"No."

  "I hope he takes good care of her," Frances muttered. She opened the door and flicked on the light. "I update the furniture every once in a while. Even when I lived at the apartment. When I got this place, Marissa would have been nine. Was nine, I mean. She’s fourteen now. She shouldn’t have to come back to a bed made for a three-year-old. Or a seven-year-old. Or an eleven-year-old."

  The walls were empty. On the bed was a gift covered in silver "Happy Birthday" wrapping paper. Dust clung to the present. "That’s right," Elena remembered. "He took her on her third birthday."

  "She loved Snow White, so I got her a Snow White hourglass that plays music. After she was gone..." Frances tucked her hair behind her ears. "I kept buying more and more hourglasses." She turned off the bedroom light and led Elena to another room. "Three hundred and fifty-two. That’s how many I have right now."

  A knot rose in Elena’s throat as she surveyed the hourglasses. Red sand, black sand, purple sand, blue sand, regular old white sand. Plenty of hourglasses that were music boxes--no sand. Dragons, witches, Cinderella, Wizard of Oz, fairies, and more, more, more, more. What could she say to Frances? Nothing would minimize her pain. Too bad she could not tell Frances about Antiques by Anna, the store Felicianna owned. Its hourglasses were intricate, local, hand-carved. No matter; Frances probably already knew about the store. But telling her might…nope.

  Client.

  Prostitute.

  Besides, Felicianna hated Frances. Elena was not about to send Frances into the lion’s den.

  *****

  Frances was silent through dinner because her mind was a cornucopia of questions. The words "mother" and "call girl" did not mesh.

  Who is the father? A client of yours? Is that why you have the rule against vaginal penetration, because a condom broke before or...You haven't been a call girl long enough to get pregnant, have the baby, and get back into shape, have you? Maybe you have.

  Why did such an intense pain cross your expression?

  "What is your child's name?" Frances asked after dinner. They were on the back deck.

  The prostitute kept her expression immobile, but she cupped her wineglass. She took a long sip. "I told you I don't have kids. Look, we're not here to discuss me. We're here for you. Remember? You don't want distractions. You don't want sex or messiness. Fine. Is Jan okay? Jan Kendall. That's the name we'll give your family."

  "I want to know." Frances's reply came out hard and petulant. The opposite of what she wanted. "I want to know," she said softly. "You can tell me." Maybe the child did not live with the prostitute. Maybe the father had custody. Or maybe the prostitute had given the child up for adoption. Maybe it was guilt over an abortion.

  The prostitute poured another glass of wine. Her movements were almost vicious. She wore four bracelets, all purple, on each wrist. "No, Frances. We're here for you. Tell me about Marissa. Was she a happy baby?"

  Frances suppressed a sigh. She had been wrong about the bracelets, but she was right about the child. She was sure of it. Fine. We'll do this your way, and then maybe you'll tell me about your child. "Marissa smiled a lot." Frances formed a steeple with her hands. "Every time that phone rings, my world stops. What if she's dead? Or what if she's…what if she's been found, what if she's back? What do I do with a fourteen-year-old girl who at best doesn't know I'm her mother? What do I do with a fourteen-year-old girl who probably hates me?"

  "Do you think Daniel's poisoned her against you?"

  "Maybe. This sounds terrible, but I'm afraid of her. Always have been. That part didn't get into the memoir, either."

  "Afraid of Marissa?"

  "Maybe afraid to be her mother. Maybe afraid to love her. As much as I could, anyway. Every time I told her I loved her, or told Daniel I loved him, I felt like a fraud. So I didn't say it much. Daniel loved her. He loved her to his core. I worked all the time. Long hours. Sundays. GIC was growing fast. He stayed home with her. Bought her dresses and toys. Tended to her when she cried. Fed her. Changed her diapers. She was his little girl. I had a couple of hours with her at night, at most. I'd take her on the deck, and we would look at the night sky."

  "Why were you afraid to love her?"

  "You sound like Horace. My therapist." Frances poked her index finger into her wine. The night had chilled the Merlot. Refreshing. "I kept canceling appointments with him. I was supposed to see him once a week for an hour. Skipped half the time. Six months ago, I dropped him entirely."

