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THE INTERVIEW FROM HELL
Mariano Arias. The Honeymoon Suite, Palm Frond Hotel. Palm Beach, Florida.
The call from the front desk, announcing anintervieweewas here to see me, was startling enough, but when the door swings open it’s all I can do not to let my jaw drop. I’m not expecting anyone, especially not the woman in the doorway. And even if I had scheduled any interviews, she is not who should be applying. With her flame red hair and pale skin, she’s certainly gorgeous, but this is not right. There’s been some kind of communication error. Iknowher, which is not what I want. I put the word out that I required a female escort two days ago, and only through the most discreet sources, precisely to prevent something like this. It’s bad enough that my father is so sick he can no longer sponsor my string of ponies, but for me to forfeit on all my obligations is unthinkable. So many rely on me. I have to make money, fast, and there are only so many ways a fellow can make this much money in a hurry.
“So? Can I come in?”
“Lolly? I was not expecting…” Then it comes to me. She has to be here on some polo clubbusiness. But the immediate relief is replaced almost instantly by worry. Why did she not call? “Everything is well? There’s something amiss at the barn?”
“No,sir. I’m here about the job.”
“The job?”How can lovelyLollybe applying for the job? While I see her regularly at the club exercising ponies, grooming at matches, working in the barn, I can’t imagine how she even learned of this position. Even more shocking: she does this? On the side? She’s a professional girlfriend? You could knock me down with a feather, I didnotsee that coming. But she breezes into my suite as if she has no qualms about the task before her. Every worry I’ve had since my father’s estate manager, Tomás, called—with the terrible news about mypapá—recedes and there is onlyher.
Her oversized leatherbag thumps at her leg, her boots slapping on the marble floors. She’s so sure of herself, of her effect on men, that she hasn’t bothered to dress up. Her hair is bundled on her head in a pile of messy curls, her sweater’s oversized and lumpy, and her boots do nothing to show off the legs and ass I’ve admired from afar. You’d have to be a fool not to see the truth of her beauty, however she might disguise it.
“Whoever landsthis position will be eternally grateful, Mr. Arias.”
I’m so stunned—Lollywants to dothis?—I do the only thing I can: I fall back on manners. I gesture to one of the sofas in the reception area and offer her a drink. She waves me away, hovering on the edge of her chair.
She’s not justperfect for me, she’s exactly what I need: beautiful, poised, charismatic, funny. But that is exactly the problem. I only want someone who appears attractive, not who actuallyisattractive to me. I don’t want the kind of woman I’d choose for myself or I’d never be able to parade her through the world of ultra-wealthy polo patrons and then swap her for an older woman. Suddenly, my plan to snag a wealthy sponsor is a thousand times more noxious to me. Doesn’t matter that this isthe done thingin certain polo circles; doesn’t matter that the rich, older women gladly sponsor players in exchange for sexual favors; the idea of Lolly knowing I plan to walk this road galls me.
And yet,I have no other options. The truth is stark and playing on an infinity loop in my brain: my father’s firm has collapsed, which means he can no longer finance my career. To survive—even for a single season—I must secure a new patron. Two words: rich widows. And how do you catch such an elusive prize? The truth of the matter is I alone won’t be enough to capture the attention of one of polo’s grand dames. I need a companion by my side to act as bait. Ugh. That word.Bait.It lands in my mouth like a rotten apple filled with worms and decay. I can’t say it out loud. Not yet.
Just giveme another minute with Lolly looking at me like the man she thinks I am, rather than the man I’m about to become. Por favor, dios. Let it be so.
I takethe hardbacked chair on the other side of the coffee table and try to find a way to tell her to leave. Now. I don’t want her involved. At all. Ever. But what do I say? How do I send her away without insulting her? ‘Hola, Lolly. I appreciate the fact that you are applying, but there’s no chance in hell I’m going to hire you and dangle you in the water for the she-sharks to nibble on?’ How would that go down?
“I sawyou at the Bentley Scottsdale Polo Championship last year. You were magnificent.”
“Gracias…”My mind is sludge, but an idea seeps through the cracks and makes itself known. I will interview her as if she’s one of a thousand applicants but find a way to have her disqualify herself. It will be so obvious; she will be the one to realize she is unsuitable. I will never have to outright reject her. “Could we talk business?”
“Of course. Yes.”She reaches into her bag, pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to me. “As you can see, I’ve been working with horses for most of my life.” She tucks a stray coil of red hair behind one ear. “I have a mount of my own and I know the world, inside and out—”
I take the resumé,our fingers brushing as I do. My reaction to the brush of her skin is immediate—the prickle of awareness, the heat of recognition, a riot of sensation that radiates from that tiny point of contact. My fingers tremble as I lay the paper on the coffee table in front of me. It is oddly touching she has brought a resumé, when her horse qualifications have no bearing on this position. The words dance on the page, but none of them make sense.Do it, Mariano. Pretend to interview her for the escort position.Her eyes are already on mine when I look up. “You’ve done this before?”
She blushes.“No, but no one has. Not for you.” Her face lights up with a smile.
I didn’t expecther to be so blasé, so chipper about the whole thing. We’re talking escort services, here, which may or may not include at least the appearance of time in the bedroom. I fiddle with the paper, desperate to come up with a skill she can’t possibly have. “Do you speak Spanish?”
“I do.A little.Me temo que mi español es el de una colegiala, pero aprendo rápido y bajo tu tuitilage, estoy seguro de que podría sobresalir.”
I would liketo tutor her, no question about that, but now I’m further from my goal of getting her to disqualify herself for the job.“Excelente.”
“Anything else?”
“Sorry? Anything else?”
“Is thereanything you want me to do for you, other than speak Spanish?”
I can thinkof nothing clever, only things I should not allow myself to think, let alone say. The idea was sound, but I’m so tied in knots, I can’t think of a way to get her to trip herself up and take herself out of the running.
She pushesher resumé closer to me. “I thought you’d want to see my credentials.”
Such a curious creature.She has a kind of artless charm, but that’s not at all what we’re here for. “They’re excellent, I’m sure. But not relevant. Not for this.”
“Not relevant?”Her tone has shifted from eager to anguished.
I hold her gaze.She has the bluest of blue eyes, liquid pools of loveliness that I could lose myself in. I wish I could halt time and just have it be me and her and no family foundation and no sponsors and no polo season on the brink of collapse. I wish we could be doing this for real. But that’s not possible. I have to forge ahead with my plan or it’s all over for me. “Please don’t judge me too harshly.”
