A 21st Century Courtesan Read Free Page B

for a moment. He's looking into my eyes, and even in the dark I swear I can see a dim green and gold glow in his. He is too beautiful, this man.
    I want him to kiss me. I want to pull him into the cab with me. I want to take him home and fuck him. But I do none of this.
    “Thank you for the drink. And for the conversation.”
    He gives my fingers a final squeeze. “It was my pleasure. Call me, Valentine.”
    I smile, nod, and he hands me into the cab. He shuts the door, and I give one last shiver.
    The cab pulls into the night, and we are immediately stuck in traffic. I don't dare look behind me to see if he is standing there.
    Joshua.
    I clear my throat, smooth a hand over my hair. His card is in the other hand. I should tear it up. Toss it out the window. But instead I slip it into my bag. I can throw it away later. That's exactly what I should do. Anything else would be ridiculous. Unrealistic. And life has taught me to be realistic. I am the poster child for accepting reality, no matter how ugly. It's this beautiful, nice man who's thrown me off balance.
    I know what I should do. But I close my purse, my fingers tightening on the metal clasp, as though I am still holding the card in my hand. As though I really can call him tomorrow, go on a date. One in which I don't get paid.
    I'm not the sort of woman who can afford to indulge in this kind of fantasy. I will toss the card the moment I get home.
    Won't I?

Chapter Two
    I LET MYSELF INTO my house, the heavy wood door swinging shut behind me. The moment my feet hit the small rug in the entry hall I step out of my gold stiletto heels, curling my toes, enjoying the warm flow of blood. I love the way my legs look in a good stiletto, but they hurt like hell.
    I flip on lights as I make my way down the short hall and into the living room, flopping onto the long dark-brown leather sofa and lying back against the Indian and Moroccan pillows piled there.
    I love this house. It's a big Spanish style with an open floor plan that makes me feel like I can breathe. So different from the oppressive environment I grew up in. But I don't want to think about that now. No, now I just want to enjoy my house.
    I've been decorating for the last four years, ever since I bought the place. It's my favorite thing to do. Besides sex. I love picking out individual pieces. Exotic imports are my favorite; I have a lot of heavy, carved pieces from India, Spain, Southeast Asia. My artwork is a mix of those same ethniccultures and a few pieces from Japan. I love the stark esthetics of modern Japanese art; it's soothing. And all the dark, rich colors put together feel homey to me. I adore the exotic fabrics of these countries: the embroidery and damask, the dark, earthy tones mixed with bolder accents. And then there's my collection of orchids.
    I know, I hardly seem the type. But there's something special about orchids. They seem so fragile, but they're stronger than they look. I can't help but admire that. And they look like the darkest, loveliest part of a woman. I'm not the first person to make the comparison.
    A small collection of orchids sit on the window seat built into the wall of windows facing west, into the hillside, so they don't get too much sun. I have a particular fondness for the white varieties, but I have some in shades of purple, from pale lilac to deep amethyst.
    But enough about my flowers, my house. What I really want to think about is Joshua Spencer. I eye my satin bag, sitting on the table in the entry hall. My fingers itch to take that card out. To feel the papery smoothness between my fingers. To dream of the impossible.
    Because being with a man like him, being with any man when it's not a business arrangement, is entirely out of the question. These things do not happen to girls in my industry. And I've been in it far too long to delude myself.
    Almost ten years. Has it really been that long? I was barely twenty when Enzo found me, and thirty is on the horizon. I suppose I