The Accidental Call Girl Page 4

  But Bettie seemed completely unfettered by all that. She was full throttle. There was no way she could have fabricated her enjoyment of the sex; there was no way she could have faked the unprocessed excitement she’d exhibited, the response when he’d spanked her luscious bottom.

  She loved it, and maybe that was the explanation. Most whores encountered clients who wanted to take the punishment, not dish it out. Maybe she wasn’t all that experienced in being on the receiving end of BDSM? But she was a natural, and he needed a natural right now. Someone fresh, and vigorous, and enthusiastic. Unschooled, but with a deep, innate understanding of the mysteries.

  He had to see her again. And see her soon.

  3

  Gorgeous

  ‘Are you out of your mind, you idiot? Just because it’s called “being on the game” that doesn’t mean it is a game. You can’t just play at it, Lizzie!’

  Brent was furious. Lizzie got that. Her male house-mate had been an escort himself, on and off, and her wild escapade with John Smith must seem like a bit of an insult to him, and to men and women who lived the life and took it seriously.

  She looked from one of her companions to the other, hoping for some support from Shelley, the third house-sharer. But Shelley was just gawping at her as if she was a space alien, as if a pod person had overtaken her normally moderately sensible friend.

  ‘I meant to tell him, really I did. But things got a bit passionate, and there didn’t seem to be the right moment.’ Their black tailless cat, Mulder, leapt up onto her lap and automatically Lizzie began to stroke her. The rhythmic action, and the little feline’s soft purr, settled and centred her. ‘Also, it was patently obvious he wanted an escort. Not a one-night stand. No complications, know what I mean? If I’d told him he was mistaken, it might have been, “Oops, sorry, thank you and goodnight” . . . and he was far too gorgeous for that.’

  Gorgeous was too small a word, though. Too simple. John Smith had a plain name but her instincts told her he was a complicated man. Very complicated.

  ‘Ooh, I wish I’d nipped into the bar and seen him.’ Shelley finally found her voice. ‘The party was OK . . . but there wasn’t much talent, and what there was seemed to be taken already. Same old story.’

  Guilt tweaked at Lizzie. Not about John, but about abandoning her friends. If she’d stayed with them, they’d all have found a way to have a laugh, dud party or no dud party. Between them, she and Shelley might even have coaxed the old Brent out of hiding. The one who’d always had them in stitches with snarky remarks and razor-sharp observations.

  But Brent was still frowning, his black brows low. They all three were sitting in the kitchen together, the morning after the night before, touching base. There had been no chance to talk in the taxi home from the Waverley because the driver had been the nosy, garrulous kind, asking questions in a slightly seedy way about their evening. Lizzie had feigned an exhaustion that hadn’t been entirely faux, and once they’d got home, to the house they shared in a quiet suburban road, not too far out of town, Lizzie had scuttled to her room with yawned apologies to Shelley and Brent, not wanting to do anything but think about John Smith.

  And she’d done nothing but think of him all night. Despite her tiredness, she’d lain awake, imagining herself still lying under him, being pounded. She could still feel him now, as if his flesh had imprinted itself upon her, as if his cock was there inside her still. As if his strong, deft fingertip was still on her clit as he spanked her.

  Lizzie! Get a grip! Stop being a sex fiend!

  But hell, yes, that spanking. She kept coming back to it, again and again.

  And now, both Shelley and Brent were still staring at her. Shelley looked a bit lost in admiration, to be honest, but their handsome flatmate was cross. Lizzie knew why. He was worried about her welfare, and knowing what he knew about the life of an escort, she could easily see why he’d be concerned.

  ‘I think you’d have liked him. You’re a good judge of character. If you’d met him, you’d have known he was pukka.’

  Brent’s expression softened. ‘I’m not that great a judge . . . not always.’ He gave a shrug of his lean shoulders, and swept his dark hair out of his eyes. Eyes that could flash with wicked humour, but also show a terrible, terrible sadness. ‘But still, this John Smith of yours . . . I mean, “John Smith”, what the hell kind of name is that? At least he could have chosen something a bit more imaginative.’

