Chapter Six

“JOSHUA?”

“Yes, this is Joshua.”

God, his voice! Like cool water sluicing over my skin, making me shiver.

“It's Valentine.”

“Valentine. I thought you were away working.”

“I am. I'm in New York.” I'm lying in bed in my room in Zayed's apartment. It's nearly midnight and everyone else has gone to sleep. I should absolutely not be doing this, calling Joshua when I'm working. When I am basically some other man's property. When my time is paid for. But I can't help myself. “I hope I'm not calling too late.”

“No, not at all. It's still early here. How are you?”

“I'm fine.” I pause. Why do I need to tell him the truth? “Actually, I'm not fine.”

“Tell me what's wrong.”

I can hear the sincerity in his voice, and it makes my pulse flutter as much as the subtle tone of command.

“I just… I needed to talk to you. I know that sounds silly. But I just… did.”

He's quiet a moment. “I like that,” he says, his voice low, flirty. “I'm glad you called. I was disappointed you had to cancel our date.”

“So was I. I mean that. I'm sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You're here now, calling me. And not because I asked you to, which is even better. What have you been doing?”

God, if he only knew. What am I going to say? That I've spent my evening in bed with two girls and an old man? That I've come over and over thinking of him while my friends go down on me? That I'm here because I make a ridiculous amount of money fucking and sucking everyone?

As much as I don't want to lie to him, as much as I am oddly compelled to tell him the truth, there is no way I can do it.

“I had a late dinner with some people, and now I'm in my room. I feel … alone here.” That much is true. I pause, twist the braided trim on the edge of the silk duvet between my fingertips. “I've been thinking about you.”

“I've been thinking about you, too. Can't seem to get you out of my head. I hope you don't mind my telling you that.”

“I don't mind at all. I'm having the same problem, actually.”

Am I really admitting these things to him?

“Ah, you know how to get to me, don't you, Valentine?”

“Do I?” I'm not being coy. I really need to know.

“Ever since the first moment I laid eyes on you, as corny as that sounds.”

I'm blushing. I can't help it. “So, what was your day like?” I ask him.

“Too long. I spent hours on the phone today trying to work out issues with this project in Sacramento. But you don't want to hear about that. I'd rather talk about you.”

“There isn't much to talk about.”

He's quiet again, but I can hear him breathing, a slow, steady cadence.

“Valentine,” he says quietly, “please don't do that again. Shut me out. Okay?”

Shit.

My fingers tighten on the phone. But even though my stomach is in knots, I know this is exactly what I wanted. To talk to him, really talk to him. Maybe I'm testing him a little. Maybe I'm testing myself. But I want him to know about me. To know some things, anyway.

“I'm not the kind of person who's used to opening up to people. I have a tendency to … keep everyone at arm's length.”

I can't believe I'm saying even this much.

He's quiet, thinking. “There were a few moments when we were at Yamashiro the other night when I felt you letting me in.”

“Yes.”

“Was that terrible? Did you go home and regret doing that?”

“To be honest, part of me did, yes. But I was also glad. At least, I was when I thought about it later.” I pause, pressing the phone hard against my cheek. “Joshua, I don't mean to sound like some … like I'm completely neurotic. I'm just… a bit shut down. I can admit that much. The nature of my life has made me close off on a lot of levels. But something about you makes me feel as though I can talk to you. Makes me want to. I think that's why I called tonight.”

That, and my total sexual obsession with this man.

“That's good, isn't it?” he asks.

“I think so. But it also feels dangerous to me.”

“It's good to live outside the boundaries that make us feel safe sometimes. It's important. We have to challenge ourselves. That's what living life is all about.”

“Maybe I haven't been living life, as you say. Not in the way I should be.”

“It's not too late, Valentine. You can change any time you decide to. It's all about choosing to do it. That's something I've learned in the last few years.”

He's right. God, he's right. But talking about all this makes me feel as though there's a weight on my chest, making it hard to draw a full breath. Still, it's all sort of pouring out now. Terrifying. Necessary.

“Change is so scary for me. I spent most of my childhood never knowing what to expect from one moment to the next. I think as an adult I've set up my life so that I have total control over it. I don't like to leave too much to chance.”

