The Accidental Call Girl (2 page)

Trying to think as fast as she could, Lizzie balked, staying put on the stool. Escort or casual pick-up, she still needed a moment to catch her breath and stall long enough to decide whether or not to do something completely mental. ‘I think I’d rather like to finish my drink. Seems a shame to waste good gin.’

If her companion was vexed, or impatient, he didn’t show it. In a beautiful roll of the shoulders, he shrugged and slipped back onto his stool. ‘Quite right. It
is
good gin. Cheers!’ He toasted her again.

What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do? This is dangerous.

It was. It was very dangerous. But in a flash of dazzling honesty, she knew that the gin wasn’t the only thing that was too good to waste. The only question was, if he
did
think she was a call girl, did she tell him the truth now, or play along for a bit? She’d never done anything like this before, but, suddenly, she wanted to. She really wanted to. Perhaps because the only man she knew from the wretched party she’d left, other than Brent and some other friends from the pub, was a guy she’d dated once and who’d called her uptight and frigid when she’d rebuffed a grope that’d come too soon.

No use looking like a pin-up and behaving like a dried-up nun, he’d said nastily when she’d told him to clear off.

But this man, well, there wasn’t an atom in her body that wanted to rebuff
him
!

What would it be like to dance on the edge? Play a game? Have an adventure that was about as far from her daily humdrum routine of office temping as it was possible to get?

What would it be like to have this jaw-droppingly stunning man, who was so unlike her usual type? She usually went for guys her own age, and Fallen Angel here certainly wasn’t that. She was twenty-four and, up close, she could see her estimate of mid-forties was probably accurate. A perfectly seasoned, well-kept, prime specimen of mid-forties man, but still with at least twenty more years of life under his belt than she had.

And if she explained his mistake, he might well just smile that glorious smile at her, shake her hand, and walk away. Goodnight, Vienna.

‘Cheers!’ she answered.

He didn’t speak but his eyes gleamed a response.

I bet
you
know what to do with a woman, you devil, paid for or otherwise.

Yes, she’d put any amount of money, earned on one’s back or by any other means, that when Fallen Angel was with an escort, it was no hardship to be that working girl.

And she couldn’t keep calling him Fallen Angel!

On the spur of the moment, she made a decision. This was a game, and she needed a handle. A name, an avatar that she could hide behind and discard when she needed to.

Looking her companion directly in the eye, and trying not to melt, she set down her glass, held out her hand and said, ‘I’m Bettie. Bettie with an “ie”. What’s your name, Gin-Drinking Man?’

Apparently ignoring the offered handshake, he just laughed, a free, happy, hugely amused, proper laugh. ‘Yes, obviously, you
are
Bettie.’ Looking her up and down, his laser-blue eyes seemed to catalogue her every asset; her black hair with its full fringe, her pale skin, her lips tinted with vivid bombshell red, her pretty decent but unfashionable figure in a fitted dress with an angora cardigan over it. When she went out, especially to a party, she liked to riff on her superficial resemblance to Bettie Page, the notorious glamour model of the 1950s. And being an Elizabeth, Bettie was a natural alternate name too.

Having subjected her to his inspection, he did reach for her hand then, grip it, and give it a firm shake with both of his clasped around it. ‘Delighted to meet you, Bettie. I’m John Smith.’

It was Lizzie’s turn to laugh out loud, and ‘John’ grinned at her. ‘Of course you are, John. How could you possibly be anyone else?’ The classic punter’s name. Even she knew that.

He rocked on the stool, giving his blond head another little shake, still holding on to her. ‘But it’s my name, Bettie. Cross my heart . . . Honestly.’

The way he held her hand was firm and no nonsense, yet there was a tricky quality to the way his fingertip lay across her wrist, touching the pulse point. She could almost imagine he was monitoring her somehow, but the moment she thought that, he released her.

‘OK, I believe you, Mr John Smith. Now may I finish my drink?’

‘Of course.’ He gave her the glittering smile again, laced with a sultry edge. ‘Forgive me, I’m being a graceless boor. No woman should be rushed . . .’ There was a pause, which might have included the rider,
even a prostitute
. ‘But once I know I’m going to get a treat, I’m like a kid, Bettie. When I want something, I tend to want it now.’

So do I.

