The Accidental Call Girl (18 page)

And yet he trusted her. Without knowing why, he knew he’d be safe in her hands. Perhaps it was because she put her trust in him? She hadn’t been in the life long, he was sure of it, and she had no one to protect her if he had happened to be a dangerous psycho. Yet she still came to him, and still allowed him to touch her and spank her.

Bettie wasn’t a stupid woman, but she was almost sweetly naïve in some ways. And she made him feel that way too, as if all was new and fresh and untrammelled by the past, and its weight of associations
. . .
and regrets.

He smiled as he stepped into the shower, then laughed at himself as the water teemed down. Hell, he was just as wet behind the ears as she was. With a world of resources at his fingertips, he could have found out exactly who she was, where she lived, what kind of circumstances might have predicated her choices, everything about her, probably within half an hour. But he hadn’t done it. He hadn’t even looked to see if she had a website.

I just want the here and now, and our game, Bettie. If that is your real name? I don’t want the past . . . or the future. Just a little while, like this. That’s all.

So why, as he soaped his body, and wondered whether to deal with the demands of his erection, or save it for the woman just beyond the door, did his usual modus operandi suddenly oppress him?

Why did he feel unsettled? Yearning? Wanting more?

Where did one start, looking up a man called
John Smith
on the internet? Surely there must be thousands, hundreds of thousands of them, and that horde not even including those who used it as an alias.

She clicked the ‘x’ to close Chrome, even before she’d put ‘John Smith’ into Google. It was probably pointless trying anyway.

The screen mocked her. There was no revealing screensaver, no wallpaper. Just plain blue, the screen matte and unrevealing, in a businesslike and sombre high-end machine. Eyeing the email program logo, she pursed her lips. No, she couldn’t go there. That was private. John had trusted her.

Then, about to open Chrome again, she noticed an icon in the upper left corner.

JS Intranet
.

JS? His company or whatever? It was a bit understated.

She clicked open the browser and plugged ‘John Smith business’ into it. She was just a very average Googler, not a clever web sleuth, so she selected the Wikipedia link at the top of the results list.

In the course of the next few minutes, as the shower ran reassuringly in the next room, Lizzie gasped, aloud, several times. His Wiki entry was frustratingly skimpy, but had enough to blow her mind anyway.

Good God Almighty, no wonder you think nothing of blowing a grand for an hour or so with an escort
.

John Smith was a very rich man.

John Smith really was a ‘John Smith’, well, after a fashion. He had other names too. Not to mention a title he didn’t use because of some hinted-at family estrangement.

John Smith had been married, but apparently wasn’t any more.

Oh God, what if he’d
still
been married?

The fact that she hadn’t even thought about it chilled her marrow. Obviously it wouldn’t have mattered to a real escort. Married men sought out escorts all the time. But she wasn’t one, and she didn’t believe in doing over another woman by sleeping with her husband, no way. She remembered her own mother’s anguish over her father’s brief fling. They were reconciled now and, to the best of her knowledge, happier than before. But still, the sound of Ma’s bitter tears still rang in her mind.

You’ve turned my head, John Smith. Made me forget stuff I’ve sworn never to forget, goddamn you.

Chastened, Lizzie frowned over other information, just as stark and jaw-dropping in its own way. More so . . . much more.

A conviction for dangerous driving? So serious that he’d served a stretch in prison? How bad must the offence have been to merit incarceration? Good grief, had he killed someone?

The details were brief and unrevealing, but did she even want to know more? How could she judge him? He didn’t seem like the kind of callous brute who’d deliberately harm anyone – in fact, quite the reverse. He’d been exquisitely solicitous of her welfare. It was hard to believe any ill of him, but at some time during his youth, over twenty years ago, he’d driven so recklessly they’d put him in prison.

Suddenly, she decided she didn’t want to know more. The John of today was a good man. She knew it in her heart and her gut. Whatever he’d done, he’d paid a price, and no doubt still felt remorse.

Frantic digital scrabbling around for celeb gossip and titbits about his love life seemed trivial and rather silly now, so she pushed the laptop away and reached for her tea. Surprisingly, it was still quite hot.

