d love to track all the way down her body.

  Her eyes are an interesting pale green. I want to look in them while I go down on her.

  Every single dirty thought is in the smallest smile.

  Except she disappears back into the bedroom. “In here!”

  How unusual. I’ve never met a woman as hurried about her sexual requirements. She sounds worried, almost frantic, and I haven’t even been here sixty seconds.

  I follow her, feeling for the first time in years out of my depth. It’s a nice feeling, a pleasant simmer in my veins. My steps feel lighter across the plush carpet.

  At the threshold I barely have time to register the strange furniture. It’s large and antique. Expensive but mismatched. As if they crammed an estate sale into one room.

  The young woman is bent over a large dresser, her ass perfectly plump. I could fill my hands with her. Could press my new erection against the crease. Except it isn’t a sexy pose.

  Instead she seems to be looking behind the dresser.

  “It’s okay,” she’s saying, breathless. “Come out, sweetie. You can do it.”

  Based on the sweet tone of her voice and the cat dish I spotted on the way inside, I already know what I’m going to see when I peek over the top of the dresser. Sure enough, there’s a fluffy cat with bright yellow eyes peering up at me.

  I don’t have much experience with cats. They were one level up from rodents where I grew up, useful for catching rats and underfoot in dark alleys.

  However, my experience with pussies of a different sort translates just fine, because I can see exactly what’s happened to the poor girl. She’s backed herself all the way into a corner, made her body so small she can’t possibly come out.

  No matter how nicely her owner coaxes her, it won’t work. It can’t possibly. Something like this isn’t solved with words; it’s solved with a confident, calming touch.

  I straighten enough to pull off my jacket. “If you’ll allow me.”

  The woman glances back at me, her eyes going wide as she sees my forearms where I’m rolling up my sleeves. “What are you going to do?”

  “I assume you wish me to retrieve the cat.”

  “Rescue her,” she corrects. “Because you have long arms.”

  I’ve had women compliment my length before, but usually they’re referring to a different body part. Nothing about this night is usual; maybe that’s why I like it so much. “Happy to be of service.”

  “She’s very nervous. She might scratch you.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.” I give her a small smile, and this time I’m rewarded by a pinkening of her cheeks. “Now if you would move aside. I require room to work.”

  She scoots herself around me, careful not to touch, sucking in her breath as she passes by me. Is she afraid of me? I don’t think so. At least not the ordinary fear a woman might have of a man. Instead she seems wary, much like the cat that watches me from behind the dresser, nervous of the world and its unknowns, terrified of everything and nothing at all.

  With both hands braced on the side of the dresser, I use all my strength to lift it. As I suspected it’s an ancient piece, made back when they used solid wood for every beam and joint. It probably weighs a thousand pounds, which is why the woman didn’t move it first. I manage to move it two inches farther from the wall, which isn’t enough for a person to walk behind, but is enough for a cat. This one would probably wander out eventually, when she wants to eat, but I don’t think my client will relax until she does.

  So I return to the far end of the dresser, near the corner, and bend to look at the cat. She stares at me, her eyes almost glowing, unfathomable. “You’re a beauty, aren’t you?” I murmur.

  No response. She doesn’t even blink.

  “I could talk to you for hours,” I say, reaching down to stroke the top of her head.

  She’s soft and unexpectedly fragile beneath all that fur. It’s almost like armor, the thickness of it. It makes her seem larger than she is. “I could talk for hours, and you still wouldn’t trust me, would you? You won’t believe a thing I say, so I’ll just have to show you.”

  I don’t change the cadence of my voice, not even as I reach below the cat and scoop her up, not even as I clasp her securely against my chest and pet her head. She curls against me with a faint purr of relief, her thick tail swishing back and forth in gratitude.

  “Oh my God, thank you,” the woman says, looking torn between snatching her cat away and coming near me. Quite a dilemma, she has. “I realized I couldn’t find her thirty minutes ago, and then spent all this time looking, and then when I did find her she wouldn’t come out.” She stops herself, flushing. “Sorry, I babble when I’m nervous.”

  And it’s adorable, but I know better than to tell her that.

  “My assistance does come with a price,” I say instead.

  Her eyes widen. “Oh?”

  “Your name. It’s only fair now that I’m holding your pussy.”

  Oh, the color of her cheeks. They remind me of sunsets with wind from the west, the kind that herald good weather for sailors the following day. “Bee,” she says.

  “The kind that make honey?”

  “No, Bea like Beatrix.” She makes a face. “It was my grandmother’s name.”