“Maybe, in doing that, you've closed too many doors,” he suggests quietly.

“Maybe. No. It's true.” I pause, take a sip of water from the glass the room steward set beside my bed when he came to turn down the covers earlier. “I think you're a very wise man.”

“I don't know about wise. But I think about these things. Too much, my sister always tells me. It drives her crazy, my analyzing.”

It feels good, talking with him. Even going over some of the scary stuff. I realize my body has relaxed. It's as though he and I are in some secret place, hidden away from the rest of the world.

“Let's change the subject, Joshua, okay? I want to hear about what it was like for you, growing up.”

“It wasn't all that interesting. I had a pretty standard-issue childhood. It was happy. But happy doesn't make for a great story.”

“It does for me. That's like some sort of fantasy to me, people who had a normal life, an intact family.”

“Alright. Okay.” I hear some faint sound in the background: liquid swirling in a glass.

“What are you doing, Joshua?”

“Pouring myself a drink.”

“Ah. A good scotch, single malt.”

“How did you know?”

“I remember from the opera.”

“You're very observant.”

“It's my job to be.” Damn it! I've slipped. I quickly redirect his attention. “So, tell me about your childhood, your family. I want to know what your life was like.”

“We had a good life. Nice house, good schools. My parents were great. Dad worked a lot, but when he was home he was really present.” He stops for a few moments, as though he's considering his words, and I can hear the gentle rhythm of his breath if I listen carefully. “I guess I didn't think about it at the time, about how lucky I was. I know other people's fathers weren't as involved as mine. He spent time with us. He'd take me to ball games, fishing. That was his thing, fishing. I didn't like it all that much, but I didn't care, as long as we got to spend time together. He taught me a lot. He taught me to be hardworking. To be a good person. To be a man. I've tried to follow his example. It's important to me.”

“And your mother?”

“Mom is an amazing woman. She's strong.” He's quiet again, and I can hear the ice cubes sliding in his glass as he sips his scotch. I remember the scent of it on him at the opera, and a surge of need washes over my body as he continues. “The thing with my parents, though, was that they loved each other. I mean, they were crazy about each other in a way you don't see too often.”

“I don't think I've ever seen that. I don't know that I really believe it's possible, that sort of true, lasting happiness.”

“Oh, it's real. I think it's hard to find, but one thing I learned from them is to believe in that kind of love.”

“Have you ever found it?”

I hold my breath, waiting for his answer. Why does it feel so important? I want him to tell me he's never loved a woman before. At the same time, he deserves that, if anyone does.

“I thought I had a few times …”

He trails off, but not before I've heard some trace of pain in his voice.

“You don't have to tell me,” I say. “We all have our secrets.”

“No, it's no secret. I've been through a few serious relationships, and they've all ended badly.” He pauses a moment. “Not badly, exactly. They've always just ended in … indifference. But that's the saddest thing to me. That's what hurt the most. That I've never found what my parents had. And that it was probably my own fault, because of… who I've been in those relationships. So I guess the answer is no, I haven't really been in love. Not like that. Other than my last girlfriend, the women I've been with have always been the ones to break things off, because I… I wasn't really there. Not in the way I should have been. I can't blame them. I took a long time off relationships before this last one. And then I realized how unfair it was, for me to be with this woman who loved me when I didn't feel the same way. This time, I made the decision to end things. I wanted us both to have a chance to find that kind of love.” He's quiet again for several moments. “Maybe I'm aiming too high, trying to live up to this iconic love my parents had. What they had was … beautiful. I don't know. I can't help wanting that, at some point in my life.”

We're both quiet for a few moments. My head is spinning. He is the most amazing man. So sincere. So honest.

Far too good for a whore like me.

Stop it!

I don't want to think about that right now. I simply want to enjoy getting to know him.

“Thank you, Joshua. For telling me all this.”

“You're easy to talk to. I can't wait to see you, to talk to you in person again. When will you be back in L.A.?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“I wish you were here with me now,” he says, his tone lowering. That husky edge is back, and that warmth I felt earlier kicks up a few notches, my nipples going hard beneath the Egyptian cotton bed linens.

