Chapter 11 #2
I have a vision of a butler sleeping standing up like a flamingo so he can answer requests for caviar hamburgers at four in the morning.
I hastily clear my expression and assume an innocent face as Mac shoots me a look.
His lip twitches, and he gestures to me to follow the lady who’s disappeared around the corner.
She shows us a bedroom and en suite, both of them just as fabulous and sumptuously furnished as the rest of the suite. I’m trying to hide my awe at the surroundings, but Mac just gives a cursory look at the beautiful room. “Lovely,” he says. He doesn’t sound at all excited.
A bell sounds, and the woman says, “That will be the luggage. I’ll go and let them in.”
She disappears, and Mac turns back to me. “You can take this bedroom, Wes.”
“What? I mean, pardon?”
He gestures at the sumptuous room. “This one has the best view of Paris, so you have it.”
“I’m willing to bet this hotel has no bad views.” I hesitate. “Aren’t we sharing a room?”
“No. I don’t share my bed when I sleep. There’s another bedroom in the suite. I’ll take that.”
He tips his head, scanning my features and I hope I don’t look disappointed.
I guess being away from the London flat and traveling to this fabulous location had made me think…
Well, I don’t know what it made me think.
But it’s impossible not to imagine sleeping in that gorgeous bed with Mac and waking up together and walking out onto that balcony to take in that even more gorgeous view. Together.
“I did tell you that,” he says after a moment, a thread of insistence strengthening his voice.
“You certainly did,” I say, turning from the view of the room and the bed. “It’s fine. No worries.”
The concierge appears again. “The luggage is taken care of. Shall we go over the final details, Mr Reilly?”
Mac nods and shoots his cuffs. “Why don’t you explore upstairs, Wes, while we go over the arrangements for our stay?”
I’m not sure if it’s a suggestion or an order. His eyebrow rises, and I realise it’s definitely the latter.
“Of course,” I murmur.
They walk away, discussing arrangements for cabs and meals. “Fuck,” I breathe. I poke my head into a dressing room. It’s big enough to house the wardrobes of five people and smells of cedar.
I’ve never been anywhere so opulent. I roll that word around in my head. Yes, it’s the right one—opulent.
Ten minutes later, I hear Mac call my name.
“Up here,” I shout. There’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and I grin at him as he appears in the doorway. He’s taken off his coat, and his tie is loose, his hair falling over his forehead.
“Fucking hell, there’s a pool,” I proclaim and indicate it with my hand in case he’s somehow missed the expanse of blue water.
“Thank you for pointing that out. I might have missed it, otherwise, or rung down to reception to report a leak.”
“Can I book to swim in this?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is there a booking system for using the pool?”
“Erm, no. That is ours.”
“What?” I gape at him. “ All of it?”
“No, just the corner at the deep end.”
“This is our pool?” I say again.
“That is correct. Or at least, it comes with our suite. We won’t be able to take it home with us.”
“Fucking hell.”
“Sometimes I think my attraction to you stems from your incredibly varied vocabulary.”
“You lie. It’s my anus.”
He laughs. “True. It’s the prettiest anus in town and rarely speaks back, unlike its owner.”
I shake my head. “That’s just wrong,” I point out, hearing him laugh again. “There’s even a sauna and a steam room. I may never leave this place.” I shoot him a glance. “This must have cost a fortune, Mac.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “It’s a five-star hotel. Of course it does. But I like my comfort and space.”
“Space? You’d have less room if you’d booked Buckingham Palace.”
“I believe that comes with corgis.”
I follow him down the stairs back into the lounge.
“Look at that view,” I say wonderingly. He opens the bifolding doors, and we step onto a huge patio with flagstone flooring and stone balustrades carved into fantastical patterns.
I look up and find two gargoyles grimacing at me.
We must be right at the top of the hotel, and these are the same carvings I’d seen when we got out of the cab.
The sky has lost its blue, and storm clouds have gathered through which the occasional golden ray of the sun lights up a turret or a building.
Mac fastens his hand on my shoulder, and I shiver at the feel of his touch. “Alright?” he immediately says. “There’s a storm coming. Are you cold?”
“No, I’m fine.” His gaze becomes knowing, and then he turns me to face forward.
“We are on the Left Bank. The Louvre isn’t far away if you want to walk to it.
Over there is the Eiffel Tower. At night, it’s lit up and very pretty.