  "What are your parents like, Frances? Different from how they're portrayed in your memoir? I don't imagine they are too thrilled with how they come across."

  A thrill ran through Frances at how the prostitute said her name, like a caress. A foreign, exotic dessert.

  Frances.

  Frances.

  Frances.

  "What are your parents like?" Frances asked. Maybe the prostitute would talk about them, if not about her child.

  The prostitute offered a wry smile. "So, is the name Jan okay? Jan Kendall."

  "Where did you get it?"

  "Why does it matter where I got it?"

  "Jan's fine. Thanks."

  "How is Nicholas doing?"

  "Would it kill you to answer a question about yourself?"

  "I've told you plenty. You know I'm thirty-two and have a bachelor's degree in communications. You know I used to be a party planner."

  "That's questionnaire information."

  "My favorite color is purple."

  Frances fingered the hourglass charm on the necklace. She had come to terms with it. She liked having the hourglass with her, close to her heart, reminding her that she was not alone. Nope, she, the prostitute and a bunch of dead white men were real close. "Do your rules say you can't answer personal questions but you can give away your jewelry to clients?"

  "I do my job."

  "You won't even give me lie-answers."

  A shadow crossed the prostitute's expression. "I can if you want."

  Her child is dead. The realization popped into Frances's mind out of nowhere, but something about it felt right. Her child is dead. Frances studied the prostitute, took in the freckles, the shadows in her eyes, and then her side profile as she gazed into the distance.

  Frances's chest squeezed. She was an ogre for hammering the prostitute with nosy, intrusive questions about her child. Her child who was dead. "Do I have a number? A client number?"

  "You're Client F83."

  "Why are you allowed to tell me that?"

  The prostitute cracked a smile. "I'm not."

  If physical currency was what the prostitute wanted--not emotional currency--Frances could go along with that tonight. Maybe if she gave in a little physically, the prostitute would give in a little emotionally. Wow. Nice justification. Just admit that you want a little sex. She won't care. She'll be relieved.

  Frances reached for the prostitute's hand. Cold. "I don't mean to come across as intrusive or nosy. You're doing a job. I know that. I don't forget that. You don't need to answer my questions. I'll try not to ask so many."

  "Hmm."

  Frances let go of her hand. "Okay. Okay, then." This is hard. What now? "Have you--have you been with a woman?"

  Raised light eyebrow. "Sexually?"

  "Yes."

  The prostitute’s lips tugged up and exposed her white teeth. "Yes, Frances, I have."

  For work or for pleasure? "Do you like it?"

  "Yes, very much."

  Frances got the feeling the prostitute was telling the truth. "What do you like best about being with a woman?"

  The prostitute sipped from her wine. Once. Twice. At last, she said: "Shall I show you, Frances?"

  "Uh--I guess. Okay."

  "You have a nice bathroom. Smooth Jacuzzi. How about a bath? Bubble bath."

  Chapter 10

  Elena got the protection from her briefcase. Then she slipped out of her clothing item by item. First, her boots. Then her socks. Her sweater. Her jeans. Her underwear and bra she left on, for now. They were a silky black pair. "I match the Jacuzzi," Elena said with a grin. That's right. Keep the conversation funny and light.

  Frances's bathroom was like the rest of her penthouse. Minimalist. The Jacuzzi was black on the outside, white on the inside. It had an overhead arch and was impersonal, like an art piece. Probably cost more than most people's cars. Earlier, Elena had counted twelve whirlpool jets and six lights--four in the tub part, two in the overhead part.

  Frances was filling the tub with water and putting in lavender chamomile honey bubble bath. Her way of trying not to stare at Elena.

  "You can look," Elena said teasingly. "That's the point, isn't it?"

  Frances straightened. Her cheeks blushed a light pink, and Elena found herself enjoying the reaction. More than she should. Way more than she should.

  "I'm pathetic," Frances said.

  "Oh, come on."