“I wish I was, too. I like talking with you. You make me want to tell you … everything.”

“Then tell me something.” His voice is full of need, matching my own.

I think back to that evening in the restaurant bar, that rush of lust reverberating through my veins, his scent, his eyes on me.

“When we were at Yamashiro the other night…”

“What? Tell me.”

“I could barely stand to sit so close to you.”

“I know exactly what you mean. I was so damn attracted to you. When you left I thought I was going to lose it. I couldn't stop thinking that I never got to kiss you.”

“I'm sorry. I had to go.”

“I know, you weren't feeling well—”

“No. That wasn't it. I had to leave because … I wanted you too much. And it scared me.”

He's quiet while I lie in the big bed, my heart hammering, my pulse hot, needy.

“Jesus, Valentine.” A small groan. “I wanted you so badly. I still do. So damn frustrating that you're so far away. If you were here …”

“If I was there … what?”

He lets out another groan. “What I would do if you were here …”

I smile, move my hand down between my aching thighs, brushing the swollen lips of my sex, teasing.

“I'll tell you something, Joshua. That night, when I rushed off to the ladies' room, I locked myself in a stall and slipped my fingers beneath my panties …”

“God, you're killing me, Valentine.” A long pause, then, quietly, “Did you come?”

“No. But I wanted to. Needed to.”

“I've always fantasized about having sex in a public bathroom. Quick and hard up against the wall, then sneak out like nothing ever happened. Thinking about you in there, touching yourself… that image is going to be in my head for the rest of my life.”

“I've fantasized about you ever since I met you.” Saying it out loud is so good, I can barely breathe. “What else have you fantasized about?”

“Turning you over my knee, slipping your dress up, maybe spanking you a little while I drive my fingers into you.” I can hear his ragged breath. “Valentine, are you wet?”

“Oh, yes …”

“Are you touching yourself? ”

“Yes …” I slide my fingers over my soaking slit, push two fingers inside, feel my own body clenching. “Are you?”

“Yeah. If I close my eyes I can almost feel your skin. I can almost feel myself inside you.”

“God, Joshua.” I'm stroking harder now, my thighs falling open, my fingers alternately dipping inside, then rubbing my clit. I'm shivering with desire, my hips arcing. “Talk to me, please.”

“I'm so damn hard. And you are so God damn beautiful, Valentine. I just want to thrust into you, to feel you inside, all soft and wet. Jesus …”

“Joshua, I'm going to come.”

I can hardly believe it. But his voice is in my head, in my body, making me shiver with need, desire coursing through me like liquid fire.

“Yes, come … I'm coming …”

I moan as a wall of pleasure hits me, shuddering as it flows through my veins, hot and electric. His groans drive me on, and I'm coming, coming, into my hand, into his hand …

“Valentine!”

Still trembling, I close my eyes, picture his face behind the brilliant flashes of light beneath my lids. “Joshua …”

For several moments there is no sound but our joined, panting breath. My head is spinning. How is it that I can come, suddenly? Something about Joshua, but I can't figure it out right now. I'm afraid if I question it, it'll go away, these lovely, unpaid orgasms. But I know if I ever feel his hands on me, I will come with him. Terrifying. Wonderful.

“Tell me you'll call me when you get back. Tell me you'll see me.” There is a gasping desperation in his voice.

“Yes. I'll call you, see you. I need to see you.”

“I want you. I don't know if I can see you again and not touch you. Not after this.”

God, his voice goes through me like a hand stroking over my bare flesh. I am burning with need simply thinking about seeing him, imagining his face, his scent.

“Joshua …” But I don't know what to say. My voice is so shaky I can barely speak.

“Do you still want to see me?” It's more a command than a question.

“Yes!” My voice is a quiet hiss. I've never wanted anything so much in my life.

“Good.” I hear him take a sip of his drink. “When you get back, you'll know what to expect.”

There is so much in that simple remark, in the implication in his tone. Oh yes, I'll know what to expect. My skin is going damp and taut all over, my sex filling, swelling once more. I ache for him in a way I have never ached for any other man.

“Joshua?”

“Yes?”

“I can hardly wait to see you.”

I don't care that I sound desperate. I am desperate.

