Pieces of Him (33 page)

Just as I turn away, I catch a hint of a grin on his lips. Geez, I need to get laid. There’s been no one in the three months since Collin left, and the drought is starting to affect me.
Maybe I just need more alcohol,
I think, replacing my empty champagne glass with a fresh one as Ivy and I excuse ourselves from the group chatter.

“Are you trying to get drunk? At least have a few hors d’oeuvres first, Victoria.”

I smile, linking my arm through hers.

“I know. Copious amounts of alcohol are how I manage to get through these events. If I’m borderline wasted, it makes it almost tolerable.” We both giggle and make our way to the buffet table to snack on a few crudités.

“If you hate these things so much, then why do you come to them?”

“Because it helps me to maintain the appearance of legitimacy.”

“It is legit.”

“Yes, parts of it, and I have to keep them up, make sure that they’re successful, to cover up the parts that aren’t.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah, clients are happy, employees are happy, and I just splurged on a pair of silver Louboutins there’s
no way
I could afford if I wasn’t working for you.”

I smile at her assessment of my success. She’s right though, business is good. Great, actually; if there’s one thing that always holds true, it’s that sex sells. It’s taboo; no one likes to talk about it, but everyone wants it. It’s a billion dollar industry and I’m just collecting my piece of that pie. Fundamentally, I know it’s wrong, but if it were not me, someone else would be doing it. If there’s one thing I can be proud of, it’s the classiness of my business. How can selling sex be classy? Just go stand on a street corner and see what those girls go through—addicted to drugs, pimped out, beaten, abused. That’s not how I run my business, and I take pride in the fact that I can give these girls a safer lifestyle.

I step into the bathroom for a few minutes, having lost Ivy to a young man who looked more like a male model than a well-to-do businessman. Short blond hair, stunning blue eyes, and the body of a swimmer. I have to admit, he looked dazzling in what I would guess was head-to-toe Hugo Boss. After their second go on the dance floor, I gave up hope of her coming back to me. I run my hand through my newly dyed caramel-colored hair that now matches my eyes—a nice change from my usual blond locks—and take one last glimpse in the mirror. Pretty good… I wouldn’t say that I was drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but I’m certainly not hard to look at.

I decide to leave behind the quiet of the bathroom and head back to the party. One last trip around the perimeter, a few more hands to shake, a few more fake smiles, the necessary good-byes, and I can get the fuck out of here in twenty minutes tops. But if I’m going to make it through, then I’m going to need something a little bit stronger than champagne. On that thought, I head to the bar in the rear because it looks less crowded.

“Martini, please?” I place my drink order and turn to scan the crowd. I know exactly who I’m looking for, though, for the love of God, I don’t know why. I don’t know him, he is nothing to me, but my curiosity has gotten the better of me. The most pressing question at the forefront of my mind? Is he here alone, and if he is, does he have somebody at home waiting for him?

“Victoria,” I hear just as arms slide around my waist from behind. I inwardly cringe at the contact but turn around with a smile on my face nonetheless.

“Bradley.” I place a chaste kiss on his cheek and, with a swiftness even I’m impressed with, break away from his hold. “How are you? I had no idea you’d be here tonight.”

“I’m good, really good. I was dreading coming to this thing. Once you’ve seen one charity event, you’ve seen them all, right? Then I spotted you, and now, I’m thanking my lucky stars.”

“Oh stop, flattery will get you nowhere.”

“There’s only one place I want to be right now, and I’ve been trying to get you to agree for years.”

Bradley Carson is your classic rich kid from the Upper West Side with all of Daddy’s money to play with and too much time on his hands. He’s likely never known a hard day's work in his life. He’s had everything handed to him and feels entitled to it. When all is said and done, he’ll have fucked his way through half of Manhattan, and when Daddy’s gone, he’ll carry on the legacy by taking over his company. Hopefully, he’ll have learned enough before then not to run it into the ground. He’s also one of my many clients in attendance here this evening. Not everyone knows what I do but, those who do, handle that knowledge with the utmost discretion. Not only do I have signed NDAs from all of them, but the biggest insurance policy I have is that if I’m found out, they’ll be found out, too. Nobody wants to be uncovered as the kind of person who would pay for sex or, worse, pay a small fortune for it—my services are far from cheap.

“You know better. I don’t operate that way.”

“How do you operate then, huh? What would it take to get you to break your own rules for once?” he asks, grabbing hold of my waist again and jerking me over to him. His face is inches from mine, too close for comfort, and I try not to gag at the pungent smell of alcohol permeating from his pores. He’s obviously wasted and that only makes him more of an arrogant douchebag.

“Let me go, Bradley,” I demand in a firm voice, but he’s having none of it.

“God, Vic, if you’d just let loose for a minute, I could show you how fucking good it would be between us.”

Why he thinks I would actually want to be with someone like him is beyond me. First off, he has a girlfriend. Clearly not one he loves, but she exists nonetheless. And second, he’s one of my clients, one of my most
active
clients, meaning he spends a small fortune on what I have to offer. Which is great for my business but it certainly doesn’t make me want to cozy up to him and warm his bed.

See, there are two types of clients that I deal with. The types like Bradley and Conrad Roberts, who use my services because they are clearly addicted to sex. They’ll fuck anyone that they can get their hands on, and when they can’t find a willing partner, they will pay handsomely for it often. They are womanizing scumbags with no regard for the women in their lives. They have classic commitment and fidelity issues, and they possess little, if any, morality.