  "No, listen to this. I've never been completely naked with anyone. Not even my husband. Not even at camp. We had blankets and swaddles and--anyway. Oh well. Best to get it out of the way now, right? So when it happens for real later, with a real lover, a real girlfriend, I'm more relaxed."

  Elena kept smiling, masking her horror. Never been naked with anyone? "I can't wait to be naked with you," she said. A prostitute line, yes, but perhaps also true. In a small way. Only a small way. "Skin to skin is great."

  "Uh-huh." Frances was not buying Elena's sweetening tactics. Made no move to undress.

  "Come on. Touch me. Touch my breasts."

  "Your bra is on."

  "You can touch my breasts through my bra. Or take my bra off."

  Frances rubbed her forehead. "You know what? Can we make this really quick? Skip touching and foreplay and--and--can't you just do me really quick?"

  "Have you had an orgasm, Frances?"

  "An orgasm? 'Course I have. With the other one. Several times. Most every time."

  "And with yourself? Do you masturbate?"

  The pink blush returned, deeper.

  "Do you masturbate?" Elena repeated, making sure her expression and voice were soft.

  "Uh. Some--sometimes."

  Elena turned the bath faucet off. Bubbles, lots of bubbles, beckoned. No water was visible. "You’re able to come by yourself?"

  "Yes."

  Elena nodded encouragingly. "Good. You have to know how to please yourself."

  Frances started to say something, but then stopped.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "Look at me," Elena said, and Frances did, a tentative meeting of her eyes. Elena pretended that her heart did not flutter, not a tiny bit. "I want to give you mind-blowing sex. But you have to talk to me. You have to trust me and tell me things. That helps me help you."

  Frances let her gaze drop, to Elena's bra and breasts. "It still feels dirty. Masturbation. Sex."

  "I'm sure it does." Frances had grown up with the mindset that most pleasurable activities had to be dirty. She was not going to get over that in five minutes. Especially by paying a call girl and not having sex with a woman she loved.

  "The first night with the other prostitute, she went down on me, and…" Frances trembled. "I hadn't expected--it felt so--" Her eyes glittered. "I said before that sex with her wasn't good, and it wasn't. That's true. It felt like a scientific experiment. She didn't talk. I didn't talk. We were only missing clipboards and lab coats. But I could orgasm, most of the time. I've known how to for a while. Even while I was with Daniel, I'd take a shower or bath and--" She grinned. "We had a showerhead massager."

  Elena smiled. "Ah, massagers. Okay, so please do what you want. Touch me. Or help me touch you. I don't judge. I don't. I promise. You can look at me all over."

  "I want something quick."

  "All right. May I help you out of your clothes?"

  Frances's expression was skeptical, but she said: "Fine."

  Elena helped Frances out of her jeans and underwear. Elena had to fight to not stare at Frances's pussy: light-colored and trimmed. Delicious.

  Jesus. Maybe Elena ought to give Felicianna a call. Horny, horny, horny. Elena snaked a finger into the beginnings of Frances's southern blond hairs, and Frances gasped. Gasped even though Elena had not been near her clit or opening.

  Ripe. So ripe.

  God, Elena wanted to make love. With a woman she had genuine feelings for. Genuine chemistry with. Not Felicianna. Not Frances. Because prostitutes did not make love. They "serviced." Elena wanted to be a woman who made love to a woman, not a prostitute who fucked a client.

  Elena slid out of her own underwear. Frances's gaze was brief but hungry. Very.

  Okay. Time to turn this on full throttle. Earn her pay. Elena tugged Frances to her. Murmured into her ear: "Like what you see?"

  Frances inhaled an uneven breath. "I thought you'd be shaved. The other one was. She said most prostitutes are."

  "Forget about her. Let's get in before the water ices over." They took Frances's sweater and bra off, and Elena undid her own bra. She made a point not to look at Frances's chest. Would make Frances uncomfortable. More so than she already was. Or maybe staring would help. Make Frances realize she was desirable.

  They stepped in the Jacuzzi. Frances darted to the side opposite Elena, as far from her as possible. Frances, sweetie. I can't do anything, much less quickly, if you're going to play leper.