  I would love to say a name as unique as Beatrix while I pound into her, but it’s clear she’d rather I called her by the nickname. Anyway, it suits her. Simple on the surface, a thousand meanings beneath. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bea. And your cat,” I prompt.

  “Minette,” she answers, her expression softening.

  Upon hearing her name, the cat seems to realize she’s been far too content in a stranger’s arms. She pulls herself away, a little haughty, and leaps onto the floor. Only then, from the relative safety of two feet away, does she turn back to give me a warning hiss.

  Then she swishes away with a walk I can only admire.

  “I suppose I haven’t made a friend,” I say ruefully.

  Bea grins. “Are you kidding? She didn’t take a swipe at you. I’m pretty sure that means she loves you in Minette language. She doesn’t like new people.”

  Why do you travel with a cat who dislikes new people? I suppose she could keep her locked up in penthouse suites around the country, wealthy enough to insist that her cat sit with her in first class instead of locked in steerage, but it still seems like a strange pet to travel with.

  Come to think of it, the pet isn’t the only thing strange. The old furniture. The young woman who’s looking at me with a mixture of trepidation and hope.

  “Is it possible…” I say, almost reluctant to ask, but needing to know. “That she doesn’t meet a lot of people because she lives on the top floor of an exclusive boutique hotel?”

  Green eyes blink at me, as wide as the ones that looked at me from behind the dresser. As if I’ve trapped her there. As if I’m the only one who can get her out. “Ah. Yes.” She laughs a little. “What gave it away?”

  A million things, but mostly the fact that Bea looks so skittish I think I could spook her if I move too fast. I nod toward a painting on the wall, which features a smaller version of Minette in pointillism. “I assume it’s not standard concierge service to paint a masterpiece of the guest’s pet. Though if it is you really have to mention that in the Expedia review.”

  She laughs, the sound light as air, making my chest feel full. “I’m guessing Olivier would rather paint her than clean her litterbox.”

  So she’s on a first-name basis with the concierge. It means she’s been living here for a while, most likely, which is interesting because she can’t be older than twenty. The high-necked dress is strange for someone that young, but it’s surprisingly sexy. It conforms to her figure, emphasizing her curves and making my blood run hot.

  Her smile fades. “It’s not a problem, is it? Me living here?”

  As quickly as that, my profession fills the air like smoke. Like a bomb went off.

  “It’s no problem,” I assure her. The agency will send me to a hotel room as easily as a client’s high-rise condo. There’s no difference as long as the credit card charge goes through.

  She bites her lip, looking anywhere except the large antique bed. “Do you… I mean, did you want to just start or…”

  “Perhaps let’s go into the living room,” I tell her, already leading the way, my hand light on her lower back. This is the way I picked up the cat, moving her before she really had to think about it, saving her from herself. “I would love to talk to you first.”

  And find out why this beautiful and nervous young woman hired an escort.

  Chapter Two

  There are ass men and there are breast men. I can appreciate a beautiful ass or a nice rack. The blood in my veins is red, after all. But what I really am, what drives me absolutely crazy, what seems obscene even though women walk around with them in full view, are freckles. There’s something about them, the way they scatter over skin, the knowledge of the other places they must cover, that makes me hard as a rock. I have this primal instinct to map the constellations on Bea’s body.

  Her black dress covers more than it shows. The fabric reveals an hourglass figure that I would love to run my hands along, but we aren’t close to that. And above the high neckline, that’s where the freckles begin. Only a shade darker than her natural skin color, which is pale.

  Pale enough to turn a charming pink whenever she’s nervous.

  “Thank you for coming,” she says, pink all the way from the point of her nose to her neck. I would bet tonight’s entire fee, which is sizable, that the pink extends across her breasts.

  Everything about her is closed, her legs pressed together where she perches on the armchair, her lips clamped shut as if to keep herself from saying more. In contrast I’m a study in openness, my ankle slung over my knee, arm stretched across the top of the sofa.

  “It’s my pleasure,” I assure her. “I’m touched that you trust me in your home.”

  She glances around, as if considering for the first time that she ought not have invited me inside. “We could get a room downstairs, maybe. Unless they’re sold out.”

  “I’d rather be where you’re most comfortable.”

  She gives a small laugh of embarrassment. “I’m not sure I’m capable of being comfortable.”

  “Shall we call down for dinner?” I offer, mostly because the opportunity to eat and drink and breathe will help soothe her. But also because it will give me more time with her, this woman who may hold the answers to my long-held questions.

  “No, thank you.”

  “We could go out. I know a lovely bistro not two blocks away.”

