Her Patron (The Courtesan #3)

1. Miquela

Miquela

D id she think Sette would actually show up to their “date” on Friday night?

Who knows. When Miquela made reservations for the French restaurant on the other side of town, she did so knowing that she might be dining alone, which was fine with her.

Her book app was loaded with tales she had yet to crack, and earbuds were placed surreptitiously in her jacket pocket.

There was nothing wrong with having a date with oneself, after all.

Especially when she had to parse everything that had happened in the past few weeks.

I’ve met someone quite unexpected. I’ve fallen in love with her.

I want her to be mine. Yet, despite the initial shock, June’s pitch did not surprise Miquela.

“For the love of God, go get laid somewhere else for a weekend before you tell me that you love me.” While scandalous to a normal woman in love, Miquela had heard of weirder ultimatums. Besides, I’m dating a courtesan.

A woman who had been sleeping with other people while taking Miquela’s money.

Exclusivity wasn’t guaranteed even with patronage. Usually, Miquela was fine with that…

Well, she would have to be. If she claimed to love June, she had to respect whatever parameters June offered. She would be so stupid to leave her life behind for me. On a whim, anyway. Maybe after a couple of years…

Besides, monogamy wasn’t as appealing to someone like Miquela, who had grown up around her parents’ own open marriage that was a secret to everyone but their children.

They say it’s my mother’s French side. While Miquela knew how things were supposed to look on paper, in private, she was a lot more understanding.

At the very least, she would show June that she wasn’t afraid to take some much-needed advice.

In a way, June was right – Miquela had to experience a couple of other women to be sure that a courtesan was the one she wanted.

Let alone for so much money. Because the amount Miquela was throwing out there was no small sum.

She looked up from her phone when the ma?tre d’ escorted Sette to the table.

“ Hala .” Miquela turned off her screen and tucked her phone into her pocket. “You’re even more beautiful done up like this.”

Sette glanced down at her dark red dress, still standing in front of the table.

Miquela had reserved a booth in the back and asked for the “date night” treatment, which included a small bouquet of roses, a sampling of French chocolates, and either a bottle of Champagne or wine – Miquela had opted for the wine, since she wasn’t sure what they were celebrating here.

I guess I’m championing not having to pay to possibly get laid.

She then remembered she was paying for this date, whether Sette liked it or not. Well, then…

Until that moment, she wasn’t sure she would pursue taking Sette home with her.

Then she appeared in front of the circular booth wearing a sleek black coat over a red A-line dress and a skirt that stopped short of her knees and swished when she moved.

Right then, Miquela knew exactly what she wanted to do to that dress.

What would June make of that, hm? Would probably tease her. Ask her for details. Use it as blackmail when things inevitably go south between them.

Sette removed her jacket and hung it next to the booth. The ma?tre d’ was gone by the time Sette slid into the booth and accepted a glass of wine. “Thank you.” She searched for a menu, but didn’t find one.

“I took the liberty of ordering two of the Provencal courses,” Miquela said. “Have you been here before?”

Sette kept her spine rigid as she squared her shoulders.

With her long brown hair smartly pulled up into a sleek, upturned bun, her facade was more striking, and her red lips more enticing than they had been in the café where Miquela had employed her favorite trick to use on American women.

Think I like her with her hair down more, though.

“A couple of times.” Sette forced a smile, as if she realized how standoffish she was. “Last time was for a friend’s birthday. We did not get the courses.”

“Do you like French cuisine?”

Sette didn’t answer. Instead, she slightly cocked her head, revealing a dimple between her jaw and ear, and asked her own question. “What is that accent?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sound more French here. Is it because it’s a French restaurant?”

“Suppose my accent is related to the last language I’ve been speaking. I’m sorry, I grew up in three different places. French is technically my third language.”

The first course of soupe au pistou with bread and butter with herbs arrived.

Miquela asked for the curtain to be lowered for privacy.

The waiter didn’t hesitate to lower a gauzy, slightly opaque veil from the corners of the booth.

Miquela could still see someone coming with more food, but nobody could see them.