  Lizzie fished a card out of her robe pocket. A business card, plain white, with a name and a mobile number in a sharp, no-nonsense font and a tiny logo, an entwined J & S in the corner.

  ‘It’s his name. Really.’ As Shelley craned for a look, she handed over the card to Brent, remembering her bark of astonished laughter.

  ‘It really is my name,’ he’d reiterated, smiling as she’d emerged from the bathroom, her clothing set to rights, even if her mind and her senses were still in turmoil. He’d changed into a long, dark blue silk robe, and the idea of his naked body beneath the thin, light cloth had almost made her beg him to let her stay.

  But she hadn’t. He didn’t want that. He’d calmly and composedly explained that all he wanted for the duration of his stay in the area – business stuff, looking over properties, acquisitions – was a beautiful and experienced woman to have sex with, someone who’d be comfortable with his ‘preferences’, and game for a bit of the ‘fancy’. He was willing to pay, and pay well, particularly if she were to make herself available exclusively to him for the duration. He’d make sure that she was well compensated for any income lost by not seeing other clients.

  Brent turned the card over in his fingers as Lizzie outlined all this to him, and Shelley listened, all ears.

  ‘Ooh, just like Pretty Woman . . . You lucky bitch!’ She grinned, and though Lizzie sensed a bit of genuine envy in her friend, she knew it was good-natured. ‘Trust you to score a freaking millionaire or whatever, you jammy thing.’

  ‘Well . . . on the face of it, it sounds like the ideal gig,’ observed Brent. ‘A high-roller with not too many strings attached, and hopefully not too weird. He doesn’t want the girlfriend experience, then? No all-nighters?’

  ‘Nope, just evenings. He’s busy with what sounds like high-powered “tycoon” type stuff during the day, and at night he prefers to sleep alone.’ Ignoring the word weird for the time being, she nevertheless experienced a pang. It was daft to want it, but the idea of actually curling up for sleep with John was suddenly infinitely appealing. Almost as much as fucking him, or feeling his hand strike her bottom. She could still smell the clean scent of him, and imagine cuddling against his warm skin, dozing off.

  No, no, no . . . don’t go there. This is what it is.

  And that thing was a slightly crazy lark and a chance to broaden her sexual horizons with an interesting and very desirable man. A chance to be someone other than Lizzie Aitchison, ordinary girl bored to death with office temping, and in a limbo of not quite having figured out what to do with her life, even at twenty-four.

  ‘Probably for the best. You’re playing with fire, my girl, and the less time you have the matches in your hand, the better.’ Brent shrugged sagely.

  Mulder the cat wriggled out of her arms, as if sensing her unease, and trotted off out of the room. While Shelley made ‘Don’t listen to him . . . tell me more!’ faces behind his back, Lizzie eyed Brent, who’d got up to fetch the teapot and top up their mugs. It was easier to talk to his narrow shoulders about certain matters.

  ‘Er . . . what do you know about BDSM? John seems to be into that sort of thing. He said he’d like to . . . well . . . experiment more next time.’

  ‘BDSM? Yikes!’ Shelley edged forward. She looked like a wide-eyed, slightly prurient pixie, with smudges of last night’s mascara and her cap of ash blonde hair standing up in morning tufts.

  Brent rolled his eyes as he set down the teapot on its mat in the middle of the table. ‘Oh, please don’t tell me he wants you to spank him? It’s much harder than
it looks in the films and on the telly. It’s an art, and you can really hurt someone if you don’t know what you’re doing. Which, unless I know less about your previous adventures than you’ve told me, you don’t.’

  Eyes narrowed, he poured the tea, waiting; while Shelley seemed beside herself with excited anticipation.

  ‘No, actually, it’s the other way round. He wants to spank me . . . Um . . . to spank me again.’

  ‘Oh my, we are already in deep, aren’t we?’ Brent studied her over the rim of his mug, his pale blue eyes worried. But he also looking vaguely admiring, as if she’d impressed him somehow. All three of the house-mates shared quite intimate confidences, but she and Brent were especially close, both emotionally and about their sex lives. Lizzie hoped it could stay that way. She couldn’t bear to think they’d just hit a barrier with him when he needed both her and Shelley so much.