“I can't wait to see you, either, Valentine.”

I love the sound of my name on his lips. I love the tone of his deep, husky voice. I'm shaking all over now, wishing for his touch. I need to feel his hands on my body.

“Do you need to go, Valentine? It's late there.”

It is. But I don't care.

“I just want to talk to you,” I tell him. I don't know where all this honesty has come from.

“What do you want to talk about?”

I laugh a little roughly. “Oh, I don't think I can do this again already.”

“Ah, Valentine.” His tone drops, going deeper, softer. “I really cannot wait to see you. To touch you. Kiss you.”

“Oh, don't do this to me,” I groan, and he laughs on the other end, so far away in California.

“Why don't we leave it here for now?” he says. “It'll make it even better when you get back to L.A.”

“I'll call as soon as I'm back.”

“Yes, I think you will. Have a good night, Valentine. Sweet dreams. Mine will be.”

“Good night, Joshua.”

I don't care that what I've done, calling him, having phone sex with him, for God's sake, is entirely forbidden. I don't care that my client sleeps in the next room. All I care about is seeing him, being with him.

Joshua.

I am a woman obsessed. I am risking everything. None of that matters.

For the first time in my life, I am being completely self-indulgent. I will deal with the fallout later. And I know there will be fallout. I'm scared to death. Out of control. But I can't help myself. I'm going numb, trying to figure it all out, and still in a sex coma from my climax. There's so much going on in my mind, in my body. Everything is changing, and it's happened so fast, it's making my head spin.

Fuck it. This is just for me. Even if it means losing the life I've spent years building. And it just may mean that. It probably will.

THE TRIP HOME TO L.A. seemed to take forever. We had weather problems in New York and it took hours to get clearance for takeoff. Finally at home, I dump my luggage in the bedroom; I'll unpack tomorrow. I'm far too tired tonight, too travel-weary.

The rest of the trip and the journey itself was unremarkable. Zayed kept us with him for another four days. Nothing notable. Not for me, anyway. Nightly orgies, the occasional midday blow job between meetings and lunches in which it took all three of us to get him off. All three of us locked in the hotel suite like the favorite pet cats. Here, kitty, kitty. Come suck my dick.

Shit. When did I become so bitter?

I'd wanted to call Joshua again. Every day. But I didn't dare. I knew it was far too much for me, trying to exist in dual lives like that. That one night had me thinking about him too much, too desperately, caused lapses in my focus.

I didn't talk to Regan and Rosalyn much on the flight back. I slept a bit, pretended to doze the rest of the time. I was too afraid I'd admit my sin to them. Talking to Joshua. Thinking about him. I was afraid to give the matter any more importance than it already holds for me. I was afraid they'd see through whatever half-truths I told them. Better to say nothing at all.

I take a quick shower and change into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, settle on the sofa and check my messages. There is only one, from Deirdre, asking me to call as soon as I return. Which means now, not tomorrow, when I've had a chance to sleep off my jet lag. I dial her private number.

“Hello?”

“Deirdre, it's Val. You left a message for me?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for being so prompt in returning my call.” She is absolutely polite, as always. And as glacially cold as ever. “I'll get right to it, Val. There's been a complaint about you.”

“What?”

But I'm not nearly as shocked as I pretend to be.

“You know I always follow up with our clients. Zayed mentioned you seemed a bit distracted. He was quite nice about it. But we cannot have that at the level of business at which we operate. I believe you understand.”

“Yes. Of course.” My heart is hammering. This is not good. “I'm sorry, Deirdre.”

“I don't know what's going on with you, Val, but obviously something is.”

“I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I can handle it, I promise.”

“How long have you been doing this, Val? You've been with me for eight years. How long before Enzo brought you to me?”

“Maybe a year. A little less.”

“So, nine years of this life. That may be enough for anyone.”

“No, Deirdre. Not for me.”

But am I as certain of that as I was even a few weeks ago? I grip the phone in one hand, pull an embroidered throw pillow to my chest with the other, and hold on tight.

“As much as we'd all like to think of ourselves as irreplaceable, none of us really is,” she goes on, her voice as smooth as glass. “Not the girls, not the clients. Not even me.”