“I actually spent time in Spain,” Sette said, finally relaxing as she sampled the wine. She did not pick up her spoon to try the soup. “I studied abroad in Granada, but it was my residency in Barcelona I remember more.”

“You’re kidding.” Miquela was only slightly delighted by this. “ Hablas en Espanol? ”

“Only a little.” Sette’s pride was, in turn, slightly diminished when she admitted this. “But I remember the important things, like how to pronounce the letter z. ”

“Yes, it’s very important.” Well, Miquela would at least start eating. “Otherwise, you end up asking for something entirely different.”

Sette huffed a small laugh and at last tasted the soup. The rigid line of her shoulders softened almost imperceptibly.

Good. Wine will do the rest.

They eased into conversation more naturally after that.

Miquela learned that Sette had left medicine not because she hated it, but because she had never chosen it in the first place.

That she painted early in the mornings, before the world awakened and teased her with chores and errands.

That she rowed in college and still woke before dawn out of habit.

Sette learned that Miquela had split her childhood between Monaco, Valencia, and sometimes Nice, that casinos bored her unless she was running them, and that she found Americans refreshingly blunt.

“You’re blunt?” Sette asked, arching a brow.

“Terribly.”

“I’ll brace myself.”

“You should.”

The bouillabaisse arrived steaming, fragrant with saffron and fennel, while mussels and shrimp simmered in the broth. Miquela watched Sette inhale the scent before she realized she was being observed.

“What?” Sette asked.

“Nothing,” Miquela said. “It’s nice being with someone who isn’t… performative?”

Sette dipped bread into the broth. “No point in performing unless someone’s paying.”

June flashed across Miquela’s mind – laughing against her shoulder, issuing that infuriating ultimatum with a smirk that said Miquela should watch herself.

June, calling her right when she got out of the shower…

“Go get laid somewhere else for a weekend. Then tell me you love me.”

Sette had no idea that she was part of that advice.

“I prefer authenticity,” Miquela said. “It makes desire more… efficient.”

Sette’s lips curved around her wineglass. “Efficient desire. That sounds like something a casino heiress would say.”

“Resort developer,” Miquela corrected.

“Even worse.”

As the wine disappeared and was replaced without asking, Sette’s posture changed. Her spine loosened, and her laughter came quicker. She slipped her heels off beneath the table, one foot brushing accidentally – or perhaps not so accidentally – against Miquela’s leg.

Miquela did not move away.

She found herself cataloging Sette in ways that were increasingly physical.

The column of her throat when she tipped back wine.

The way her fingers curled around the stem of the glass.

The subtle strength in her forearms when she tore bread.

Her perceptively short nails, unpainted, unlike her visage.

Her expert complementing of makeup, accessories, and clothing.

How she showed off just enough skin to entice, but covered up enough to go anywhere.

She’s not delicate. Doctor, artist… whatever.

Sette was a woman, first and foremost. She may have been femme, but she played the mating game as well as Miquela, who had come dressed in one of her tailored three-piece suits with a silk blouse that accentuated her breasts.

A silver necklace dangled in her cleavage.

Her nails were as short as Sette’s. The only difference between a date with Sette and one with June was that Miquela wasn’t packing.

She kept the fun at home. No sense scaring a poor lady away because she’s not into that.

That was something to bring up when they were already in Miquela’s bed with most of their clothes on the floor.

Shit. There was June again, inserting herself between them, refocusing Miquela’s attention and sultrily whispering, “Think of me when you fuck her, would you?”

Because while Sette was essentially Miquela’s type, with her ladylike manners, pretty dresses, and fluffy hair that fell past her shoulders, she wasn’t June.

Sette didn’t have the curves of angels or the flirtatious extroversion of a professional courtesan.

My ultimate weakness. Sette was the epitome of intellectual discussions during dinner that required a dual BA in philosophy and art history…

followed by perfunctory sex or rabid lovemaking. Miquela didn’t know yet.

By the time the lavender-infused crème br?lée arrived, the caramelized sugar cracking beneath Sette’s spoon, there was an ease between them that had not existed at the beginning of the evening.

It was almost like being back in the café, only this time, Miquela didn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t for the thrill of it.

“You’re different tonight,” Sette said.

“Different from what?”

