Chapter Two
“And that’s all the client asked for? That I come in casual clothes?
” Ilse balanced her years-old iPhone between her ear and shoulder as she struggled to get out of her clothes in the shortest time possible.
She had only ten minutes before her next booking, which – albeit totally unexpected – was very much welcomed.
“Ja.” Yes.
The vagueness of the request annoyed Ilse, but a job was a job and she decided to shrug it off. Once she met the VIP, she could play it by ear from there. As she squeezed herself into her jeans, she asked Gloria about Erik.
“On the way to your place already, so there is nothing for you to worry about,” her boss answered reassuringly. “Jan is in good hands, I swear this on my gold-digging heart.”
“Great.” Her voice became partially muffled as she pulled her shirt down. “That’s all I need to know. “Doie!” Goodbye.
Ending the call, she kicked her killer heels out of the way, slid her feet into her sneakers, and then began collecting the pieces of clothing that littered the floor.
Shoving them into the bag she had stowed neatly under the bed, Ilse stepped out of the room and smiled gratefully at Charlene. “Thanks for loaning me storage space.”
The sex worker blew her a kiss. “May you be blessed with a huge tip, gekkie.”
“I’ll share it with you if I do.” Ilse tossed the promise over her shoulder as she hurried towards the door. Outside, she broke into a run unceremoniously, uncaring about the way the other people gaped at her, and she made it to her meeting place just in time.
Situated atop one of Amsterdam’s few remaining swing bridges, Café Alles occupied every inch available of the historic steel structure and was a landmark in itself.
With walls made entirely of glass, the café offered unparalleled views of the Red Light District alongside a warm, inviting ambience brought in by its cozy table setups and soft, beautiful music that soothed the ears.
As Madilyn Bailey belted out her version of Earned It from the speakers, Ilse worked hard to catch her breath while rapidly scanning the café for her VIP client. Guy in a pinstriped suit, glass of pink lemonade on his table, Ilse recalled from Gloria’s list of identification marks.
Gotcha.
She found him seated at the end of the bar, and her VIP client turned on his stool almost at the same time, his gaze finding her unerringly.
Oh!
Ilse’s body jerked in recognition.
It was the silent, mysterious guy from her earlier tour!
She stared at him in shock, and even though he stared back at her with equanimity, she had a feeling he was amused by her reaction. It would have been quite disgruntling if not for the fact that she was still struggling to get her composure back.
Although she had been very careful not to make any eye contact with him during the tour, Ilse had been awkwardly aware of the way he had stared at her the entire time. It had made her self-conscious, but it had also been...flattering.
And now he was doing it again, Ilse thought uneasily. She had the oddest urge to run away, her instincts clamoring for her to flee before it was too late.
But...a job was a job, and impoverished people like her couldn’t afford to be fussy.
Ilse forced herself to walk towards him, and although she knew she was being fanciful, the way his gaze followed her every move made her think of the way a man would look at his newest, shiniest toy.
Lazily, because he knew the toy was already his.
Possessively, also because he knew the toy was his.
A ferocious frown crinkled Ilse’s smooth forehead at the thought. She would have no problem with the way he was looking – if only she wasn’t the one he was eyeing like a toy.
By the time she reached him, Ilse had made up her mind, and she had her dialogue ready.
But then he came to his feet, and when Ilse had her first good look at him up close, she promptly forgot all about the words she had practiced in her mind.
My goodness, Ilse thought disbelievingly.
He was quite, quite taller than she expected him to be, and even if she had been in her killer heels right now, Ilse knew the top of her head still wouldn’t reach his shoulders.
He was also exceedingly pretty – the way only movie stars should have a right to.
He grew his hair just a little bit longer than what was usual, and the ebony-black waves looked so invitingly soft she had the strangest urge to feel it for herself.
His eyes were a vivid shade of blue, his cheekbones aristocratic in its prominence.
The rest of him was just as impressive, the magnificent breadth of his shoulders accentuated by his exquisitely hand-sewn suit.
But what really took her breath away was how wicked he felt.
He had BAD BOY written all over him, and Ilse frowned. He was, in a nutshell, the very opposite of her, and the urge to flee returned with a vengeance.
In the four years Ilse had been working as a tour guide, she had become a good judge of character. One look at this gentleman – if he could even be called that – and she knew he was trouble.