“Yes, of course, Deirdre.”

I see where this conversation is going. I understand the implied threat to get me back in line.

“We are of a caliber of women who cannot make mistakes, Val. We are at the top of the food chain in our industry. You've been with me long enough to know that.”

My palms are going damp. She's a hard woman. I have no idea how far she'll go with this, what she'll do, exactly. “Deirdre, I'll handle this. I will.”

The Broker is silent a moment. “I want you to go see someone. Will you do it?”

“See someone?” It takes me a moment to understand what she's suggesting. “You mean a shrink?”

“Yes. That's exactly what I mean. This woman is someone I trust, someone who has worked with working girls before. She'll understand. She's very special. And I believe you need her.”

God, I hate that she's right. But that doesn't change the fact that she is. I'm not going to fight her on this. I'm not in any position to. Whatever The Broker says is the word of God in this business.

“Alright, yes. I'll go see her.”

Why do I feel defeated somehow?

Deirdre gives me her name, Lydia Foster, and an address in an upscale section of Santa Monica.

“Check in with me after you've seen her next week. I'll expect to hear from you. And, Val, I'd prefer not to send you on any overnights until you've spoken with her. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course. I understand.” I pause, not wanting to say it, needing to. “Thank you, Deirdre.”

A pause on her end. Surprise, perhaps? “You're most welcome. I prefer not to lose one of my best girls to burnout.”

Is that was this is? Maybe. Or maybe it goes a lot deeper than that.

I am about to find out.

I SPENT ALL OF Friday night mentally wrestling with myself: call Joshua, don't call Joshua. But after my little wake-up call with The Broker, I needed some time to sort my head out. I went to bed with a glass of wine—okay, a bottle—and now the morning sun shafting through my bedroom windows is making my head ache. I'm not a good drinker. In fact, I suck at drinking, which has been my way of avoiding turning into my mother. But I'm doing a bit too much of it lately. Need to put a stop to that, fast.

The wine didn't help me come to any conclusions, either. My mind keeps spiraling around the idea that once I go to this therapist, I'll have to make a choice. I'll have to choose my career. After all, it's Deirdre who is sending me to this person. It makes me feel desperate. To see Joshua. Be with him. Before it's all taken away. Before I take it away from myself.

My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert. I get up, slip into my short kimono robe, and brush my teeth before padding into the kitchen. Too damn bright in here, but my darling orchids love the morning sun. I squint as I put the kettle on for tea, pull the sugar bowl from the cupboard.

I wait for the water to boil. My heart is racing.

Just call him.

Yes, why not? Why not call him, talk to him? See him, while I can? This lovely little dream will shatter quickly enough.

A sharp wrench in my chest at the thought. I quickly push it to the back of my mind.

I make myself wait until my tea is ready, carry it back into the living room, fragrant steam wafting from the cup. I don't even stop to check the orchids in the window seat before grabbing the house phone and dialing.

I know his number by heart already.

“Joshua Spencer.”

His voice is clipped.

“Hi, Joshua, it's Valentine. Am I calling at a bad time?”

“Never.”

Real pleasure in his voice. It goes through me like a warm shiver up my spine.

“I just wanted to let you know I'm back in town.”

“Are you jet-lagged?”

“Not much. I slept on the plane.”

“Good. Tell me where to pick you up for dinner. Never mind. Let's make it lunch.”

That air of command again. But I can't wait to see him, all of my doubts melting away, like liquid, like rain. Even lunch seems too far away. My body is going hot all over, my pulse fluttering.

“Yes, lunch would be perfect. Do you still have my address?”

“I wouldn't think of losing it. I'll pick you up at twelve.”

“I'll be ready.”

I'm ready now. Soaked, aching.

We hang up and suddenly I feel disoriented, as though I don't know what to do first. I have two hours. Two hours in which to get ready. To luxuriate in the idea of seeing him again.

I take a long, hot bath scented with my favorite fragrance, wash my hair, rub oil into my still-damp skin, making a ritual of my preparation. I can hardly stand the sight of my own naked body in the mirror: the flush on my skin, my erect nipples, look infinitely sexual to me. Vanity, yes. Perhaps a form of narcissism, even. I've always enjoyed the sight of my own body. I've never thought there was anything wrong with that. But even more, it's the idea of him seeing me like this, looking at myself through his eyes.