It had only taken a few moments to see her ‘client’ in a whole new light. Or lights.

The bathroom door swung open as she was nibbling her scone, and John ambled in, bath sheet around his hips, and rubbing his hair with a smaller towel. When he flung that away, his blond locks gleamed around his head, in angelic curls, making him look so much younger than his now confirmed forty-six years.

‘Uh oh,’ he said, seeing her face.

‘I only did a search with Google. I didn’t look at any of your stuff.’

‘I never expected you to look at my stuff, but I can see your search proved fruitful.’ He strolled to the side of the bed and retrieved his cup, and replenished it before turning back to her. Then he pulled up a chair to the side of the bed, and sat down, his face serious. ‘So, let’s have it, what do you want to know about first?’

‘I really don’t know where to begin. You’re full of surprises.’

And of temptation too.

Faced with him, all damp and tousled in his freshly showered beauty, none of the revelations seemed to matter much as they
should
have done. Real as they were, they still seemed a million miles away, and about some other person. She hesitated to say
her
John, but what she’d discovered on the web was about a John, one who existed outside of their own magic bubble. Whatever he’d done and whatever and whoever he was, she just couldn’t find it in her to think less of him. He was still the man who turned her head. Still the man she was infatuated with, in body and mind. A breath-taking fortune, a title, an ex-wife and, hell, even a prison record, none of it made her feel different. She still just wanted him.

He continued to stare at her, though, his eyes luminous yet full of shadows and a dark hint of apprehension, so she grabbed at something, the least problematical thing. ‘Well, I thought you were loaded, but I didn’t realise you had, like, a billion squillion pounds and owned about forty businesses . . . and what on earth are you doing at a place like the Waverley? I mean, it’s lovely. I think it’s the nicest hotel I’ve ever been in, but it’s quite small, really, and apparently you own a much bigger hotel only ten miles away . . .’ A thought occurred. ‘You’re not buying the Waverley too, are you?’

John regarded her steadily for what seemed like an eternity, and it seemed as if she were far more revealed to him by her omissions than he’d been by anything on the internet. Then he nodded his head, as if accepting her desire not to examine certain areas . . .

With a rueful shrug, he said, ‘I’d love to buy the Waverley. I’ve made them an offer, but they won’t sell. They want to keep it exclusive and family owned, and I can’t really blame them.’

‘I don’t either. I’m glad they won’t sell out. You plutocrats shouldn’t have things all your own way.’

His guarded expression became a smile again, and it was as if he were thanking her, grateful for the return to a simple playfulness of mood. His head came up and he gave her a provocative look. ‘You don’t always say that. Sometimes you like me to have my way.’ He paused and took a sip of tea. ‘What’s wrong, are you thinking now that you should have been charging me more?’

Oh, back to her own issues, her deception . . . If only she’d told him sooner. If only they could
both
be dealing openly. The truth hovered on her lips, but again, she stalled. This no-strings relationship was what he wanted, and to change things now would look as if she was some kind of gold-digger, and trying to trap him emotionally as well.

‘No, like Sherlock Holmes, my fees are on a fixed rate. I think I’m a pretty good value mid-range prostitute but it’d be cheating to ask for more, just because you’ve
got
more.’

‘Well, I must say, that’s a very rational and non-acquisitive way of looking at things, Bettie, and I’m very impressed. I’m not sure others in the same position would be so forbearing.’

Ah, but nobody was in quite the same position.

‘Well, I have to feel good about myself.’

‘True.’ He paused and eyed her, his expression assessing. It was like being subjected to a subtle, unspoken third degree. ‘So, no more questions?’

Despite her resolution a moment ago, dozens of them surged, clamouring in her mind, almost deafening.

How serious had that accident been? Who else had been involved? Why had he divorced? Was there someone else in his life now? Why, when he’d grown up at a beautiful stately home like Montcalm, wasn’t he staying
there
? It was only a twenty-minute drive from the Waverley . . . was he really so estranged from his family that he never visited them? She’d had her own problems on that score, disappointing her parents and not following their plan for her, but the love was still there, despite all.

