Number Six (The Villains #3)

Chapter 5

Breakfast Like an Emperor

“ Why breakfast?” were the first words Ottilie uttered as she sat down opposite Monique the next day.

Monique discovered that the sight of Ottilie first thing in the morning was no less enticing than seeing her stride down a hallway or sink into a massage. She was just so…put together. So assured and confident. And yet her walls were higher than any Monique had ever encountered. This was a woman one did not get to know easily. “And hello to you too, Ottilie. Did you sleep well? How’s that pretty neck of yours?”

Ottilie emitted a small, irritated huff. “I slept adequately for a too soft bed, a too hard pillow, and an entirely problematic neck. I doubt it is particularly ‘pretty,’ Ms. Carson, given all it’s doing is giving me grief.”

“Please, call me Monique.”

“Is that your real name?” Ottilie asked. “Or the name you give to clients?”

“My clients rather enjoy calling me Ms. Carson, so they have no need for a first name, even if I wanted to supply it to them. Which I never do.” Her lips quirked. “And, yes, Monique is my real name. But you’re not a client, are you?”

“My neck begs to differ. Thank you for helping me, despite the misunderstanding. I know you didn’t have to.”

“You were in pain. And, honestly, I appreciate showing off what I’m good at.” She took in Ottilie appreciatively. “Win-win.”

“So…why breakfast?” Ottilie asked again as she began adding honey to the toast she’d retrieved from the buffet. “It seems an odd form of payment.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” Monique smiled. “Didn’t your mother teach you that?”

“Actually, I often heard Frühstücken wie ein Kaiser, Mittagessen wie ein Edelmann, Abendessen wie ein Bettelmann . Which means ‘Breakfast like an emperor, lunch like a nobleman, dinner like a pauper’. And I elect to have honey on toast for breakfast because I cannot get my preferred choice—Zuckerrübensirup.”

“What’s that?”

“A savory-sweet sugar beet syrup from Germany. My mother virtually raised me on it. Nothing quite like it in the US.”

“So you’re German?”

“No. I was born in the US.”

“Yet you have a slight accent. I suppose that’d be your parents’ influence? Or is it just your mother who’s German?”

Ottilie gave her a long, measured look. “I do apologize for being blunt, but I’m really not interested in small talk with someone I’m unlikely to ever meet again. So, was there a point to this breakfast? Surely me paying for my massage would have been more efficient?”

“Efficiency is not the point of life, dear Ottilie.”

“Nonsense,” Ottilie said. “Efficiency and order grease the wheel that keeps society running. Wouldn’t it have been so much simpler to have just taken my money?”

“Simpler? Naturally. But I don’t need simplicity, and I don’t need money. I asked you to breakfast because I find you interesting. I wanted to know more about you. You are quite a chameleon.”

“Me?” Ottilie looked blankly at her. “What makes you say that?”

“We passed in the hallway on Tuesday. Your stride was confident and assured. Then you sensed my presence. You instantly became a slower, older woman. You shrank before my eyes.”

“You have quite the imagination.” Ottilie took a sip of tea.

“I do,” Monique retorted. “But not on this. I want to know why you do this? It was so instinctual; it can’t have been a one-off.”

With a faintly rueful tone, Ottilie said, “The Japanese have an expression: ‘The nail that sticks out gets hammered down’. It’s a habit of a lifetime. When I began in my particular career, it wouldn’t do to stand out. Being too noticeable was not ideal. But what is learned to protect oneself is difficult to unlearn, even when no longer required.”

At least she hadn’t denied it. “What is your job, then, that you feared being hammered down for sticking out?”

“I’m retired now.”

“But before?”

“Many things. Most recently, I was a personal assistant for a CEO at a consultancy firm.”

“What did it consult on?”

“Nothing I can talk about. I signed an NDA. Why do you do sex work? If you don’t need the money?” Ottilie asked.

“Why do I think you have no interest in my life and just want to avoid answering my question? You’ve already admitted hating small talk,” Monique said, tone gentle. “See, here’s the thing: the woman who approached me in the hallway, before she noticed me, was no PA.”

Ottilie gave her a startled look. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t know who you really are, but it’s not who you claim.” Monique wondered how that would land. Denial or laughter?