Will I sleep with him? Oh, yes, after that night on the phone.

When was the last time I even questioned such a thing?

I slip into a simple navy cotton knit slip dress edged in satin, a pair of red strappy heeled sandals: casual but sexy. And the entire time I'm looking at the clock every ten minutes, my heart hammering. I can't stop the hot pulsing between my thighs.

I have a plan. I am going to pretend, just for today, that I am a normal person. That this is a normal date. That I can have this.

I feel like a total bitch because this is utterly unfair to him. Dishonest. But I need this in a way I have never needed anything before in my life. I'll live with the guilt. I always have, anyway.

When I was a kid and my mother cried for hours, I knew it was because my father was gone, off with some other woman. I knew this from the time I was four or five. But still, I always felt responsible for it. For her loneliness, her despair. And when they argued, voices shouting from the next room, I was frightened by it, but overcome by guilt, too. When you're a kid, the universe revolves around you. You have no true sense of cause and effect. And so I took it all on. Really fucked me up; I know that. But there it is.

I do not want to think about this now.

Stop thinking, Valentine. Stop analyzing. You're seeing a real shrink soon enough; she can analyze you.

No, all I want is to enjoy this exquisite anticipation as I slide my favorite raspberry gloss over my lips. I stand back, look at myself in the mirror. I look good. Great. I'm fucking glowing. And all because of him.

Joshua.

When the doorbell rings I nearly jump out of my skin, but in a good way. I don't know how to explain that.

I open the door, and there he is, smiling. Dazzling. He looks better to me each time I see him.

“Joshua, hi.”

“Hi.”

He's wearing dark slacks, a short-sleeved button-down shirt layered over a T-shirt. Very hip. Very European. And I see for the first time that he's tattooed on his left biceps, just below the hem of his sleeve. It's MC Escher: that famous image of the hand drawing the hand. Before I can stop myself I reach out and touch it. His skin is hot.

“It's beautiful.”

“I'm glad you like it.”

“What does it mean? Tattoos should mean something, right?”

“It's about how we create ourselves. Our lives. We make choices and those choices determine what happens to us.”

I nod. I don't know what to say. His words have hit a little too close to home.

I recover a moment later, shaking my head to clear it. “I'm sorry; I'm leaving you standing on the doorstep. Come in.”

I take his hand and bring him into my house. That in itself is some sort of epiphany. I never, ever, bring a man to my house. But his hand is so warm, I hardly have time to think about it, hardly have the breath to think at all. His skin is pure heat on mine, just that hand-in-hand contact. And suddenly he is bending down and kissing me, like every single fantasy come true.

Just a small brush of lips against lips, but I am on fire. Burning.

He pulls away.

“Jesus, Valentine.”

He brushes a lock of hair from my face, and now the warmth from his hand seems to permeate my chest. I don't understand what I'm feeling. Lust, yes, but something else. Something more. Totally unfamiliar. I am on shaky ground. I don't know how to deal with what's happening.

I must have been standing there, mute, senseless, for several moments. He tugs on my hand and leads me farther into the living room.

“I was perfectly serious about what I said to you on the phone the other night.”

I nod. He pulls me closer. His thumb is running over the back of my hand, and that quiet touch is pure sex to me. That and his hazel eyes staring into mine. They are dark with desire.

“I could hardly stand you being away after I talked with you,” he tells me. “There's something about you … I'm not sure yet what it is. I want to find out. I intend to find out.”

“Yes,” I say, my voice a breathy whisper.

There is no point in pretense. I've already answered my earlier, ridiculous question. I will sleep with him. I will do whatever he wants, frankly.

He leans in again and moves so slowly, I have time to wonder when his lips will touch mine, to feel that anticipation coursing through my body like a wave of heat. Closer, closer. And finally his mouth meets mine, and his lips are so damn soft and sweet, it goes through me like some kind of gentle shock.

Immediately, I am lost.

This is exactly what I was afraid of.

This is exactly what I've dreamed of.