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She nodded again.
“And there has also been Andre Filipe, Mark Batterington, and Will Shiffer.”
“Yes,” she would have stepped back, except the desk was right there, pressing against her rear.
“Mostly men.”
“Several women, too,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
“Men who live a fast lifestyle. Who bed women for sport.”
She felt her pulse quiver at his assessment. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Men who are used to getting what they want,” he continued thoughtfully, as though she hadn’t spoken.
She shrugged. “As are you.”
“Very true,” his laugh should have been a warning. “And did these men ever want more from you than your professional services?”
Olivia felt her chest squeeze tightly. Some had. Most had seen her as a convenience and only that. Of course, the curse of her generous curves meant all men stared, not just her clients. She’d become used to that.
“Only my professional services are ever on offer,” she said, her voice thick with caution.
“You mean to say that these men didn’t try to entice you into their beds too? To add you to the list of women they’ve slept with?”
Olivia side-stepped him now. It was a matter of self-preservation. “What they did or didn’t attempt is none of your concern. I would never do that, anyway.”
“Do what?” He followed her, his expression thick with the maelstrom of feelings he was navigating.
“Sleep with a client,” she hissed, then took a deep breath and forced herself to stop walking. She almost bumped into him.
“Or drink with one,” he said ironically, for he fully intended to share a scotch with this woman, if not his bed.
As if on cue, one of the security guards appeared at the door, followed by a member of hotel staff. The bottle was mid-size, over forty years old, and the label was gold with swirling black writing.
“Thank you,” she said brusquely and took the bottle from the tray. “We have glasses. You can go.”
Both the hotel concierge and security agent disappeared almost instantly.
“I will not drink with you, either,” she said when they were alone.
“Then I’ll have tea.”
She unscrewed the top of the bottle. It was the fourth of its kind she’d opened, and each time she’d marvelled at a single container of alcohol being worth more than fifty thousand dollars.
She pulled a glass from the bar and poured it neat. She handed it to him without speaking and he took it with both hands, his eyes moving beyond her to the view of the city beneath them.
“Why do you care?”
“Care?” The smell of the scotch was magnificent.
“About my previous clients.”
His lips lifted derisively. “I don’t particularly.”
“Then why ask about them?”
“Because, Olivia, right now, I want to be distracted and I don’t think just talking to you is going to cut it. Frankly, I’d like to put your delightful lips to better use.”