The other type is the overworked and overstressed businessman who has little to no time for relationships. Most of his time is spent in boardroom meetings closing big deals on a daily basis. He eats, sleeps, and dreams work, and when he needs to find a release…well, that’s when he comes looking for me. This is the easiest type of man to deal with; he knows what he wants, and he’s content to get it. He’ll pay well for it and treat the girls well, but he doesn’t abuse them; it’s mostly just a means to an end for him. I’ll take this type of client any day over the Bradleys and the Conrads of the world.

“You’re drunk and you need to let me go.”

“Come on…” He doesn’t get to finish that thought before he’s being pulled back, his hold on me being ripped away, and the face of the man from earlier in the evening comes into focus.

“You all right?” he asks me as I try to shake off my stunned reaction. I give him an affirmative nod, and he turns back toward Bradley.

“When a lady asks you to take your hands off her, you let her fucking go.”

The outraged look on Bradley’s face is priceless. I doubt anyone has ever stepped up to him or called him out on his less than stellar behavior.

“Who the fuck are you?” he spits out. I stand there watching the scene unfold before me. My eyes land on the beautiful stranger, who has unexpectedly and unnecessarily come to my rescue, and remain completely glued on him.

“I’m the guy who’s trying to teach you some manners. Either you can listen to the lesson or I can beat it into you. You decide.”

And like any true rich kid with no real life experience or street smarts, he raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Hey man, I was just messing around. No harm done.”

“Walk away,” the stranger growls out, and though the anger on Bradley’s face is evident, he absolutely does as he’s told and walks away.

“You sure you’re all right, miss?”

“I’m fine; you really didn’t have to do that,” I say sounding way snarkier than I intended to. I’m not sure if I’m annoyed at the fact that he defended me when I didn’t ask for his help, or if I’m pissed at myself for being so attracted to him. Either way, I regret my tone immediately.

“Right. Well, from where I was standing, it looked like you were in over your head.”

Now I’m offended. I may be a lot of things but a damsel in distress is not one of them.

“How could you tell that I was in over my head? You have no idea who I am or what I can handle?”

“Are you really giving me shit for helping you out right now?” he questions, getting in my face. “Would it have been better if I had let him grope you?” He’s right; he stepped in when no one else would have. Maybe chivalry isn’t dead, after all, and maybe I should be more appreciative of it.

“Shit. No, no, no, I’m sorry. It’s just been a long night. It was very nice of you to step in.”

His shoulders relax, making him look a lot less intimidating. “Did you know that guy?”

“He’s an acquaintance.”

“He’s an ass.”

“Yes,” I agree nodding my head. “He is; thank you for saving me from him.” I mean it; it was nice not having to fend for myself for a change.

“Even though you didn’t need saving?”

“Yeah, even though I didn’t need it,” I confirm with a smile. God, he’s sexy, damn near perfection, and what makes it even better is that he’s not trying to be. He is who he is and there’s no need for him to try for more. He’s dressed impeccably in a black suit, silver cufflinks, and a blue tie.

His light green eyes are mesmerizing, really mesmerizing, even more so as they lock with mine. His short brown hair is styled effortlessly, and if I’m being totally honest, his full lips are sexy as can be.

He rewards me with a grin that would melt the panties off most any woman.

“Nathan Lennox,” he says, holding a hand out for me to take. It’s a strong hand—

not pretty, not freshly manicured, not free from scars or calluses; this hand has known hard labor and that makes him even more appealing to me. I shake his outstretched hand, noting that his initial touch sends an unexpected rush of warmth through me.

“Victoria Powell.”

“Nice to meet you, Victoria. Can I join you for a drink?”

“Actually, I was just about to leave.” I answer hesitantly because my mind is telling me to leave, but my body is begging me to have a drink with the man.

“I think you should stay and have a drink with the guy who just saved you from that asshole, and we’ll call it even.”

“Oh, I see,” I drawl, making a face of mock horror. “So, you didn’t come to my defense out of the goodness of your heart? You expected a payment.”

“Very few things in life are free, Victoria, but in this case, all I’m asking for is a little company.”

“I suppose a drink wouldn’t kill me,” I say, clearly siding with my body.

A sexy grin forms on his mouth as he signals the bartender for drinks. “Attagirl.”

“I haven’t seen you at one of these things before.”

“You’ve attended that many that you recognize the regulars?” He looks at me with questioning eyes.

“I’ve been to my fair share.”

“I see. No, you’re right, I don’t attend many of these at all. I’m actually here in a professional capacity.”

“A professional capacity?” I question. My interests have been piqued. “How so?”

“Overseeing security tonight.”

“Ahh. I see. So then how would it look to whoever hired you that you’re sitting here with me?”

“It’s all good; my job here is just about done. Everyone is in place and everything has run smoothly; my presence here is no longer really necessary.”

“Hmm.”

“How long have you been working security?”

“A few years. Spent some years in the Marines, did some freelance work when I got out and one thing led to another.” I watch him closely as he speaks, divulging information about himself. I watch the way he moves—no big gestures and no big effort—just calm, easy, and confident.

“Fascinating.” I say the first thing that comes to mind because I am, indeed, fascinated by this man. I would love to know everything about him. How old he is, where he’s from, what side of the bed he prefers to sleep on, how long it would take him to become just another disappointment. I try not to be cynical, but when you’ve known nothing but a steady stream of letdowns, you come to expect nothing more. It doesn’t mean that I don’t hope that someone will eventually surprise me, but I guess I just find it highly unlikely. I’m thirty-seven years old with no prospects, no family, and no children. If it wasn’t for my father, I’d be completely alone in the world.

“Are you going to tell me anything about you?”

“Nothing to tell.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

“I should really be going.”

“Avoiding talking about yourself—that can’t be good.”