Lizzie tossed back the remainder of her gin, amazed that her throat didn’t rebel at its silvery ferociousness. But she didn’t cough, and she set the glass down with a purposeful ‘clop’ on the counter, and slid off her stool.

‘There, all finished. Shall we go?’

John simply beamed, settled lightly on his feet and took her elbow, steering her from the crowded bar and into the foyer quite quickly, but not fast enough to make anyone think they were hurrying.

The lift cab was small, and felt smaller, filled by her new friend’s presence. Standing, he was medium tall, but not towering or hulking, and his body was every bit as good as her preliminary inspection in the bar had promised. As was his suit. It looked breathtakingly high end, making her wonder why, if he was looking for an escort, he didn’t just put in a call to an exclusive agency for a breath-takingly high-end woman to go with it? Rather than pick up an unknown quantity, on spec, in a hotel bar. Leaning against the lift’s wall, though, he eyed her up too as the doors slid closed, looking satisfied enough with his random choice. Was he trying to estimate her price?

‘So, do we do the “elevator” scene?’ he suggested, making no move towards her, except with his bright blue eyes.

Oh yeah, in all those scenes in films and sexy stories, it always happened. The hot couple slammed together in the lift like ravenous dogs and kissed the hell out of each other.

‘I don’t know. You’re in charge.’

‘I most certainly am,’ he said roundly, ‘but let’s pretend and savour the anticipation, shall we? The uncertainty. Even though I do know that you’re the surest of sure things.’

Bingo! He
does
think I’m an escort.

Confirming her suspicions like that, his words should have sounded crass and crude, but instead they were provocative, exciting her. Especially the bit about him being ‘in charge’. Brent had always said it was the whore who was really in charge during a booking, because he or she could just dump the money, say ‘No way!’ and walk out. But somehow Lizzie didn’t think it’d be that way with Mr John Smith, regardless of whether or not he believed she was a call girl.

This is so dangerous.

But she could no sooner have turned back now than ceased to breathe.

‘And anyway, here we are.’ As he doors sprang open again, he ushered her out, his fingertips just touching her back. It was a light contact, but seemed powerful out of all proportion, and Lizzie found herself almost trotting as they hurried along the short corridor to John’s room.

As he let her in, she smiled. She’d not really taken much note of their surroundings as they’d walked, but the room itself was notable. Spacious, but strangely old-fashioned in some ways, almost kitsch. The linens were in chintz, with warm red notes, and the carpet was the colour of vin rouge. It was a bizarre look, compared to the spare lines and neutrals of most modern hotels, but, then, the Waverley Grange Hotel
was
a strange place, both exclusive and with a frisky, whispered reputation. Lizzie had been to functions here before, but had never seen the accommodation, although she’d heard about the legendary chintz-clad love-nests of the Waverley from Brent’s taller tales.

‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ John grinned, indicating the deliciously blowsy décor with an open hand.

‘Well,
I
like it.’ Perhaps it was best to let him think she’d been in rooms like this before; seen clients and fucked them under or on top of the fluffy chintz duvets.

‘So do I . . . it’s refreshingly retro. I like old-fashioned things.’ His blue eyes flicked to her ‘Bettie’ hair, her pencil skirt and her angora.

Lizzie realised she was hanging back, barely through the doorway. Now
that
wasn’t confidence; she’d better shape up. She sashayed forward to the bed, and sat down on it, trying to project sangfroid. ‘That’s good to know.’ Her own voice sounded odd to her, and she could hardly hear it over the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her veins.

John paused by the wardrobe, slipping off his jacket and putting it on a hanger. So normal, so everyday. ‘Aren’t you going to phone your agency? That’s what girls usually do about now. They always slip off to the bathroom and I hear them muttering.’

Oops, she was giving herself away. He’d suss her out any moment, if he hadn’t already. ‘I’m . . . I’m an independent.’ She flashed through her brain, trying to remember things Brent had told her, and stuff from
Secret Diary of a Call Girl
on the telly. ‘But I think I will call someone, if you don’t mind.’ Springing up again, she headed for the other door in the room. It had to lead to the bathroom.

‘Of course . . . but aren’t you forgetting something?’

Oh God, yes, the money!

‘Three hundred.’ It was a wild guess; it sounded right.

Sandy eyebrows quirked. ‘Very reasonable. I was happy to pay five, at least.’