  ‘Deepish . . . although I don’t think he’s a vicious sadist or anything. It’s just a pain and pleasure thing with him.’ She stared into her mug, imagining it was a glass of gin, crystal clear and with answers swimming in it.

  ‘Do you even know what a sadist is? Or a dominant? They’re a bit different, you know.’ Brent’s voice was sharp.

  ‘Yes, I sort of get the gist . . . but it’s all theoretical, from sexy stories and what have you. I’ve never had any practice, really, other than a bit of horsing around that didn’t account to anything and ended up just getting rather embarrassing.’

  ‘Er . . . what horsing around? You’ve never told me about this?’ Shelley demanded.

  Lizzie felt rather hot all of a sudden. It was OK talking to one or other of her friends about personal topics, one on one, but this was turning into something suspiciously like a being grilled by the panel situation. ‘Er . . . don’t you have a special gig this morning?’ she asked Shelley, grasping a welcome straw that had just occurred to her. The two of them temped for the same secretarial agency, and she knew the other girl had something booked in for today, even though it was a Saturday. Double rate was always welcome.

  ‘Oh shit! Fuck! Yes, I have and I’m going to be buggering well late!’ Shelley flung herself off her stool, spilling tea in the process. Abandoning her mug, and grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl for a travelling breakfast, she made for the door. ‘I want all the gruesome details later! I mean it! Promise?’ she flung over her shoulder before disappearing out of the door and thundering up the stairs to her room.

  ‘Promise,’ said Lizzie, returning her attention to Brent now they were alone.

  ‘You do need to be careful, love.’ Worry was winning the battle in his eyes. ‘You need to set firm limits beforehand. Establish a safe word. Especially if you’re supposed to be an escort . . . Most don’t tend to “sub” because they can’t risk getting bruised and looking a mess for the next client. I’ve often been asked to dispense it, though. You know, women, and men too . . . when they read the latest hot book and they want to know what it feels like.’

  Lizzie explained the general outline of John’s proposition, and how he’d offered to compensate her on that score.

  ‘Well, in that case, if you promise to stay safe, and keep your phone handy with my number at the ready . . . Maybe you should go for it, if only for one more date. Are you supposed to see this gorgeous, gin-drinking dominant of yours tonight, then? How are you communicating with him? You haven’t given him your normal phone number, have you?’ He glanced across at the twin electrical socket in the corner, with his personal iPhone, and his ‘working’ iPhone, both currently charging. He hadn’t been on any appointments in a long, long time, but he still kept the phone charged out of habit. ‘Escorts always have a separate phone, solely for “business”.’

  Lizzie reached for a biscuit, but took two, then another. She’d expended a lot of calories last night in all that writhing about and squirming in pleasure. ‘Ah, I thought of that. I told him I’d just had my phone stolen, and that I wasn’t officially working last night. I gave him my “Bettie” Gmail address so he could contact me . . . and I was going to nip to the phone shop today and get a cheap second phone.’

  Brent looked admiring again. ‘Well, at least part of your brain wasn’t completely softened by lust. Shall we make a day of it? I’m not due in until the four-to-eight stint. We could have lunch, then hit the O2 shop? To spend some of your ill-gotten gains?’ Brent sometimes worked on Saturdays too, in a garden centre, a job he’d dismissed as menial when he’d first grudgingly accepted it as a stop gap, but now seemed to have taken to.

  ‘Absolutely. Unlike you two, I’ve got absolutely no work of any kind today, and I’d love to do lunch.’ Lizzie’s heart lightened, seeing something of the old Brent twinkle coming back. ‘I need some new undies as well . . . something a bit more deluxe.’ She paused again, and felt her blush intensify. ‘And maybe a little detour into the Anne Summers shop . . . for a few, um, accessories. And a lot of condoms, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Brent looked solemn, but he was fighting not to laugh. ‘One must be prepared for anything.’ He reached across the table. ‘If you’re going to do this bonkers thing, you might as well do it right . . . and enjoy yourself. Especially if he’s as gorgeous as you say.’

  ‘Oh, he is . . . he is . . .’

