The shower in this bathroom is a huge, imposing rectangle of glass. An LED panel seems to control it but appears to need the wisdom of an electronics engineer to utilize it. Groaning, I press buttons and curse until water gushes in from about ten thousand showerheads. It’s freezing cold, and I scream as the spray hits me.
But it will do.
Time to collect yourself, Tiffy, the stern, good-girl part of me warns, fully resurrected. Try to remember what happened. How big of a mess do you need to salvage this time?
Hmm… Well, I vaguely remember scoping out someone handsome at the bar. Very handsome, the tingle in my belly tells me. But I can’t escape the sense that something was wrong with him. So wrong that he’s no longer an option—not that I was looking for anything long-term anyway.
We went to his room, I think.
And then… We had sex. Which explains why my pussy is throbbing like hell, and my lips feel swollen. We had very good, very impersonal sex. Then we talked for what felt like hours, and I agreed to come with him…somewhere.
Gosh, what was his name? Gorgo? Vlad…Vadim.
And he, apparently, is nowhere to be found. Nice.
“You brought it on yourself, Tiffy,” I scold myself out loud. My teeth are chattering, and once I feel coherent enough to form a more solid thought other than—holy crap what have I done—I fiddle with the panel until the water turns off, and then I crawl out of the stall.
The bathroom itself is enormous. White marble creates a crisp, clean color scheme that makes me feel like something dirty and unwanted that slithered in through the drain. I’m still wearing my beautiful, now ruined “sexual revolution dress,” though I don’t know where the faux fur jacket is, or my shoes for that matter.
Using the wall for balance, I manage to wrap a towel around myself and reenter the room I woke up in.
Make that, the executive suite I woke up in. A massive bed dominates the center of a sleek, modern room composed of navy walls interspersed with floor to ceiling windows that display a skyscraper laden view of a city. A vast, industrial city a world apart from sleepy Main Oaks, California.
Thrown over a leather armchair in the corner of the room is my jacket, with my shoes neatly placed on the floor nearby. The place apparently comes with its own soundtrack as well—a persistent, high-pitched ringing…
Oh. I spot a silver phone on a glass end table near the bed and warily approach it. “H-Hello?” I whisper after bringing the receiver to my ear.
“You’re awake,” a musically accented voice remarks. “Good. You slept in later than expected. You have only three hours to find something to wear. Our budget will remain as discussed.”
“B-Budget?” I frown, rubbing my forehead. “I’m sorry…who is this?”
A low, devious chuckle serves to kick start my memory. Vadim.
“I believe you should avoid mixing your liquor with wine from now on, Ms. Connors,” he says, playing with the syllables in my name. “I’ll be around to pick you up at six. In the meantime, I’ve informed the hotel to allow you unlimited use of a town car and driver. Feel free to shop where you like. And take this—” He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws a shiny, black credit card. “My only stipulation is that you find something sexy. The more revealing, the better.”
“Sexy?” My breathing hitches as I take the card as though it’s made of glass. Memories are starting to come back to me, one in particular that still smarts. “I thought you said we weren’t going to have sex.”
“We aren’t,” he states matter of factly. “But my brother surrounds himself with a certain type of crowd. I don’t want you to stand out.”
Fair enough. “Where are you?” I wonder, gazing from the window. “Where are we?”
“Fair Haven,” he says as though I asked him what color the sky was. “As for where I am, I had some business to see to. Until tonight. Oh, and if you need to change your dress, I arranged to have an outfit bought for you. It’s in the closet.”
He hangs up, leaving my brain reeling. Frowning, I stumble around the room until I find a sliding wooden door that conceals a walk-in closet. Inside, on a single hanger hangs a lone white sundress. It’s not too shabby, though a bit conservative for my tastes. My new tastes anyway.
I slip it on and wrestle some semblance of humanity into my hair and splash water onto my face. When I reach the hotel lobby, I’m surprised to find an aura that feels more exclusive than the Six. Gold walls and polished black floors convey decadent luxury. A concierge even comes to meet me right at the elevator.
“You must be Ms. Connors,” he says warmly. “William is already bringing the car around. Can I get you anything while you wait? Coffee? Tea? A glass of wine, perhaps?”
Still suffering from my current hangover, I nearly choke. “N-No thanks.”
He ushers me into a private booth as I wait, and when the driver arrives, he professes his intent to wait for me as long as required.
A smile tugs on my mouth for the first time as I enter the back of a sleek silver vehicle.
This might be fun.
Cursing, I attempt to swipe my room key through the reader while juggling an armful of shopping bags. Finally, success! I kick open the door and hop inside, only to scream as my eyes settle over a figure glowering in the center of the sprawling suite.
“I told you six,” Vadim snaps. He’s already dressed in a sleek ebony suit, tailored to perfection. His dark curls conform to his skull, slightly mussed. Capping off the look is a blood-red tie that betrays a hint of the daring nature I’ve come to suspect he regularly suppresses. “We’re going to be late…”
He trails off when he notices the army of bags at my disposal.
“Hear me out,” I plead, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I couldn’t decide what to wear. And then traffic was hell. And…” I fish through my bags and brandish a luxuriously wrapped package in triumph. “I got your brother a gift. And his wife, if he has one.” I wield a second gift in my opposite hand and smile as sweetly as I physically can.
“He has a fiancée,” Vadim grunts, still surly.
So I resort to plan B and start to shimmy out of my dress. “Don’t hate me until you see the options,” I say in a rush. “Option one—” I snatch a garment from a black bag betraying the name of a designer I used to worship back when I had the lack of brains and excess funds to spend on clothing. A deep shade of navy, the slim-fitting cocktail dress sets off the red in my hair and conforms to my shape. Sexy, but modestly so.
“No,” Vadim says, observing me with a frown. “It is a party, not a church service.”
“Ah.” So maybe life with Jim is harder to shake than I thought? No matter. Skipping to another bag, I dig out my second option.
“No,” he growls before I can even pull it on—a black, moderately more revealing mini dress.
“Okay. Big guns, then. Now when you said sexy, I hope you meant…stripper. Because that is this dress.” I reach for my final option, and his eyes narrow thoughtfully. When it isn’t met with instant rejection, I tug it on, wrenching the tiny frock down over my hips.
It’s a not-safe-for-work-fuck-me dress in Jessica Rabbit scarlet with her flair for the daring. A bold, plunging neckline reveals the globes of both my breasts, and the view extends almost to my navel. The back is equally low cut, but given the quality of the fabric, it’s admittedly more high-class escort than stripper.