“From the coffee shop. Or when you were hanging out with my stupid friend Zara.”

Miquela considered that. “Perhaps I’m being myself, so I can say what I want.”

“And what do you want?” Sette dug into the dessert while Miquela refrained. Miquela was too busy studying the way those red lips pursed around bites of food. I bet she’s a good kisser. Then again, so was June. So were a lot of women.

“You,” Miquela answered, not breaking eye contact.

Sette stilled. She slowly swallowed her bite and put the spoon back down on the porcelain plate. Meanwhile, Miquela still did not look away.

“For tonight?” Sette asked.

“For tonight,” Miquela agreed.

Something thoughtful crossed Sette’s demeanor. She was almost as guarded now as she had been when she entered.

“I should probably say,” Sette began, tracing the edge of her spoon along the custard, “that this… isn’t uncomplicated for me.”

Miquela unexpectedly swallowed and reached for her wine. “It isn’t for me, either.”

“Oh?”

“There is someone,” Miquela admitted. “Or something that could become someone. It’s… complicated.”

Sette’s posture sharpened. “Same.”

They both laughed. In a way, Miquela was grateful to hear it. Yeah, don’t get attached to me. She would say that about anyone she dated, but when love was on the line… even misguided, hedonistic love that cost her tens of thousands a month…

“Well,” Sette said, “that makes this either a terrible idea or a very honest one.”

“I prefer honest.”

“I don’t think I’m in a position to promise anything serious,” Sette added.

“I’m not asking for it.” And Miquela meant it. “I’m asking for what we’ve already done here… and maybe…” She glanced away, fingers drumming on the wineglass stem. “Something until morning.”

Sette studied her for a long moment. The gauzy curtain around the booth muted the rest of the restaurant. A part of it emboldened Miquela to be even more honest. Maybe it did the same for Sette.

“And tomorrow?” she asked.

“Tomorrow,” Miquela said, “we both return to our complications.”

Without missing a beat, Sette raised her glass. “To temporary clarity.”

“To clarity.”

Once their glasses were back on the table, Sette grabbed Miquela’s jacket and brought her into the sloppiest kiss she had experienced in… well, she was so shocked by the lips on hers that it took Miquela a moment to realize that Sette was going for it.

“Whoa.” Sette pulled away, Miquela bracing herself against the table. Hands were still on her jacket. “You’ve got nice lips.”

“And yours taste like wine.”

“I’m a little loosened up. But not drunk. I promise.”

“I rather wish that I were, though.” Miquela cocked her head as she put a hand on Sette’s, ready to ease her off. Instead, that skin-to-skin touch reminded her of how June had wrapped around her in a heated bed in Monaco not too many nights ago.

Should she do it? Should she prove to June that she could be aloof in this relationship?

“Ah, wait a second.” Miquela kept Sette close, touching the underside of her chin so she looked back with a curious flutter of her eyelashes. Her makeup is so light and delicate. Not like June’s. Not even like Miquela’s. “Let me try.”

“Huh?”

This time, Sette was the one frozen in her seat as someone kissed her. Miquela wrapped her hand around that bun, held together with a metal clasp, and held Sette’s lips to hers.

Two seconds later, both of their mouths parted. Sette relaxed. So did Miquela, who pushed her against the booth and traced the back of her knuckles against a long, white throat perfect for biting and making love to.

I’ve still got it in me, I guess. Miquela’s body was on fire, yearning to get lost in someone else for a little while.

And if I don’t think about anyone else, I guess that’s a bonus.

God knew her beloved was up in her Manoir entertaining some other party that night.

She had already cleared with Sette that this would not be allowed any serious consideration beyond tonight.

Sette was on board. With any luck, they could hook up and not feel a thing in the morning.

And Miquela would have proven something, wouldn’t she?

If I have some fun in the meantime… After a cursory inspection with her hand, Miquela confirmed that Sette had all the parts beneath her dress that one expected. Not that she had any doubt that she would be delighted by what she found, regardless. And if she has some fun…

“I’m going to the bathroom…” Sette whispered while slowly scooching out of the booth with her clutch. “I’ll be ready to go when I’m back.”

Miquela was already paying the check.