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“People must know that’s a—well, forgive me if I’m being too blunt, but a glorified term for a . . . well . . . a gigolo.”
“Gigolo!”
She hadn’t intended to be rude, and she began to frame an apology, only to have him grin. “Gigolo. I like that.”
“It’s a pejorative term,” she felt duty-bound to point out.
“Maybe in that socialist state you live in, but here in the land of the free, home of the brave, people have respect for a man who’s willing to make it his life’s work to service lonely ladies.”
“I am not lonely!”
“Or ones who are sexually frustrated.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, only to shut it again. Let him think what he wanted. Besides, she was sexually frustrated, even if that wasn’t her motivation for using his services. She fumbled for her wine glass.
He slipped his knife into a second piece of chicken, and she noticed he had excellent table manners. Regardless of the task, he performed it with a combination of lazy grace and minimal motion.
Too often in her life she’d set her own wishes aside out of deference to others, but tonight she wasn’t going to do that, and she steeled herself for what needed to be settled. “This evening . . . during our . . . our interaction . . . I want to make certain you understand that I can call a halt to the proceedings at any time.”
“Oh, that’s no problem at all.”
“Good.”
“Because I guarantee you’re not going to want to call a halt to a single proceeding. Unless, of course, you happen to be a lesbian. Although, even then—”
“I’m not a lesbian.”
He had the gall to look disappointed.
She plunged on. “I simply think it would be better if we established certain ground rules.”
He sighed.
“I am, after all, the customer, and as a customer—”
“You gonna eat that baked potato or just poke at it?”
She dug her fork into her potato. “I’m merely pointing out—”
“Upstairs.”
“What?”
“Go on upstairs.” He pushed back from the table and rose. “I can see I’m not going to be able to enjoy my meal until we get our business over with.”
She gazed at his empty plate.
He gestured toward her wine glass. “You can take that with you, if you want. Or—Here, let me carry it. I know how much you like having other people haul things around for you.”
“I can carry my own wine glass.” She snatched it away from him. “It’s my suitcase that—” Before she could finish her thought, she was somehow on her feet and being steered toward the stairs.
His hand settled warm against the curve of her back. “We’ll use my room. The bed’s bigger, and I like having lots of room to maneuver.” They reached the top of the stairs. “Dang, I forgot the tire chains.”
Her fingers nearly snapped the stem of the wineglass. “What?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m just kidding. You’re taking this way too seriously.”
There was no response she could think of that wouldn’t make her look even more agitated, so she held her tongue.
