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I didn't hear from Madam Christine for an entire week, which was a blessing in disguise. She probably knows the last test John she sent me is certifiable. I would bet a whole job payment that none of the girls want to work with him.
Natalie said Christine did this sometimes—knowing that her girls will never request time off, if the client is more demanding than the others, she would sometimes give them a few days to recuperate before texting them with a new job. It was her own way of being nice, I guess.
So far I'm two for three. The first job wasn't bad, but that second lunatic was enough to make me want to walk away, beaucoup bucks be damned. However, I'm not the type to give up so soon either, so I'm sticking to my original plan of taking three jobs. Christine might be giving me an assessment, but I was giving her—and myself—one too.
Which is why I'm currently walking into a private event in Bryant Park, looking for a man with salt and pepper hair standing at a table with a drink. I thought it would be difficult, but I spot him immediately from behind and stop in my tracks.
He can't see me, but I can see him. He's tall, thankfully taller than me, and built like an ox. With hair dusted with heavy streaks of silver—way more than the salt and pepper Christine described—I imagine he's much older than I am. He’s dressed in a tailored navy blue suit, casually leaning against a tall, round table with a snifter in his hand. There’s something suave about the way he spins his glass, the amber liquid hardly moving… then I catch sight of the thick gold band on his finger.
Married. Naturally.
Natalie did say ninety percent of her clients are married, but was it normal for them to attend public events like this without their spouse?
Exhaling a deep breath, I strut toward him, mentally preparing myself for another one of Christine’s decoys.
Personal test number three, here I come.
Licking my freshly painted red lips, my nerves are quelled by the Percocet I’d taken earlier. I’d skipped the vodka shots since the pill is strong enough on its own. I wasn't sure how mixing both would affect me. The last thing I want to come across as is white-girl wasted.
My stomach flutters with anticipation as I draw closer to him. I shake my fingers out and then place a hand on his back, feeling his strength underneath his suit. He stands tall as I round him to face him.
"Valentina?" he asks, his voice making something inside my belly swirl like the smoke trails of a cigar.
I smile and nod in response.
"Fuck, you're stunning. You're… I have no words." His voice is low and in the back of his throat, and it washes over me like warm caramel. He doesn’t enunciate his Rs, which tells me he’s a born-and-bred New Yorker.
Men—not boys—with heavy New York accents are my weakness. It's sexy as hell and gives me goose bumps every time.
His eyes rake the length of my body and it feels like he's picturing me naked. He takes my hand into his and pulls me close to him, kissing my cheek like we're old lovers.
This is probably my biggest—and if I had to guess—last test from Christine based on what Natalie told me.
Not only is his body solid as a brick against mine, but he smells divine. His cologne is like an aphrodisiac and I want to bathe in it. I catch the slightest hint of lemon and some fancy wood with a dash of bergamot, which I happen to love, even though most people hate it. Sophisticated, yet sexy. On top of smelling delicious, he's rocking a full beard and mustache that just works for him. His eyes are matured with knowledge that comes from age and experience.
Christine sent me this silver fox on purpose. I know she did.
Too bad I'm going to crush her test.
"Hello," I say, my voice a little husky.
His cornflower blue eyes take in my face like he's pleased, and my smile deepens. I almost want to look away when my cheeks flush with heat. He laces his fingers with mine, the seductive brush of his skin making my stomach dip. His thumb gently strokes the top of my hand. He's forward, I like that.
"I'm James Riviera," he says, unable to tear his eyes from mine. "Are you cold? Let me give you my coat."
He goes to break our contact but I instinctively step closer and place my hand on him. Heat sizzles beneath my fingertips as my palm moves across his broad chest, letting him know I'm okay. My body acts of its own accord, surprising even myself.
"There's no need. I'm not cold."
His brows furrow. "Are you sure? I don't mind."
My eyes soften at his concern. "Nothing a good drink can't warm up anyway."
For the love of God, get me a drink before I faint to the ground. Something tells me my nerves will never go away with any of these jobs, especially not when the client is actually attractive. And James… He's a hunk of a man making my blood simmer with lust at first sight.
James slides his drink toward me. "Cognac?"
My smile is a bit shy, and I hope he doesn't notice.