  ‘I’ll make some breakfast, then we’ll make plans.’ Brent rose, lithe and handsome as he crossed the room. Lizzie still found him attractive, but in a detached sort of way. The two of them had enjoyed a fling very briefly, a year or two ago, but had soon realised they liked each other much better as friends, partly because Brent’s true emotional preference was for men.

  ‘Incidentally, how much did you charge?’ he flung over his shoulder, rummaging in the fridge.

  Lizzie named her price, and the bonus John had given her.

  ‘Good grief, woman, you must have been good! That’s as much as I’d have charged for an all-nighter. I can’t believe you pulled down that amount of dosh for something you’d have done for nothing anyway. There’s no justice in this world, you acquisitive little bitch,’ he finished amiably.

  ‘Well, I shan’t keep it all. Just enough for the undies and stuff, and some for the rent and bills pot.’ She remembered her guilt, not over the sex and the subterfuge, just about the money. ‘I’m going to put the rest in an envelope and slip it through the letterbox at the Cats’ Protection shop. Either that or keep it all and give it back to him when he goes.’

  Brent shook his head. ‘If you’re going to do this thing, do it properly. He’s obviously loaded and the money means nothing to him. So spend the money on yourself and on the lucky kitty cats, if you must.’

  Maybe I will . . . Maybe I will . . .

  But why did she somehow feel that she was the one who ought to be paying John Smith for her pleasure, rather than the other way around?

  Don’t look anywhere but where you’re going, Belle had said in The Secret Diary of a Call Girl. Swan straight into a place as if you’re meant to be there, head up, gaze forward, looking fabulous.

  Well, yes, that probably worked beautifully in a huge cosmopolitan hotel in a big city, but the Waverley Grange was just a modest-sized country house hotel, and the staff on reception probably knew precisely who all their guests were, and who was or wasn’t supposed to be in the building. Lizzie’s heart thudded, and not from the delirious excitement of seeing John again. No, it was the fear of being called to account by someone that had her pulse hammering.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, love,’ Brent had said. ‘The Waverley is a rum sort of place and they won’t turn a hair over a guest sending out for an escort. They have regular fetish nights, and the bar is known as an upmarket pick-up spot. Hell, I’ve done appointments there myself, in the past.’

  Still, Lizzie’s nerves jumped when she forgot her resolutions and glanced at the reception desk. A tall, dark, slightly Latin looking man with long black hair was behind the desk. He wore a superb suit, something she might imagine John wearing, but just a tad flashier. Th
e manager, she thought, and he doesn’t half fancy himself. Dark eyes behind metal-framed spectacles appraised her, and he smiled slightly, but his barely perceptible nod seemed to be her pass to the hotel’s interior.

  In the lift, she tried to slow down her breathing, and checked her look in the mirror on the back wall. She’d gone for a businesslike vibe with a smart, navy blue suit she’d once got for a big interview, worn with a crisp white blouse. She hadn’t got the job – there were a hundred people up for it – but she knew she’d looked fantastic on the day. Her hair was shining black, easily guided into its almost natural ‘Bettie’ style, her shoes were her highest heels, and she carried her most humungous bag that could still be termed a handbag rather than a tote. She didn’t like to think what would have happened if the hotel manager had insisted on a security check, although if what Brent said about the Waverley was true, maybe almost everybody marched into the place with bags full of condoms, sex toys, spare lingerie, lubricants and goodness knew what else.

  Reaching John’s floor in moments, she drew in a big breath and stepped out, remembering last night. She’d been with him, his hand at the small of her back, guiding her. Now she had to proceed under her own steam, with the choice to chicken out entirely at her disposal. She fingered the new phone in her bag, with John already listed as a ‘favourite’, along with Brent and Shelley. It would be so easy to call or text, politely declining. Brent would probably even know an alternative girl who’d be happy to take the gig.

  No way!

  At his door, she rapped firmly before second thoughts could grip her.

  ‘Bettie! So glad you made it.’

  Ah, she hadn’t dreamed him. John Smith was just as handsome as she remembered, just as real. It seemed like a week since she’d seen him, a long week in which she’d spent most of her waking moments wanting him again, but really it was just twenty-four hours.