That is the ?le de la Cité,” he continues pointing to a green island.
“On it is Notre Dame and the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette was kept prisoner during the Revolution. Ask reception, and they will get you a taxi wherever you want to go during the week. They’ll charge it to the room. ”
“Wow. It’s so beautiful.” I turn in his arms and gaze up at him. “I can’t wait to explore. Where shall we go first?”
My heart sinks as he steps back, straightening his tie and smoothing his suit. “I did say you’d be on your own for this trip. I’m afraid I have a business meeting.”
“ Now ?” I can’t keep the dismay out of my voice, but I thought the “business” part of the business trip would start tomorrow for him. “Sorry,” I say immediately. “I know you’re not here to enjoy yourself.”
“No, but you are.” He dips his hand into his pocket and retrieves an envelope. He opens it, withdrawing the contents. “For you,” he says steadily.
“What?” I’m astonished by the wad of cash he’s offering me.
“For you,” he repeats, as if I’m having difficulty following him.
I put my hands behind my back. I realise it’s a childish gesture, but I can’t help it.
“Wes?” He tilts his head as he scrutinizes me.
“Why are you giving me money?”
“Isn’t that our arrangement?”
I flinch, jerking my head away from him as if he’d reached out to slap me.
His eyebrows lower and the blue of his eyes soften. I read his expression as a mix of apology, pity, and concern. It makes my stomach knot and my spine stiffen.
“Wes?” He’s obviously out of words. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sorry if you thought?—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, my cheeks burning. I suddenly feel very young. “I knew this was a business trip.”
He hands me the money, and this time I take it.
His shoulders relax and he smooths his already perfect tie.
Everything is right again in his world. All business.
Boundaries set. “I’ll be out until late tonight, so dial one on the phone for food.
You can order from the butler.” He pauses as if waiting for a joke from me, but I can’t summon one.
“He’ll get you anything you want,” he finishes awkwardly, almost as though he’s disappointed.
“What time will you be home?” I grimace. “Sorry. I meant, when will you be back here?”
“Late. I won’t say a time because these meetings are important.
” He doesn’t need to add that I’m not important, but maybe he hears an echo of that because he forces a smile.
“So, scoot.” He gestures at the scene behind me.
“Explore. You’re in Paris, Wes. Buy something nice.
” His smile becomes kinder. “You must want some new clothes.”
“Why?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond. He’s already back in the suite, busy gathering his messenger bag, some files, and his coat. I dog his steps, following him to the door. For a second, he hesitates, and I think he’s going to kiss me.
Instead, he touches his forehead in a gentle salute. “See you later,” he says, and he’s gone.
I sink into one of the expensive chairs, which cushions my body as if it were designed for me.
I look down at the money in my hands. There must be three or four grand here.
It’s a generous amount and one I probably should have expected given our circumstances.
The circumstances I keep somehow forgetting in the thrill of being with him.
“I am an escort, and he is my client.” I say it out loud.
The words are bald and simple, but I have to acknowledge that despite everything we’ve done, and all the details of our arrangement with him “keeping” me, I’ve never truly felt like a whore.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. I stare down at the money in my hand. Small—that’s how I feel. Dismissed. Like I’m an item to be checked off Mac’s list. And, for some reason, Mac wanted, needed , to make me feel like this.
I sniff, my eyes getting hot. Then I make myself get up and go over to the windows.
Paris lies before me. I can see the grey blue of the Seine, golden buildings and roofs, and windows.
In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stands proudly.
Lights are starting to come on all over the city, and they gleam neon-bright against the darkening sky.
“Get over yourself, Wes.” The words drop into the opulent room’s silence, making me instantly feel better. I don’t have feelings for Mac beyond gratitude and an intense attraction. I don’t.
“You are in a beautiful city with money and time to explore. So what if you’re on your own? You’ve been that before him. You’ll be that after him. Now get out there and explore.”
So, I do.
It’s midnight and I’m lying on the sofa when I hear the door click.
I watch as Mac walks into the room. He doesn’t see me at first, and I indulge in a rare opportunity to observe him in a private moment.
Lines around his eyes and mouth are etched deeply.
His jacket is rain-splattered, and droplets shine in the thick, dark strands of his hair.
I put down my book and he startles when he spots me. “What are you doing?”
“Erm, reading.”
“At this time of the night?”