She crossed her arms over her chest, saying disapprovingly in Dutch, “You are bad news, mijnheer.” She was normally more tactful than this, but she had a feeling there was no need to be so with this man. He just didn’t feel like the type of man to cost Ilse her job if she rejected him.
“How can you say that,” he drawled out mildly, “when you don’t even know me?”
But he was also the type of man who wouldn’t so easily give up once he found himself a toy he wished to acquire and play with until he lost interest.
Well, that toy would not be her.
“I don’t need to know you,” she informed him bluntly, “to understand the kind of man you are. And because I do not want you to waste your time, let me tell you now, mijnheer. I am not interested. You are not my type.”
“You slay me, mevrouw.” He had switched to English this time, his tone cultured, and Ilse’s frown became more pronounced. Oh, how sly! How had he figured out she had a secret thing for men who were bilingual?
“At least let me prove myself first.” He moved towards a vacant table and pulled out a seat for her.
“It will do you no good,” Ilse muttered even as she grudgingly took the seat he offered. A job was still a job, and she didn’t want to give him any reason to ask for a refund.
When he took his seat, he chose the one adjacent to her, and Ilse stiffened when their knees bumped under the table, the contact causing a spark of electricity to jolt through her body.
When her eyes flew to him in suspicion, he released a laugh. “Surely you can’t blame me for the way your body reacts?”
Oh, blast it, he wasn’t only wicked, but he was charming, too!
Ilse scowled, and he grinned. “You hate the thought of being attracted to me that much?”
She nodded vehemently, causing him to laugh again, and Ilse’s teeth gnashed.
Ongelooflijk!
Incredible!
Another thing she used to think ridiculous was the way her friends described some men’s laughter as sexy...until now.
“Would you like to order anything?”
She shook her head.
“Are you certain?”
“I don’t drink when I’m on the job.”
“Then a glass of water or—-” He gestured to his glass of pink lemonade. “Perhaps something like this?”
She had to ask. “Is that really yours?”
“If I say it is?”
“I’d say it’s just your way of getting women to think you’re cute.”
He chuckled. “You are even more entertaining than I thought.”
“And you,” she returned sweetly, “are more annoying than I expected.”
“Such strong words.” He gazed at Ilse under hooded lids, murmuring, “Every hatred is caused by love.”
Ilse leaned back, stunned. Ongelooflijk!
“You recognize the quote,” he observed.
“Thomas Aquinas,” she supplied warily.
“Impressive.”
She stiffened. “You think people in my line of work don’t read?”
Unperturbed by her tone, he answered lazily, “To be honest, schatje, I believe most people your age don’t even know who Thomas Aquinas is.”
Oh. He was probably right, and she said grudgingly, “You have a point.”
“Speaking of your age—-” He paused. “May I ask how old you are?”
Seeing no reason to lie, she answered him truthfully. “23.”
“Ah.” A faint grimace crossed his lips. “I’m 32. Is that too old, do you think?”
When she only allowed herself to shrug in answer, he chuckled again, and Ilse hated the way her toes curled inside her sneakers. Ongelooflijk! She couldn’t even remember the last time someone from the opposite sex had made her feel this...this much.
“It just occurred to me I’ve neglected to introduce myself.” Pulling out a card from his wallet, he handed it to her, murmuring wickedly, “Jaak de Konigh, at your service.”
Ilse’s toes curled harder, the last three words making her recall the porn films she had watched, which showed all the ways a man could service a woman.
Lieve heer!
Dear Lord!
He really was bad news, the way he made her imagine such shameful thoughts—-
The import of his name sunk in a moment too late, and her gaze flew to him, Ilse demanding under her breath, “You’re a de Konigh?
” It was the most famous surname in Netherlands, and the fact left her even more bewildered and suspicious.
This man had royal Dutch blood running in his veins, for heaven’s sake! Why was he even wasting time with her?
“De Konigh is my last name, yes,” he acknowledged, and after a pause, he asked silkily, “Does this please you?” When Ilse only allowed herself another shrug, his gaze became shrewdly contemplative, and she quickly willed herself to remain expressionless.
“Is it only me you distrust,” he asked suddenly, “or men in general?” When she started to shrug, he shook his head, saying in a soft, cajoling voice, “You may be honest with me, schatje. You have my word as a de Konigh that I will never hold the truth against you.”
“I appreciate the words, Mr. de Konigh, but I’d rather not take the risk.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, murmuring, “Unfortunate, but also understandable.”