Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 126154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“Twenty grand,” he tells me. “Twenty grand a session, exclusivity assured for a six-month initial term.”
I laugh out loud. “Twenty fucking grand a session? I could hire Elena ten times over.”
“And Elena is average stock,” he tells me. “We both know it.”
“That’s not quite what you said when you presented her.”
He shrugs. “Elena is Elena, Candice is Candice. Amy is…”
“No longer a fucking virgin,” I finish.
“In demand,” he tells me. “I’ve had five enquiries already this week.”
I’d normally call the cunt’s bluff, but not this time. This time I’m worried the prick is serious.
“Ten grand,” I tell him, because I’d lose all self-respect by accepting his first offer.
“Fifteen,” he says. “And that’s generous. An extra twenty-percent cash tip on the night, compulsory.”
If looks could kill he’d be dead already. “Twenty fucking percent? It was a five percent compulsory cash tip last time.”
“It is what it is.” His eyes are so fucking smug. “If you don’t like it…”
I should walk. The number one rule of negotiation, never be afraid to walk away, never accept the weaker position.
But I don’t. I don’t fucking walk.
“And how much does she make from this? Amy?”
He laughs as though the question is absurd. “Seventy percent as standard. One hundred percent of her cash tip, of course.”
“Of course.”
I contemplate the prospect of signing away the best part of twenty grand to sweet little Amy every weekend, contemplate how likely she is to stay a six-month course. But it’s pointless. My heart is already pounding in my temples, frantic beneath the surface of my poker face.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Delaney’s. Weekly. Right through until breakfast, at my pleasure.”
He holds out a hand. “I’ll set it up.”
It makes me cringe to shake it. “Six-month term, Claude. Don’t fuck me about.”
He nods. “It’s done.”
Melissa
I can hardly breathe when the email pings.
Dean calls up the message and clears his throat.
“Well?” I quiz. I try to read his face, but he’s still scanning the screen.
He smiles at me. “It’s good. Really fucking good.”
My heart thumps as I leap from my seat and join him on the sofa. I grab the handset from him, my eyes hungry for detail.
Six month exclusivity. Weekly schedule. Saturdays from eight at Delaney’s Spa Resort.
Small print about referring to the original sale paperwork, more small print about accepting absolute exclusivity as a condition of sale.
And then finally, the piece of information I’ve been waiting for.
Your client is Ted Brown.
A click box to confirm the agreement.
I click without hesitation.
Dean stares at me. “You really want to sign up to this shit for six months?”
“You’re kidding, right? I’d sign up for sixty years.”
He shakes his head. “I’m being serious, Lissa. Who knows what crap can happen in six months?”
My belly flutters at the thought.
A lot.
A lot can happen in six months.
I’m counting on it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alexander
I spend my entire working life facing people down without so much as breaking a sweat. I never lose a stare-off, haven’t done in all my years in the courtroom.
I don’t do nervous. I’ve never done nervous.
But tonight, as I check the knot of my tie is positioned just fucking so, I’m definitely feeling a shiver of trepidation.
I don’t know why this one night is even registering on my radar. It should be nothing more than a dirty little fuckfest, no different to any other time I’ve reached in my pocket and paid generously for the experience I want.
But her lucky stone is in my trouser pocket. Her pretty eyes are in my head.
The promise of a second round on her tight little cunt has my dick standing to attention before I’ve even fastened up my cufflinks.
I feel the ridiculous urge to buy her something. A beautiful bouquet of orchids like the ones downstairs. Belgian chocolates maybe.
But cliché gifts seem cheap and unoriginal, and a girl like Amy is anything but cheap and unoriginal. I have a half a million shaped dent in my bank account to prove it.
I take a bundle of notes from my safe and slip them into my jacket pocket, Claude’s ridiculous compulsory tip sorted.
There’s a niggle in my gut as I say goodbye to Brutus, and that niggle won’t let me cross the threshold.
I already know what I’m going for as I head upstairs. I input the code to my cabinet and my eyes sweep immediately to the second shelf down. A polished fire opal, its colours so glorious in the light.
This stone transfixed me, captured my eye at an auction in Dubai almost a decade ago.
I had to have it, at any cost. I paid well over the fucking odds for it, but I didn’t care. I felt nothing but relief as that gavel came down.
It’s a fitting gift.
I wrap it in a burgundy silk handkerchief, slipping it into my pocket along with the cash.
The niggle in my gut is gone when I face my front door for the second time.