Page 2 of Escorting the Bodyguard
The second the car door closes behind me, my hand shakes on the clasp of my purse. Just once. Then I get it under control.
Through the tinted windows, I can still feel Tim’s gaze from the lobby, that cold stare following me even as the driver pulls away from the curb.
“Where to, Ms. Quinn?” The driver, James, glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I realize I’ve been sitting here in silence, staring at my hands.
“Home, please.” My voice is steady. Professional. Like the ground isn’t shifting beneath me.
I pull out my compact and reapply my lipstick. Not because I need to, but because it’s habit. Something to do with my hands while my mind races.
The red color is calledDangerous Liaison,which felt clever when I bought it. Now it just feels prophetic.
Focus, Gemma. Think.
Tim had seemed harmless. A little awkward, maybe. But this? This systematic watching, this careful positioning? This isn’t harmless anymore.
I close the compact with a sharp click and pull out my phone.
Victoria answers on the second ring. “How did it go, darling?”
“We have a problem.” I keep my voice low, even though the driver’s got jazz playing and probably isn’t listening anyway. “Tim Roberts. You remember him?”
A pause. Victoria Stone remembers everyone. It’s part of what makes her the best madam in Manhattan. “March client. Single session. He didn’t understand professional boundaries.”
“He’s been following me.”
The silence stretches long enough that I check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. When Victoria speaks again, her voice has shifted into the clipped, efficient tone that means business.
“How many times?”
“Three that I’ve noticed. This week alone.” I watch the city blur past the window. Late-night pedestrians, neon reflections on wet pavement, the kind of urban anonymity I usually find comforting. Tonight, it just feels like more places for a stalker to hide. “He was at The Gramercy tonight. Watching me leave.”
“That’s a pattern,” Victoria says flatly. “We had a scare like this a few years ago with a different escort, similar escalation. We handled it fast, but it was a good reminder: once is random. Twice is coincidence. Three times means we take it seriously.”
A chill runs down my spine. I’ve never heard her this clipped, this cold.
“I’m pulling you off the schedule effective immediately.” No hesitation. No negotiation. “Go to The Bryant Hotel. Check in under the name Sarah Constable. Wait for my call.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a beat, then lean forward. “The Bryant Hotel, please.”
The Bryant’s bar is all amber lighting and leather banquettes, designed to make everything look like a 1940sfilm noir.
Usually, I love the dramatic shadows, the way the low lighting makes everyone look mysterious and gorgeous. Tonight, it just feels like I’m hiding.
Which, technically, I am.
I’ve claimed a corner table with a clear view of the entrance and ordered a glass of wine that I’m nursing, trying to steady my nerves.
I pride myself on reading people, on staying three steps ahead of every situation. It’s how I’ve survived in this business. How I’ve thrived.
But Tim? I’d missed something. Something important.
I replay our session in my head, looking for red flags I might have ignored.
He’d been nervous at first, which wasn’t unusual. A lot of clients are, especially the ones who’ve never hired an escort before. We’d had dinner at a quiet restaurant in Midtown, talked about his work in finance, his recent divorce. Standard stuff.
The sex had been…fine. He’d seemed satisfied, and I’d given him no reason not to be. He’d asked if we could meet again, and I’d given him the standard response: contact the agency, they handle scheduling. He’d seemed disappointed but understanding.