Shaking her head, Ottilie said incredulously, “So all personal assistants have to act a certain way? That seems awfully limiting. You don’t strike me as someone with limited views.”

Deflection, then? Monique snorted. “You’re really good.” She turned her smile flirtatious. “And I must say I do love women who are very good. Or…very bad.”

Ottilie sighed. “I know you think you’re being terribly charming, but I have no interest in someone like you.”

Monique froze. The playfulness died on her tongue. Well. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t faced this particular bias numerous times. People did so love moralizing about certain professions. “I see. Should I be grateful you even deigned to be seen in public with me?” She made her tone deliberately chilly.

Ottilie frowned as if reviewing what she’d said. “Oh. You think I’m judging you for your sex work? Not at all. In fact, sex workers have been invaluable over the years in assisting my former company. They’re highly effective. I hold them in esteem. It’s rather astonishing how easily led people are by their sex drives. That can be useful, as I’m sure you know.” She paused again. “Is ‘sex worker’ the correct term for you? I apologize if I’m not using the right descriptor.”

She looked so placid and unruffled as she went back to sipping her tea.

Well, that was unexpected. “Sexual educator, teacher, healer, entertainer, listener, and expert in women’s CEO sex fantasies all come under my purview. Take your pick.”

“That is quite a mouthful. How do you fit it on your business card?” Ottilie’s lips twitched.

Monique, though, was still processing the revelation that Ottilie’s company had hired sex workers and found them “invaluable.” And there were NDAs involved. “Do you work for the FBI or CIA? Or a political party?”

Ottilie laughed softly. “Why don’t you take a moment and consider what you just asked?”

“Ah.” She had a point. “You wouldn’t be able to tell me if you did.”

“Exactly.”

“Am I warm?”

“You’re not cold.” Ottilie eyed her. “You’re sharp, aren’t you?” Her tone was approving. “I appreciate that.”

“You also said you had no interest in ‘someone like me.’ What does that mean if it’s not a reference to my work?”

Placing her cup back in its saucer, Ottilie said, “You appear to be very sexual. You flirt and tease constantly. This seems very important to you. It’s your entire identity. But it’s not mine. Not at all.”

“Not at all?” Monique’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you asexual?”

“What I am or not is none of your business. But why is sex all you seem interested in? You appear quite stuck on that topic.”

Monique inhaled. Perhaps she had been coming on a little strong. And when was the last time someone had been interested in her in spite of her sexuality, not because of it? Few were the people she met socially who wanted to engage her brain. That just made Ottilie all the more interesting.

“I apologize, Ottilie. I’m a little out of practice being around someone who’s not a client. I’m used to charging the atmosphere and motivating whomever I’m with to think about sex.”

“That sounds exhausting.” Ottilie sounded appalled at the idea. “When are you ever just you? Or is this you? Forever teasing people?”

Good question. It had been a long time since she’d dropped her playful routine around women. While running her investment business, obviously, she could be strictly professional. But since she’d semi-retired as CEO of Carson Investments, her chief distraction had been sex work. It had been fulfilling and saw her embrace her flirtatious side more than ever.

“I do know how to behave, Ottilie,” she said with the hint of a smile. “I even have another job that requires it.”

“Oh?” Ottilie leaned in closer.

“Nothing terribly exciting.” Monique offered a careless wave. “Boring, dry numbers. A lot of spreadsheets and reports. I’ve handed off the bulk of my day-to-day duties now. These days, I focus on clients of a different kind, and that’s been a great deal of fun.”

“Dry numbers? Spreadsheets? Sounds lucrative. Is that why you don’t need my money?” Ottilie guessed.

“Astute.” Monique chuckled. “Numbers may be dry, but they do pay.”

“How do you juggle both jobs? They sound like two extremes.”

“By ensuring the two careers never meet. I’m not ashamed of either job, but blurring lines isn’t a good idea. It’s cleaner, easier, to keep my careers apart. With rare exception, few people know of my roles in both enterprises.”

“I understand,” Ottilie said. “We all have our secrets.”

So true. Monique would dearly love to know some of Ottilie’s. “Now, I have to ask, are we really never going to see each other again? You’re too delicious to let go. It’s like having one bite of chocolate mousse and having the plate whipped away.”

“Must you?” Ottilie asked in exasperation. “You’re incorrigible.”

“That’s not something I usually hear at my age. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“You would.”

