Illusions: A prequel novella to Mirage (3 page)

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.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I question, taking offense.

“People who don’t like to talk about themselves usually have a lot to hide.”

“What are you, an FBI profiler?” I challenge him, half annoyed at his comment. “I have nothing to hide. I just don’t know you well enough to give you the intimate details of my life.” No statement has ever been more true or more full of shit. The irony of that is not lost on me. The truth is that I have plenty to hide, but I also don’t know him well enough to trust him, and I probably never will. Only a handful of people know my secrets, and I’m not looking to add to that number. My discretion is the thing that has helped my business to grow this much over the years. It’s also the thing that has kept me away from the long arm of the law.

“I just know what I know.”

“And you think you know me.”

“No, but then again, I don’t think many people know you.”

Talk about hitting the head right on the nail. Am I really that easy to read, or is it just that he has some sort of insight on me? “Now you’re getting somewhere.”

“Have dinner with me.” It’s not a question; it sounds more like a command. And though I’m not the type of girl to cave to the demands of others, I really want to relent to his.

“Where did that come from? It’s kind of out of nowhere.”

“Why beat around the bush? You’ll never get what you want if you don’t ask for it.”

“And you want me?”

“I want dinner…with you.” I watch the bobbing of his throat as he swallows a swig of his drink, and instinctively, I swallow too, feeling almost like prey being hunted.

“No.”

“No?” He questions with an arch of the brow.

“No.”

He places his drink back on the bar and gives me a slow nod. “All right, I can take a hint. I’ll back off. It was a pleasure to meet you, Victoria.”

“You, too,” I return, secretly wishing that he would have pushed a little harder, secretly wishing he had twisted my arm about dinner, but knowing that it’s better this way. Jumping off my stool, I reach for my purse and turn back to face him. Jesus, looking at him is hard. He’s just too… I need to get far away from him.

“I’ll see you around sometime.” He smiles just barely, but says nothing as I walk away, closing the slight crack in the window of possibilities that may have existed with Nathan Lennox.

Meeting him was one of those moments…those moments that stick with you for some reason and stay trapped in your brain with no way out. The entire ride home, I try to think of something else, anything else, but every thought led me right back to him. I was seriously attracted to this man, and I could tell that he wouldn’t be easily forgotten. He made the night somehow infinitely better even though I did my damnedest to get away from him. What would I do with someone like him anyway? I’d never be able to explain my life to him, and I’m so tired of keeping it hidden from everyone. There are days that I feel like I’m living a double life and allowing someone entrance would only be asking for trouble.

I’m getting ahead of myself anyway. He only asked me out for dinner. It was only one meal. I could do the casual thing and use him for sex—which, by the way, I’m severely missing right about now—but something tells me that Nathan would be trouble. Something tells me that Nathan wouldn’t just go away quietly when the time came. No, he said it himself—he knows what he wants, and based on his looks alone, I’m almost positive that he gets what he wants, too. None of this even matters; I didn’t give him my number, and he didn’t offer his. He’s gone.

I roll onto my stomach, hugging the pillow closer to me and hoping that sleep will come soon. Try as I might, I just can’t clear the thoughts in my head; I can’t push all of the really bad ideas swirling around up there out. I try to think about all of the things that I have to do in the next few days—meetings I need to take, a visit to the spa to make sure it hasn’t been run into the ground by now because it’s my only tie to legitimacy, and checking in with my newest girls. It almost helps—almost. I let my eyes drift shut, and it might just be enough to lull me into slumber, but my phone rings, breaking through the brief moment of peace.

Picking up my cell, I look down at the caller ID. It shows an unknown number and I let out a sigh. I hate unknown numbers, but I always pick up just in case it’s one of my girls trying to get in touch with me.

“Hello.”

“You don’t want dinner,” a deep voice says, “then how about coffee?”

“Excuse me?”

“Coffee… you and me tomorrow morning.”

“Who is this?” I question, knowing full well who it is. I’m playing on the assumption that acting clueless will make this conversation not real.

“I think you know exactly who this is. It’s Nathan Lennox; we met tonight at the charity event where you hastily turned down my dinner invite.”

I sit up leaning against the slew of oversized pillows on my bed. “I vaguely recall that. How did you get my number? Stalking is a crime, you know.”

“Your assistant, Ivy, was all too willing to help out a man in my situation.”

I don’t know whether to kill Ivy, fire her, or kiss her and give her a raise. “And what situation is that?”

“I’ve been stricken.”

“Stricken? By what?”

“An overwhelming desire to see you again.”

“Ohhh.” I drag out my response sarcastically, along with an uncontrollable giggle. “That was a bad pick-up line.”

“It was?” He sounds surprised that I called him out on it.

“It was.”

“I thought it was pretty good; at least give me some credit for originality.”

“Eh.”

“It could have been worse.”

“Worse than that?” I’m egging him on, I know, but it makes me feel almost childlike to let a little of the silliness out of me. I rarely get a chance to do that anymore.

“I’m sorry for bothering you, Victoria. I know you must be tired—ask me how I know you’re tired.”

“How do you know I’m tired?” If I smile any wider, I think that my face might just freeze.

“Because you’ve been running through my mind all night.”

“You’re right; that is worse.”

“I told you. So, how about that coffee?”

“I don’t know. Things are just complicated right now, and I’m really busy.”

“It’s just coffee. You probably spend more time doing your hair.”

“Okay,” I relent. It’s not like I don’t want to go out with him; that much is painfully obvious.

“Tomorrow morning at nine o’ clock?”

“Sure.”

“Great, I’ll text you the place. Good night, Victoria.”

“Good night, Nathan.”

Suddenly, my night has gotten a little bit better, a little less lonely, and all those questions that I was asking myself earlier seem unimportant. I can manage a few dates with Nathan without losing my head or sabotaging my business. Everything can go on as it normally does except now I get to have coffee.