Wildest Dreams Page 2

  Time to take back control, to start doing what she’d come here for. And the bartender seemed like a good place to start.

  Sell it, she reminded herself, reassuming her silky voice. “I was hoping to run into a friend of mine here. Maybe you know her. Tina Grant?”

  His brows knit slightly, making her wonder what he found perplexing about the question. “Your friend in the escort business, too?”

  She nodded.

  He shook his head lightly. “No, chère, afraid the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Strike one. Fortunately for her, she had more than three tries, but just like when she’d first entered the room, she’d simply hoped against hope that maybe she wouldn’t have to look any further.

  As she took another sip of wine, his slow smile blazed all through her, heating her skin with the same force as the sun breaking through the clouds on a hot summer day.

  “What are you smiling at?” She forgot the silky voice, too curious to find out what prompted that wicked grin.

  “Just thinkin’ you probably been sittin’ on that stool longer than anyone ever has.”

  She lowered her chin, confused. “Oh?”

  “Girls don’t come here to sit and have a quiet glass of wine, chère. They come to work. They don’t usually waste time.” He shifted his eyes to the crowded room behind her and her chest tightened. “Not that it’s any of my business,” he went on, “but it’s after eleven. Place’ll start clearin’ out soon.”

  She opened her eyes wider. “So early?” Melody hadn’t mentioned that.

  He gave a soft laugh. “This isn’t exactly the main event of the evenin’, you know.” Then he tilted his head, his warm eyes penetrating her defenses. “Your first time here, or your first time period?”

  For some reason, she refused to let him think she was brand new at this. He already seemed to have the upper hand, and she didn’t intend to let him keep it. “Just my first time here. And I’m not in a hurry.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I’d hate to see that pretty dress and hairdo go to waste.”

  The sentiment reminded her once more: she was cleavage and curves tonight.

  In her world, how you looked was only one part of your identity; here, everything was about the business of flesh. “Maybe you’re right.” She slipped down from the stool and lifted her glass. “I should . . . get to work.”

  His expression softened, but his eyes still had the power to burn into her soul—or at least the spot between her legs. “Good luck, chère.”

  That escalating sensation—no longer just awareness or sensuality, now pure desire—persisted as she immersed herself into the crowd. She took another sip of wine and repeated her new mantra in her mind: Sell it. Sell it.

  Although, admittedly, part of her remained back on the stool peering up at the bartender. What had come over her? It’s just the dress, she told herself. And the evening’s quest. That was the only reason her body had reacted so strongly to the guy.

  Just as she wandered aimlessly through a sea of suits and slinky dresses, wondering what her next move should be, a man’s hand fell on her shoulder. She hated his touch instantly, the clammy feel of his palm on her bare skin, but forced a smile.

  “Hi there, honey. You new in town? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.” The pushing-fifty guy sported a deep Southern accent and a beer belly beneath his expensive black suit. His graying hair looked unkempt, the style too long for a man his age.

  Sell it. Unfortunately, it was much harder with him than with the bartender. “Um, yes, this is my first night here.”

  “That so? Why, I’d be more than happy to break ya in . . . so to speak.” He winked. “I’m stayin’ at the Fairmont. Real fancy place—we can get it on in style.” He concluded with a laugh that made her stomach churn.

  “I’m . . . sorry,” she said, “but I’m already . . . spoken for. I’m meeting someone here. A prearranged date.”

  He looked crestfallen. “Well, I’m mighty sorry to hear that. But what say we get together another time real soon?”

  She sighed. “Um . . . perhaps. I’m sure I’ll bump into you again.”

  He flashed a leering grin. “That sounds damn good. I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.”

  As he was about to move off in search of greener pastures, she remembered her mission—and reached up to touch his sleeve. His lusty gaze beamed down on her. “Maybe you can help me with something. I was hoping to find a friend of mine here—she’s fairly new in town, too. Her name is Tina—”

  “I ain’t much good with names, honey.”

  “She’s blond, twenty-five, has a light complexion, and . . .” She trailed off, realizing she’d just described around a third of the women in the room.

  Above her, the beer belly shook his head absently. “Sorry,” he said, taking off into the crowd, clearly uninterested in helping her if she wasn’t going to be in his bed tonight.

  JAKE BROUSSARD POPPED a mint in his mouth and kept an eye on the blonde moving through the crowd. She was trying her damnedest to look poised and relaxed, but something about her didn’t ring true. Maybe she acted a little too sophisticated, or maybe her updo was a little too severe, precise—not one pretty golden hair out of place. Not that he hadn’t met plenty of working girls who pulled it off with class, but for some reason, he didn’t quite buy Miss Chardonnay’s claim of being a pro.

  “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 Thursday 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, 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 to 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, chère,” 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 exposé 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 Marys, 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 a good little 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.

  “Chère,” he said.

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

  He lifted a hand to motion 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, chère, 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, beb. 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, chère. See you soon.”

  Chapter Two

  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 to, 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 swaths 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 their 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 that same unaccountable desire she’d felt upon 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 help her find Tina. Maybe he could give her other places to look, people to ask. Melody had promised this was the premier spot for high-priced escorts, but maybe there were other locations she didn’t know about.

  Stephan
ie 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 lounged 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, chère?”

  “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 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, chère, 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—not 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.”