‘That’s my basic,’ she said, still thinking, thinking. ‘If you find you want something fancier, we can renegotiate.’

Why the hell had she said that? Why? Why? Why? What if he wanted something kinky? Something nasty? He didn’t look that way, but who knew?

‘Fancy, eh? I’ll give it some thought. But in the meantime, let’s start with the basic.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, he slipped out the black wallet again, and peeled off fifties. ‘There,’ he said, placing the notes on the top of the sideboard.

Lizzie scooped them up as she passed, heading for the bathroom, but John stayed her with a hand on her arm, light but implacable.

‘Do you kiss? I know some girls don’t.’

She looked at his mouth, especially his beautiful lower lip, so velvety yet determined.

‘Yes, I kiss.’

‘Well, then, I’ll kiss you when you come back. Now make your call.’

Well, well, then, ‘Bettie Page’, what on earth did I do to receive a gift like you? A beautiful, feisty, retro girl who’s suddenly appeared to me like an angel from 1950s heaven?

John Smith considered having another drink from the mini bar, but, after a moment, he decided he didn’t need one. He was intoxicated enough already, after the barely more than a mouthful of gin he’d drunk downstairs. Far more excited than he’d been by a woman in a long time, and certainly more turned on than he’d ever been with an escort before. Not that he’d been with a professional woman in a while. Not that he’d been with a lot of them anyway.

It was interesting, though, to pretend to Bettie that he had.

Sinking into one of the big chintz armchairs, he took a breath and centred himself, marshalling his feelings. Yes, this was a crazy situation, but he was having fun, so why deny it? And she was too, this unusual young woman with her vintage style and her emotions all over her face. That challenging smile was unmistakeable.

‘Bettie, eh?’

Not her real name, he was sure, but perhaps near to it. She looked the part for Bettie Page, though. She had the same combination of innocence, yet overflowing sensuality. Naughtiness. Yes, that was perfect for her. But
how
naughty? As an escort she probably took most things, everything, in her stride. Surely she wouldn’t balk at his favoured activities? And yet, despite her profession, there was that strangely untouched quality to her, just like the legendary Bettie. A sweet freshness. A wholesomeness, idiotic as that sounded.

How long had she been in the game, he wondered. What if she was new to this? She was certainly far younger than his usual preference. His choice was normally for sleek, groomed, experienced women in their thirties, courtesans rather than call girls, ladies of the world. There might be a good deal of pleasure, though, in giving something to
her
in return for her services, something more than simply the money. Satisfaction, something new . . . a little adventure, more than just the job.

Now there was the real trick, the deeper game. And with any luck, a working girl who styled herself as ‘Bettie’ and who was prepared to take a client on the fly, after barely five minutes’ chat, was bold enough to play it.

Suddenly he wasn’t as bored with life and business as he’d been half an hour ago. Suddenly, his gathering unease about the paths he’d chosen, the insidious phantoms of loss and guilt, and the horrid, circling feeling that his life was ultimately empty, all slipped away from him. Suddenly he felt as if he were a young man again, full of dreams. A player; excited, hopeful, potent.

When he touched his cock it was as hard as stone, risen and eager.

‘Come on, Bettie,’ he whispered to himself, smiling as his heart rose too, with anticipation. ‘Hurry up, because if you don’t, I’ll come in there and get you.’

When Lizzie emerged from the bathroom the first thing she saw was another small pile of banknotes on the dresser.

‘Just in case I have a hankering for “fancy”,’ said John amiably. He was lounging on the bed, still fully dressed, although his shoes were lying on their sides on the carpet where he’d obviously kicked them off.

‘Oh, right . . . OK.’

Fancy? What did fancy mean? A bit of bondage? Spanking? Nothing too weird, she hoped. But it might mean they needed ‘accessories’ and she had none. You don’t take plastic spanking paddles and fluffy handcuffs to the posher kind of birthday party, which was what she was supposed to be at.

‘I don’t have any toys with me. Just these.’ The words came out on a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, and louder than she’d meant to. She opened her palm to reveal the couple of condoms she’d had stashed in the bottom of her bag. ‘I wasn’t originally planning to work tonight, but the event I was at was a bit tedious, so I thought I’d take a chance in the bar . . . you know, waste not, want not.’