Page 21 of Madam, May I

“Okay. You picked the time so I’ll send the car.”

She tapped her fingernails across the top of the desk.

“This can’t be a pissing contest; only one of us has a dick, Mademoiselle,” he mused.

“I will be more than happy to personally deliver two beautiful dresses to you,” Desdemona said.

Time is money.

Again, he chuckled. “Fine. You win. Two hours—”

“Outside my showroom,” she interrupted him smoothly before ending the call and claiming the win.

* * *

“We’re here, Mademoiselle,” the driver said.

Desdemona handed the garment bags to the driver before accepting his hand as she exited the back of the black Cadillac Escalade with her tote. She adjusted the large black shades and scarf she wore around her head and covering the bottom half of her face.

She had changed into a black one-shoulder dress with an asymmetrical hem that exposed one lush brown thigh.

“Have a good day, Mademoiselle,” the driver said, closing the door of the SUV and laying the garment bags over the arm she offered.

“Thank you,” she said, moving the short distance across the tarmac of the private airfield to the black jet.

Her steps were briefly cushioned by the black welcome mat before she carefully climbed the steps in her six-inch heels to board the luxurious plane.

“Welcome aboard, Mademoiselle.”

She smiled at Antoine Pierre rising from his seat to hand her a flute of champagne as she neared him. She draped the garment bags over one of the leather seats and placed her tote on the seat. “Where’s your crew?” she asked, taking the flute and enjoying a sip.

“Privacy is key with you,” he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and claiming a seat. “They’re not onboard.”

She nodded as she moved to the seat across from where he now sat.

“Are you Muslim now?” he asked, his tone bemused as he eyed her scarf.

“This is not a hijab and you know that,” she said, removing it and her shades with her free hand to set both on her lap before leaning back against the seat and crossing her legs. Slowly.

His eyes dropped to take in the innocent move, clinging to the sight of her exposed thighs. He swore under his breath and smiled. “Entre tes cuisses je trouve le paradis,”he said, his voice deep.

“Translation, please?” Desdemona asked as she uncrossed and then crossed her legs again, knowing she was teasing him. . . and herself. Five years of celibacy and being in the presence of the first john who ever made her climax was titillating. Not that it was emotional and sensual. Or that he was the most voracious lover. He just was the first man to ever care if the sex was as good for her as it was for him.

He also was the last john she serviced.

Antoine set his drink in the holder in the wood-grain panel running alongside his seat beneath the windows of the plane. “Between your thighs I find paradise,” he said. “Nommez votre prix.”

That one she knew well. She shook her head, denying his request of naming her price.

Antoine was wealthy and once politically powerful in Haiti, now running his multimillion-dollar tech business out of Paris. Although single, he had been attached to a beautiful Swedish model for the last five years. Desdemona was well aware their relationship had ended a few months ago. The foreign press followed his activities with precision.

“What’s the problem we need to fix?” she asked, taking another sip of very good champagne. “Have I finally been discovered?”

He shook his bald head. “No.”

Inwardly she felt relief. She was well aware that it may not be her own criminal activity that brought the law upon her, but that of one of her consorts who didn’t cover their trail well or traded her in to save themselves.

“I’m in need of your services,” he admitted, moving to sit on the edge of the seat with his knees spread as he pressed his elbows down upon them and locked his fingers in the air between them.

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