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CHAPTER ONE
If you want to make it in this business, you must immerse yourself in the story.”
That was the advice Eden Huckabee’s editor had given her. But what Eden was getting ready to do was more than immersing herself. It was like jumping into the San Francisco Bay in a pair of cement shoes. How did she know that the man who waited behind the double doors of the penthouse suite wasn’t another Zodiac Killer? Or the real Zodiac Killer since he’d never been apprehended? All Eden had was the word of a prostitute who said that he wasn’t.
“He’s a really respectful guy,” Madison had said, “who must be afraid of women. That’s the only reason I can think of for the ‘no touching’ rule.”
No touching. That’s what clinched the deal for Eden. She could immerse herself in the story as long as there was no touching.
Taking a deep breath, she tapped on one of the doors. Per instructions, she’d stopped by the concierge’s desk for a room key, but she felt it would be rude to just walk in without knocking. The door handle turned, and for a moment, Eden tensed for flight. Her body relaxed when a young man who looked like Harry Styles from the boy band One Direction peeked out. He had long hair and pretty eyes, and still carried baby fat in his cheeks.
This was the man who Madison called the Dark Seducer? No wonder he kept the lights off; he probably didn’t want the escorts carding him. Eden bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. It appeared that all she needed to worry about now was being asked to perform a cheer in a pleated parochial school skirt. Pleated skirts made her butt look the size of a front-loader washer, and she had never been what you would call coordinated.
While she was trying not to laugh, the young man was giving her a thorough once-over. His gaze wandered over her damp hair, rain-drenched coat, and wet high heels. It was raining cats and dogs, and since she had forgotten to bring cash to tip the valet, she’d been forced to park a good block and a half away. San Francisco had a lot of things, but parking wasn’t one of them.
“So are you a hooker?” The young man finally spoke. “Because you don’t look hot enough to be a hooker.”
All the cuteness drained right out of him, and Eden had the strong urge to pinch his baby-fat cheeks until his eyes watered. “I believe that hot is in the eye of the beholder. And we’re called escorts, not hookers.”
“What’s the difference?”
Eden had wondered the same thing, but after meeting Madison, she’d learned that there was a big difference between being a hooker and being an escort. Hookers had pimps. Escorts had services. Hookers worked nightly. Escorts worked rarely. Hookers barely made enough to keep them in drugs. Escorts made a boatload of cash—not to mention the jewelry, vacations, and homes they received as bonuses. Hookers weren’t picky about their clients. Escorts were very picky.
Which didn’t explain why Madison had chosen this smart-mouthed yahoo.
“Are you going to let me in?” she asked. “Or am I not hot enough?”
He shrugged and opened the door.
The suite was over-the-top lavish. The marble floors of the entryway gleamed in the light of the overhead chandelier. There was an opulent contemporary dining room table on the right. And in the living area, white couches and chairs surrounded a fire pit coffee table with blue quartz in the center that flickered with gas flames.
Being wet and cold, Eden wanted to move closer to the fire. Instead she stood there, dripping on the marble floor and staring in awe at the spectacular view of downtown and the Bay Bridge. Obviously the kid made money. No doubt one of the growing numbers of Internet baby billionaires who struggled to spend their wads of cash. It wouldn’t be a bad angle for a story. But one story at a time. This story was about Madison. It was Madison’s perspective Eden needed to channel. What ran through her head when she walked into a hotel room? What did she see? Feel? And ultimately, how did she deal with selling her body for—
Eden’s mind came to a screeching halt when hands settled on her shoulders. She jumped and then turned to point a finger like a mother with a naughty toddler. “No touching, young man.”
Looking duly chastised, he held up his hands. “Okay. Okay. I was just going to take your coat.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She slipped off the coat and handed it to him. Beneath she wore a black sequined cocktail dress that she’d worn to the office Christmas party. She thought it was sexy, but Baby Cheeks seemed thoroughly disappointed. His eyes lost their gleam of anticipation, and his shoulders slumped in the ill-fitting burgundy jacket. A burgundy jacket with a gold nametag pinned above the breast pocket.
Jeremy Ross.
Eden’s eyes widened. “You work at the hotel?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I wanted to work at Starbucks, but they won’t let you show a tattoo on your neck. Not that I have one, but I want to get one. I’m thinking that one of those Chinese dragons on my chest with its tail wrapping around my throat would be so wicked—”
A cell phone rang, and he pushed aside his jacket and took the phone off his belt clip. When he spoke, he used a lot more respect than he had with Eden. “Yes, sir. Okay, I’m leaving now.” He hung up. “I gotta go. The concierge said that if you need anything, just call.” He was almost to the door when she stopped him.
“Wait! Where is my… date?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have a clue. I just dropped by the complimentary fruit basket that goes with the suite.” He nodded at the basket of fruit on the bar. “Maybe the guy stiffed you.” He gave her the once-over. “If so, what could I get for twenty-one dollars?”
Eden arched an eyebrow. “How about a swift kick in the seat of your pants?”
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t see how you make a living as a hooker. You’ve got way too much attitude.” He turned and walked out the door.
When he was gone, Eden stood there for a few minutes not knowing what to do. Part of her was relieved that she wouldn’t have a hand in sexually corrupting a minor, and the other part had gone back to being scared. So much so that she thought about helping herself to a couple of minis from the bar. But Eden wasn’t a drinker. Or a smoker. Or a midnight toker. Something that really annoyed her grandparents. Pops and Mimi believed that a glass of wine or the occasional hit of marijuana kept you from being an uptight asshole.
Which probably explained Eden’s personality.