“But tell me, is there anything I can offer you to meet me again?” She supplied her most winning smile. “I’m rather knowledgeable about Vegas, for instance. Would you like the tour?”

Ottilie began shaking her head but suddenly stopped. “Actually, I’m looking for showgirls.”

“You are?” She blinked. “You?”

“I am,” Ottilie confirmed. “I have a friend, a lovely older woman who used to dance professionally, and she’s requested a photo of showgirls. The problem is, nothing comes up when I google showgirl performances in Vegas. The strip clubs, of course, come up, but I was seeking the Broadway-style productions Vegas is famous for.”

“Sad to say, you’ll have a long wait. The last show was in 2016.” Monique deflated, remembering the final performance of Jubilee . “To quote a friend of mine, they got ‘Cirqued.’”

“Cirqued?”

“The circus came to town—Cirque du Soleil—and that’s all anyone wanted to see. Showgirl extravaganzas were considered too expensive to run, seemed stuck in time, and no longer had the risqué appeal of seeing the occasional topless dancer, given that the strip shows reveal far more. As a large-scale event, showgirl productions are dead. But as an art form, it lives on.” She reached for her phone and looked up a number.

“How does it live on?” Ottilie asked. “Do you mean the showgirls walking around The Strip who charge for photos?”

“God no,” Monique said. “Those amateur cosplayers aren’t real showgirls. They wouldn’t be able to stalk down grand staircases in six-inch heels, glitter, and feathers while wearing an enormous headpiece. Your friend deserves the best.” She rose. “Excuse me a moment while I get her the best.”

Monique stepped away from the table so she could talk about Ottilie out of earshot and returned a few minutes later.

“There are private showgirl productions,” she explained, “which are usually hired out for corporate events. Many former showgirls now freelance. My friend is in dress rehearsals for one such event now. She’s agreed to let you sit in on a session this morning and have a few photos at the end as a professional courtesy for your dancer friend. Does this work for you? You’ll have to be there at ten this morning.”

Ottilie’s mouth fell open before she quickly snapped it shut. “Thank you. I didn’t expect this.”

“It’s my pleasure.” She lifted her phone. “What’s your number? I’ll text you the details.”

The pause was long and noticeable. “I’m sorry. I don’t give out my private phone number.”

Monique held her gaze. “Neither do I. I’m making an exception. Will you?”

After an even longer pause as if to debate that, Ottilie pursed her lips, sighed, then reached for her phone. “Don’t make me regret this,” she murmured.

“I’m quite sure you meant to say, ‘Thank you so much for doing me this favor, given I’m someone you barely know.’”

Dipping her head in acknowledgment, Ottilie said, “I do apologize. That was rude of me. Thank you, Ms. Carson.”

“Monique. Please.”

Ottilie pursed her lips and nodded. “Monique.”

And with that, phone numbers and details were exchanged.

“Cleopatra?” Ottilie asked, glancing at the contact’s name.

“Yes. Cleo once was Vegas’s most famous Queen of the Nile. So please make sure you treat her as royalty and don’t get in her way.”

“I will be suitably reverential,” Ottilie promised. “To the point I doubt she’d even know I’m there.”

With a snort, Monique said: “While I find you impossible not to notice, I have a feeling you could definitely blend into the background if you wanted to.”

“Of course I can,” Ottilie said, her eyes twinkling.

Monique laughed and couldn’t help but notice how attractive Ottilie was when amused. She would dearly love to see that again. “Oh, I wish I could be there to see you meet Cleo. Alas, I have a client.”

“Will your friend really be fine with me turning up to rehearsals?”

“She will be today. It’s also final auditions for backup dancers. There will be new people everywhere, so she won’t mind one more. You’ll fit right in.” She paused and gave her a once-over. “Or, I should say, while it’s unlikely you’d actually fit in, somehow I’m betting you’ll manage it anyway. Yes?”

Ottilie seemed as though she rather liked that assessment. She allowed a tiny smile. “I suspect I’ll manage.”

Monique would dearly love to see how Cleo interacted with Ottilie. Nothing much got past her astute friend. Monique made a mental note to check in with her later. Even so, she suspected that whatever Cleo learned about Ottilie would probably fill a teaspoon. And that was her appeal.

Dear God, how Monique loved a mystery.