I spot the black limo, which stands out like a sore thumb in the poverty-stricken neighborhood we live in, and saunter over with my head held high, reminding myself I’m going to make enough to pay almost an entire month’s rent in one night by doing this.
I expect the driver to get out and greet me, so I’m a bit taken aback when the back door opens and a man, dressed to the nines in a sexy black tux complete with a bowtie, steps out. Even in the dark of the night, I can make out his features: chiseled jaw with neatly trimmed stubble covering his face. His brown hair is short but messy in that sexy sort of way only men can get away with, and as I walk closer, I notice he’s sporting a tattoo. It’s a simple, elegant scrawl going vertically down his neck, maybe a quote of some sort. On some people it might make them look hard, or even trashy, but on him, it only adds to the appeal. I briefly wonder if he has more ink hidden underneath his attire.
When I reach him, he extends his hand, silently asking for mine, which I give freely. Only a few inches from him, it’s clear he’s much older than me but has aged well. His eyes, a light brown—look like warm drizzled caramel when the light hits them—meet mine, and his mouth curls into a smile that nearly takes my breath away. His lips are supple and pink and his teeth are white and straight. He’s masculine, but also kind of… pretty. He looks like he could be on a Calvin Klein ad or on the cover of a business magazine.
“I’m Isaac,” he says, bringing my hand up to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss to the top of it. “Thank you for joining me this evening and on short notice.”
My heart flutters in my chest like the wings of a hummingbird during flight and my skin prickles with goose bumps, and the apex of my legs—holy shit, it’s like the moment a man touches you in just the right spot. I’m all hot and bothered and worked up, yet all he’s done is kissed the top of my damn hand and murmured a few words to me.
“And you are?” he prompts when I say nothing in response.
Shit! Who am I? The way he’s staring at me is making it hard to think. When his thumb massages a circle across my knuckles, the sensory overload becomes too much, and I abruptly jerk my hand away, needing to break the connection. His brow furrows, causing lines across his forehead to appear, making him look several years older, but he doesn’t question me. Instead, he raises a single brow, which confuses me, until I remember he just asked me for my name.
My name... I’m... Jesus, why can’t I remember my name? His gaze sears into me, and I worry I’m going to have a panic attack, right here, in the middle of the parking lot.
“You are from Fairy Tales, right?” he asks, glancing around.
Fairy Tales... Oh! Yes! Fairy Tales.
“I’m a princess,” I blurt out, then cringe when I realize I just said my thoughts out loud. “I mean...” I clear my throat. “I’m Jasmine, like the princess.”
The corner of his lips curves into a sexy smirk. “It’s nice to meet you, Jasmine, like the princess. Shall we?”
I nod, afraid of saying anything else stupid, and slide into the limo. When he edges in and closes the door behind him, the air feels as though it’s been sucked out and it’s hard to breathe. And then, when he reaches across me to grab a bottle of champagne and the smell of his cologne hits me—an earthy, cedar scent—I know I’m screwed. Because this man is what dreams are made of. And me? I can’t afford to dream right now. Reality is hard enough as it is.
CHAPTER FIVE
ISAAC
Soft waves of brown hair and honey-colored highlights flow down her back. Emerald eyes that when the light inside the limo hits them just right remind me of home. Her breasts are round and perky and her lips are plump with a bit of shine to them. Her makeup is light and pretty, reflecting the fairy-tale princess persona she mentioned, which contradicts the dark, sinful dress she’s wearing. She’s got curves that make me want to ask for a chance to explore every dip and swell—no road map needed. I’d rather learn my own way around every inch of her.
She said her name is Jasmine, but I don’t buy it. She probably uses a fake name to match the escort service’s fairy-tale theme. That’s okay because I have every intention of finding out her real name along with everything else there is to know about her. I can’t remember the last time a woman, just from looks alone, had me wanting to know more. And when she spoke nervously as she blatantly checked me out, it only heightened my curiosity.
Who is this woman and how do I make her mine?
I pour her a glass of champagne, hoping it will help calm her nerves. She takes it, smiling uncertainly, as she crosses her legs, exposing a good portion of her tanned, creamy thigh through the wide slit that runs up the outside of her leg, ending at almost her hip. Her dress is the perfect mix of sexy and classy.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, drinking our champagne, before she finally speaks up. “Is there anything I need to know for tonight?” Her voice cracks slightly and not for the first time I wonder why she’s so nervous. She does this for a living, so she should be comfortable, right? This is my first time paying for a date, but she’s a professional.
“It’s a typical charity function. We’ll drink, eat, maybe dance a little, there’ll be some auctions, I’m sure…” My goal was to corner the mayor since he’s avoiding me, find out what the hell is going on, and then dip out before dinner is served, but now I’m planning to milk this date as long as possible. Give myself some time to get to know this woman. I know she’s being paid to go out with me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get to know her for real.
She nods, gnawing on her bottom lip, and then downs half of her glass in one swallow. I watch her as she looks out the window, staring at the dark city that’s lit up with little shops and stores as we drive through town. She looks lost in thought and it makes me wonder what she’s thinking about.
From all the times Noah’s used this agency, I was expecting an overly sexual, promiscuous woman, who would purr like a kitten and be all over me like a lioness. Noah’s mentioned on more than one occasion how straightforward the women are. It’s why he prefers them—they know the score and get paid enough to not ask questions. But this woman seems different… almost shy. If she hadn’t confirmed who she was, I would’ve assumed I picked up the wrong woman.
Unable to take the silence any longer, I ask her if she’s okay.
She twists around to face me, her eyes locking with mine. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” she asks, her voice coming out breathy.
“You seem nervous.”
Her eyes widen, but she quickly schools her features. “I’m sorry.” I expect her to elaborate, but she doesn’t, which confuses the hell out of me. This is her job, yet she’s acting like she’s on a first date and isn’t sure what to think.
We pull up to the front of the country club where the gala is being held and I swear I hear her gasp as the driver opens the door for us.
I exit the limo first and offer my hand to help her out. When her hand lands on mine, I feel her trembling. What the hell is going on here? In my line of business, it’s imperative to be able to read people, and what I’m gathering from her silent cues is that she’s scared. But of what?