Page 9 of Reckless Desire

I watch her leave, scheming how I’m going to repay her for this. Accidental acid spillage on her new shoes? Vomiting in her favorite bag? Oh, I know! I’ll sell the nudes she secretly took to the media.

I’m not even sure if I’m mortified or annoyed when Hunter offers me his arm.

I glare at him and he winces, raising his eyebrow. Yeah, buddy, I have many questions as well.

“Let’s go.” I ignore his gesture. Why am I going through with this? Because I’m going to get the most expensive champagne and caviar. Not that it’s any punishment for London. She probably won’t even notice it on her statement, but I’m hungry and this poor asshole will just have to sit through dinner with me.

Or I can send him away. He’d get paid and London would never know. A smile finally tugs at my mouth and I lace my arm through his. Let him have dinner and send him on his way. I can use a peaceful night in the gazillion thread count sheets here.

* * *

Hunter

Why did I tell her my name is Hunter? My real fucking name. I don’t use a fake name for these encounters because it only adds to all the cover-ups I have to invent to keep this gig discreet. I simply let my clients call me Stuart. It’s less personal. And on some occasions when things progress, the last thing I want is for a client to scream my name. That’s too intimate.

Yet I was so taken by her glowering, I used my real name. Fuck. I should abort this mission. It wasn’t just the glowering that distracted me. Those emerald eyes, while cold as a frozen lake, pierced me with an intensity I don’t want to examine.

As I walked to her in the lobby, and now as I guide her to the dining room, I let my eyes wander for longer than appropriate. The way her simple green wrap dress hugs her curves is sinful by itself. I’ve just met her and I’ve already undressed her in my mind. Abort. Abort.

Even if I’m attracted to a client, I don’t normally get so caught up in it. This level of attraction is not good in my line of work. Though I’m probably safe because she clearly doesn’t feel the same. Most of my clients seek connection. Sydney looks like she doesn’t even want to be here.

The restaurant isn’t very busy and its silence echoes too loudly in my mind. I’m never uncomfortable during these dates, but shit, I don’t have a good feeling tonight. There are only a few people dining, and the clatter of the cutlery reverberates around us.

My lack of comfort is surely caused by this pretentious place, not my companion. I’m used to ridiculous luxury because my clients pay for it, but this restaurant is too impersonal.

Perhaps Sydney feels that too. Maybe that’s why she is so edgy. I should read the menu, but instead I’m searching her face, trying to figure out the reason for the short circuit in my brain prompting me to tell her my real name.

She is studying the menu like it’s the most intriguing novel. Thick lashes cover her green eyes, but I can still recall their glimmer from earlier. The emeralds in them are intriguing, but it was the layers of sadness seeping through them that startled me.

There is loss and resentment written in them. I know because it’s the look that confronts me in the mirror every morning.

The waiter comes and takes our order, and with no menu in front of her Sydney’s eyes dart around, trying to settle on anything but me.

“You must be starving,” I comment because she ordered several appetizers and two main meals.

“I’ll have it wrapped for later. This is just to make a dent in London’s credit card. Vengeance.” She runs her finger up and down the butter knife’s handle, still not looking at me.

“Vengeance?” I reach across to stop her hand from fidgeting. As my fingers connect with her soft skin, she stiffens. I regret reaching out because the jolt of electricity that the feather-like contact sends through me is unexpected. And welcomed. I mean unwanted.

She looks up finally and bites her lip. I’m not sure if she’s struggling with the same influx of heat as me or if she’s considering how to turn me down, but I smile at her and she relaxes.

“Look. It’s not personal. I just… I didn’t know… I’m not interested in this.” She cocks her head and shrugs, her face ridden with apology.

“I’ve noticed you don’t want to be here. I’m sorry I’m not what you expected.” I squeeze her hand briefly and let go, leaning back in my chair.

“Oh, no, it’s not you. You’re very attractive.” She winces at her own words and a blush spreads across her face. And fuck me if that doesn’t increase her allure. “I mean, obviously you do look good. It’s part of the job, after all. You probably work out all the time and go to the spa and take care of yourself because your body is your…” She widens her eyes and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing. Her blabbering is adorable.

And she finds me attractive. Why that makes me feel like the king of the world, I don’t know. This is too similar to an awkward first date. Snap out of it, idiot.

This has never happened to me. I need to maintain a shallow interaction with clients, so why am I feeling like I want to dive deeper? I can’t afford stupid mistakes.

Shaking her head, she continues. “What I’m trying to say is… it’s not you, it’s me.”

She plasters her hand over her mouth and we both burst out laughing.

“Really, we’ve just met and you’re already giving me theit’s not you, it’s mespeech? My feelings are crushed.” I mock horror.

“Jesus.” She relaxes a bit. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to come across as judgmental.”

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