  Elena crooked a finger. "Come here."

  Frances pressed her back into the Jacuzzi. "If this was for real…"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm not sure what to do. I guess I should--I should ask what you like. Kiss your neck and ears and your breasts. Foreplay, right? Do you like foreplay?"

  "That's a great way to start. Communication's important."

  "I want something quick. Will you do me now?"

  "Yes. Come here. Straddle me. I'll hold you."

  Frances swallowed. "That's all right, I suppose."

  "That'll do it?"

  "Yes."

  "Come here."

  Elena welcomed Frances into her arms, into a tight clasp. Frances wrapped her legs around Elena, her breasts just above Elena's.

  God, this is good. Too good. Elena's nipples tingled, and her pussy clamored for attention. At ease, mate. This is not for you. Maybe when we get home.

  Frances shivered.

  "You feel good," Elena said.

  "I like how you feel," Elena repeated. Couldn't go wrong with telling clients they felt good. Frances was smooth and smelled of strawberry. She was soft and hard at the same time, all woman, pure feminity.

  Frances drew back. She glanced at the package on the side of the Jacuzzi. "Are we using them? Are these finger condoms?"

  "In a minute." Elena moved to return Frances into her embrace.

  "What are you doing? I said to be quick."

  "I'm trying to get you used to the feel of me. My body. To the feel of us together."

  Frances furrowed her brows.

  "I want to give you what you deserve. We will be quick. I promise. This part takes a minute. Not even that. It's just us getting used to the feel of each other." Elena cupped both of Frances's cheeks in her hands. Kissed Frances's forehead, her eyelids, caressed her ears.

  Frances only stiffened.

  "All right," Elena said. Her plan was not working. Time to move on. "One second." She put on the finger condoms. "Nothing like these to spice up a party, huh? Forget I'm wearing them." She lowered her mouth to Frances's right nipple, kissing it, sucking it, and rousing a melting groan from Frances.

  Frances was ready to pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

  "What about you?" Frances asked, her voice strained.

  Huh? "What about me?"

  "Well, I--you--I--you should get something. Like a good tip, which I will--or--"

  "We could worry about me later." Elena resumed her ministrations on the nipple. "Is that good?"

  "Yeah. Yeah." Very labored voice. Frances trying her damnedest not to let go.

  Elena switched to the other nipple.

  "God!"

  Frances started to rock. She grabbed Elena's right hand. Guided Elena inside her--two fingers.

  More rocking. Groaning. Whimpering.

  To say Frances was wet would be an understatement.

  Water splashed onto the floor. Splash, rock, rock, splash.

  Elena found Frances's clit and tried to step outside herself. She had a little trick. She detached her mind from her body. Her mind watched, often in bemusement, while her body did what it had to do.

  Elena's clit throbbed, though. Swelled with blood. Detach. Detach. Detach! She couldn't. She liked Frances in her arms, the feel of Frances, her cries.

  Frances buried her head into Elena's neck, screamed, and Elena held her.

  Chapter 11

  Afterward, Frances caressed a lock of Elena's hair.

  "Water's cold." Elena reached for the faucet in order to break the contact. Usually, snuggling, cuddling, was all right. But not when the mission was compromised.

  Hot water flowed forth.

  "Was I too loud?" Frances asked.

  "No. Please don't worry about being loud."

  Frances reached again for Elena's hair, and Elena forced her body to lighten up. Frances needed this connection. Not Frances's fault Elena was caught up, too. Frances held Elena's face and kissed her, as Elena had kissed her: forehead, eyelids, ears.

  Relax. Relax. Relax.

  Too intimate. No wonder Frances had stiffened when Elena did it.

  "What can I do for you?" Frances asked.

  "Nothing."

  Hurt shone in her expression. "I did something wrong."

  "That's not what I meant. I meant that you don't need to do anything."

  "I didn’t turn you on."

  "No. Jeez. No. You really think that, feel my pussy."

  A mischievous grin. Elena liked it. Frances's orgasm had empowered her. "Look at the lake on the floor. We did that," Frances said.

  "Dangerous out there."