A 21st Century Courtesan Read Free

operas are tragic,” I say.
    “Yes, but no one does tragedy like the Italians.”
    I smile. “True. Unless it's the French.”
    We sit quietly for a moment, and that's when I notice he's looking right at me. I don't mean that in any sort of romanticterms. But I'm used to men seeing me as an object. That doesn't offend me. It's a requirement of my occupation. But when a man really looks at me, sees
me
, I notice.
    This man is obviously far too nice a guy to be talking to a woman like me. Not that my clients aren't good people. But this nice man thinks he's flirting with a nice woman. If he only knew.
    But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it, does it? Just an evening of innocent flirtation. It's fun being a bit of a tease now and then, something I rarely get to do. When you get paid for sex, everyone knows up front what you're there for, even when a client simply wants me to be arm candy at an event. Of course, even those evenings usually end in sex. It's far too easy for the guy. I'm right there, paid in full. Why wouldn't he want to have sex with me? Or a quick blow job in the car, at the very least. I am every bit as good at being a companion as I am at sex. But it's nice to play at it for a little while. To simply be myself, to savor this sort of attention.
    The house lights dim, go dark, and the orchestra begins. I let the music wash over me, trying to ignore this man seated only inches away. This man who I have no business flirting with.
    The opera is wonderful, the woman singing the part of Violetta is beautiful and incredibly talented, a lovely, pure soprano. But I'm unable to become lost in the story. I am much too aware of his scent, his presence. I swear I can feel the heat emanating from him like an invitation.
    I glance over at him, looking for a moment too long, and he turns and smiles at me.
    I look away, flustered now. Embarrassed.
    When was the last time a man managed to fluster me?
    I force myself to focus on the music, on the costumes. Itreally is a wonderful production, the sets colorful, dynamic, the costumes gorgeous. And the singing is superb.
    Hours later, or so it seems, the lights come up. Intermission. God, I need a drink. I rise quickly and make my way to the lobby bar.
    It's crowded, as it always is during the intermission. Voices, laughter, mingled with the clink of ice in glasses, the flash of jewelry. I look around, scanning the crowd. I realize that I'm looking for
him.
    I realize that I have turned into some sort of foolish schoolgirl. I shake my head in disgust.
    A voice just over my shoulder.
His
voice.
    “It's impossible to elbow your way to the front at these things, isn't it? Let me order a drink for you.”
    “Oh, no, that's not necessary.”
    His gaze catches mine. I can see flecks of green and gold in his eyes in the bright lights of the lobby. He's taller than I'd thought.
    “I'd like to buy you a drink.”
    I feel momentarily stunned. Whatever is wrong with me? “Well. Alright. I'd appreciate it. A Tanqueray and tonic.”
    “Don't go anywhere,” he says, giving me a wink.
    I watch as he makes his way to the bar, shifting into the crowd. Utterly confident. Polite. Graceful.
    There is a certain kind of man who moves that way. Men of power. Men who are entirely assured of themselves. A small shiver runs through me.
    He returns in only a few minutes, handing me the drink and a paper napkin. I notice he's drinking scotch on the rocks. I can smell it, a nice blend.
    “Thank you. I'm Valentine Day, by the way,” I tell him, giving him my full name. My clients know me only as Val. OnlyEnzo gets to call me Valentine. Only Enzo knows my last name. But my name is
mine.
I have to draw the line somewhere.
    He takes my hand in his. “I'm Joshua Spencer.”
    A current flashes up my arm, shafting deep into my body. Heat. Desire. I pull my hand back, trying not to do it too quickly, trying not to appear rude.
    “So,” I ask, pausing to sip my drink, covering my discomfort, “what do you