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He wanted a woman with the body and the will to take him for the long hours he liked to play the game. He’d paid to fuck himself senseless and believed Isabelle was the answer to his perpetual erection.
His only concern involved the complete loss of his dignity if she performed anywhere near as well as rumors suggested. He’d never been good at begging.
* * * * *
Dorian Montgomery stood inher home, in the chamber where she planned to learn those sensual secrets that had escaped her.
He wasn’t the typical man she selected for a lover. He wasn’t a peer, but his success at fitting in with all but the most snobbish of noblemen had impressed her. That he had a long-running dispute with the reprehensible Marquess of Dane only added to Montgomery’s appeal.
Isabelle breathed slow and steady, trying to still the wayward beating of her whore’s heart. Elegant, powerful, rich enough for her and handsome in an out-of-doors, rugged way, Dorian exuded the raw sensuality her other lovers had not. Those lovers brought only one thing to bed with them, and it wasn’t their impressive manhood.
Isabelle did not sleep with men who could please her. She slept with men who could afford her.
She had plotted the conclusion of her story with what she hoped would be a satisfying end. Her happily ever after would come when she was able to live in quiet obscurity watching her brother build his family. Her own dreams for the future had never gone past her next lover, but now that she was taking her last lover, her imagination had started to provide tantalizing glimpses of what her life might be like.
Over the years, she had built a substantial nest egg including profitable investments, all of which now allowed her the luxury of freedom.
In Italy, she was respected. Everyone knew her to be the daughter of a successful cobbler who’d made the finest shoes for fussy English ladies and wealthy gentlemen. It was there she would live out the rest of her life while arranging a marriage for her younger brother, caring for her grandmother and eventually, marrying a successful merchant or perhaps a minor impoverished Italian gentleman.
Only her brother knew the truth of heraffairesand he was of an age where his protective instincts demanded that she give up her sordid little pastime.
She wasn’t acting on his demands though, she had played the game long enough. The whoring had paid for a better, brighter life. She didn’t want to jeopardize her brother’s future now. And she was ready to begin living her life, as it should have been in the beginning.
So this final time, she had had to make sure Dorian bid on the opportunity again, as he had done the past two years. It was much like the last performance of a grand opera with a famed diva—abel cantowith extraordinary elegance—everyone had to attend, though only one man would get to come backstage for her grand finale.
But for the third year in a row, someone had made a higher offer than he had. Three men had outbid him, including the Marquess of Dane—the arrogant, aspiring fool. She’d live in poverty before she’d succumb to his vile offer. Keeping his gift of the teardrop diamond necklace would be her pleasure. Perhaps she’d even wear it when Dorian took her out tonight.
Only this year the money didn’t matter. Yes, she was pleased with the offer, but she would have accepted Dorian for the sheer possibility of promised passion.
The last several years she had made practical decisions. Her livelihood depended upon the generous, if not outrageous price men were willing to pay for her. As her own agent, she could accept or deny any man who wanted her. This year she wanted only Dorian Montgomery.
In addition to all of his outward qualities, he was reputed to be an outstanding, durable lover. Several years ago, she had strolled in the park with his most recent mistress who’d bemoaned the fact Dorian had tired of her in less than two months. She’d proceeded to describe one sexual encounter that had Isabelle wet between the legs for the next week.
This year, this last time she whored for a man, she would do it for herself as much as she would do it to secure her future. This year, she wanted a lover who would consider her needs. Pleasure her for a change. It was widely said Montgomery had God’s gift for a cock and the prodigious desires to go with it. She didn’t think his former lovers lied about him. They all wanted him back—desperately.
Oh, he would not be denied sexual gratification. She would make sure he fainted with desire at her merest touch. Isabelle St. Hillaire understood what drove men, what they wanted.
What they wanted was a woman who was unattainable. They were hunters all. Competitors and warriors in the mind, if not the body. All of the men who’d purchased her had succeeded in life, even Dorian, who had neither title nor privilege to bolster his success.
And if she were attainable to only the most wealthy the conquest would be all the sweeter. As a prize, she believed her skills and her determination were unmatched.
Her only fear was that Dorian’s skill and experience outmatched hers and that somehow he’d be disappointed. So she had planned the month with the utmost care.
Her reputation was legendary and her mirror did not lie. The once-a-year lover. The freakishly colored eyes—even she tended to gaze into one eye or the other but not both. The witch-black hair. Her body—she could not say what attracted men to it. She only knew that baring her limbs, her breasts, was often the only catalyst she needed to fuel passion. That, and the very helpful rumors.
Because she was rarely seen in public, her unique eyes and undisputed beauty provoked intense speculation. It added to her appeal.
And once her clients possessed the unattainable, she would never allow them to know her, or keep her, or satisfy her. It was all part of the wicked game of hunt and capture. Little did Dorian know, this year he was both the prey and the preyed.
Dorian walked to the bureau where a crystal decanter and four glasses were set out on a sterling silver tray decorated with scroll engraving. He reached for a glass. Isabelle heard the sloshing as he poured a hefty draught and then the tinkle of glass when he stuffed the plug back into the decanter.
“You are pleased?” she asked, feeling timid in a way she had not for many years. Misplaced sensibilities aside, she wanted Dorian to be happy.
The darkened room hid the secrets of her body, including the faint blush that covered her from head to toe. In time, he would see enough to tantalize and entice him.
She’d known with certainty who she wanted this year. She’d prepared so carefully—learning all there was to know about Dorian. She wanted it to be perfect.
She wanted to be the perfect lover.