  She shakes her head, almost stricken. “No.”

  Such refusal, this one has. Such determination.

  Her eyes are wary, watching as I stroke the brocade fabric of the sofa leisurely. It’s almost like she expects me to lunge at her, to rip her clothes away without any discussion. Of course, I would most enjoy that, if I thought she wanted me to do it.

  My curiosity is a living, breathing presence in the room. I want to unravel her secrets. Why does the idea of leaving make her anxiety spike like a tangible blaze in the air?

  I decide to go for frankness. “You’re a lovely woman, Bea. It would be an honor to spend the evening with you, but I have to be honest. I don’t usually work for clients as young as you.”

  A blink. “You don’t?”

  One shoulder lifts. “The CEO of a multinational corporation who realizes she’s spent more time on work than building a social life. A divorcee who wants to experience pleasure without resentment. They are the usual, but I have a feeling those don’t quite apply to you.”

  “Not exactly,” she says, cheeks almost cherry pink.

  The cat has found a perch on top of an old roll-top desk, her yellow eyes trained on me. I don’t mind one female looking at me. Don’t mind two. To be honest I have a bit of the exhibitionist in me, one of the many reasons I’m in the perfect profession. I know without looking that my shoes are perfectly shined, my bespoke suit conforming effortlessly to my body. Bea’s green gaze, both nervous and curious, is the best foreplay I could want.

  “I don’t need to know what led you to call me, certainly not the details of your circumstances, but it would help if I knew what you expect out of our evening.”

  “Oh God,” she says on a groan. “I’m screwing this up, aren’t I? There’s probably a secret handshake or something and I don’t know it. You must think I’m insane.”

  I shake my head, slow and slight. “No secret handshake, I promise. There’s only you and me, having a conversation about pleasure.”

  The word seems to take her aback. “Pleasure?”

  “That’s the nature of my business, yes.” My body tightens, because it would be pleasure indeed to touch this woman. To kiss her. To make her moan for me.

  Although I might have to rethink that plan, because the word pleasure might as well have been medieval torture based on the way Bea looks at me. “I thought we were going to have sex.”

  She sounds so forlorn it could break my heart.

  Instead I laugh, a small huff of breath, because I can’t afford to have a heart.

  “Sex,” I say, standing to full height, circling the scuffed oriental coffee table, standing behind her chair. “And pleasure. Pleasure and sex. They’re interchangeable.”

  I brush my knuckles over the side of her neck, a demonstration. Her wild curls tickle my skin.

  It’s provocative, this. If she had agreed to dinner I would have started with small touches, a glance of my palm against the small of her back as I pulled out her chair, holding her hand while we talked over a glass of wine. Perhaps being so bold as to run a finger along the inside of hers, where it’s more sensitive. She would shiver; her gaze would meet mine.

  There’s an order to these things. You can move fast or slow, but there’s still an order.

  “We can skip the pleasure part,” she says, her voice high, her breathing faster. Her chest rises and falls in the black dress, made all the more alluring by how much it covers. She’s a mystery. The black sky in the city. I have to work to see her secrets.

  “No,” I chide gently. “We focus on the pleasure. That’s the point.”

  “What if—” Her breath catches as I drop the back of my hand over her collarbone, a reverse caress. That’s what one does for a skittish creature like her. “What if I have a different point?”

  “And what point would that be, my sweet Bea?”

  “I want to lose my virginity,” she says, so fast it comes out as a single word.

  IWANTTOLOSEMYVIRGINITY. It takes my lust-warmed brain a full minute to comprehend. She’s not only nervous, this woman. She’s a virgin.

  My hand freezes. I yank it away. “Pardon me?”

  I can’t have heard her correctly. There is no chance in hell that this beautiful young woman, as strange and interesting as she is, is a virgin. No chance in hell that I was the one tasked to be her first. I could not possibly spread her legs and thrust inside her, knowing that no one’s ever been there. It would be a physical impossibility. Never. No possible way.

  “It doesn’t have to take long,” she says, suddenly earnest. Almost begging me. “I don’t need…you know…whatever you do for other women. I only want the sex.”

  My God. “You are insane.”

  A scrunch of her nose. “Well, you don’t have to sound too surprised. It is what I requested when I called. The woman said that’s what you do.”

  “I’m not taking your virginity.” On some level I might have guessed this about her. If I had considered it even possible, I might have. Virgins don’t hire me. They stammer and giggle and turn away from me, their protective instincts strong enough to send them in the opposite direction. So perhaps I can be forgiven for not recognizing this one, so forthright.