Stop it, Lizzie, it’s not your business. He’s that cliché . . . the ship that’s passing in the night.

She pursed her lips, actively suppressing any further enquiry. She was sure he didn’t really want her to ask. He knew this was all transitory too, so why spoil it while they had it?

‘Not right now. You are what you are, John, it makes no difference to me. You’re a wonderful client. Nothing changes that.’

For a moment his eyes narrowed, and again, she teetered on the brink of spilling her own secret, but then he smiled his dazzling sunrise smile and all thoughts of the best way to tackle it dissolved like mist. She just wanted to touch him and to be with him. All the questions would be locked in a box for the moment. Perhaps for ever . . .

The line was drawn. Now they moved on. Their agreement silent, yet total.

‘And you’re a wonderful companion, Bettie. A wonderful lover,’ John said, rising from his seat, setting aside his cup, and striding around to the other side of the bed. Closing the laptop and moving it aside, he flung himself down beside her, leaning on his elbow. ‘I thought I was just about sated. That I’d doused my fires in the shower. But somehow, I find myself wanting you again.’ Still staring into her eyes, he unfastened his robe and revealed the evidence, his cock, hard and high, gleaming and ready for action.

So beautiful. So familiar to her now, after just a couple of days. Reaching out, she touched him, folding her fingers lightly around him and loving the heat and the silky texture of his skin there.

‘Oh yeah . . .’ His lashes fluttered and he drew in a deep breath, then smiled as she massaged him with her thumb.

‘Did you deal with yourself in the shower?’ If he had done, his powers of recuperation were truly phenomenal. Especially after his performance . . . his
performances
in the woods. As he nodded, she licked her lips, remembering the taste of him and how he’d not really allowed her to give him pleasure there, but had just taken it. Coming up on her knees, she tried to move into position to correct that situation, but he stopped her with a hand on her thigh.

‘Uh oh . . . your turn, I think. Humour me.’ He pushed her gently onto her back, and opened her robe now, baring her body to him. Reaching for a bottle of water that stood on the bedside table, he took a sip. ‘Just clearing my palate,’ he said, with a wink.

Lizzie shuddered, watching the stroke of his tongue across his lips and already feeling it between her legs. She wanted to move again, to writhe in anticipation, and to hell with any lingering soreness in her bottom. In fact the heat there only made her more excited and hungry to be feasted upon.

John came up on his knees and flung off his robe. His body was magnificent, smooth, beautifully formed; not a muscleman but toned in all the right places. His cock swung heavily as he moved.

‘But what about that?’ she asked, nodding at his erection.

‘Don’t fret. He’ll get his turn. Now, open your legs wider. I want to see your gorgeous pussy.’

She obliged, pressing on the insides of her knees, stretching the tendons. The room was warm but the cooler air on the moist surfaces of her sex made her shudder. John shuffled into position and slid his hand beneath her buttocks, his fingers finding her stripes. She shook a little and he looked up into her eyes, his questioning. Was it too much for her? The lingering ache?

In answer, she wriggled in his grip, pushing her crotch forward, opening herself more, inviting and encouraging, rubbing her bottom against his palm and fingers.

John plunged in. Parting her pubic hair with his free hand, he pressed his face to her pussy, tongue darting out and diving in between her labia, going straight for her clit.

‘Oh . . . oh,’ she moaned, astonished at how ready she was. Talking with him, her desire had been diffuse, a murmur in the background. But just one touch of the point of his tongue, right at her heart, and it was screaming loud again.

‘Mm . . .’ he purred against her, the vibration making her toes curl up. Rising on her heels, she shoved herself at his face, gasping with each lash of his tongue against her quivering clitoris. She grabbed at his hair, burying her fingers in the damp gold of his curls, fingers pressing against his scalp. The way she clung on hard was probably more painful to him than the pressure of his fingers against her bottom was to her. But it was impossible not to clasp at him as he tasked her with an over-welling of exquisite sensations.

He flicked and licked. He swivelled his tongue about, circling her centre, lapping at the convoluted folds of her sex, pausing to suck them between his lips. Playing around, he nuzzled with his nose while thrusting his tongue deep into her entrance.