That sucked. He’d been a regular. Normally longish calls, too.
A few minutes later the phone rang again. Her next appointment wasn’t until the afternoon. She stared at it for three rings. It was probably him again. Sherry wouldn’t have had a chance to get the email. The phone girls weren’t supposed to answer calls from clients who were harassing them, but Annette had never had the best self-control.
“Listen to me, you fucking prick. I am not fat or ugly. You’d fucking cream your pants if you got a glimpse of me, but I don’t need creepers like you knowing what I look like so you can stalk me after business hours.”
“Nice sales pitch, sis.”
Annette let out a long breath. “Jan.” Her twin. Janette was the exact opposite from her except for looks—honest to a fault with the sweetness to match that face. Annette’s face.
“Sorry,” Janette said, “you must have your personal phone on silent. Isn’t that the second guy this week to do this?”
“What can I say? I give good talk. The poor fools get attached. Are we still meeting later this afternoon to go shopping?”
“I can’t. I finally decided to take you up on the massage therapy suggestion. Pre-med is kicking my ass, and I need to unwind in a way more involved than shopping.”
“You going to that girl I suggested?” Annette asked.
“No, actually, a friend gave me a gift card. I’m going to a place called...” There was paper shuffling in the background. “Dome. Ever hear of it?”
“Is it that new fancy place downtown with the glass roof and all the plants?”
“That’s the one. They have a restaurant; I could meet you there for a late lunch afterward,” Janette said.
“Sorry, can’t. I have a call.”
“You always have a call.”
“Hey, don’t bitch. It pays our rent and keeps you in the expensive sugary cereal.”
Janette laughed. “You take such good care of me.”
“What are big sisters for?”
“You’re only five minutes older. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. Later,” Annette said.
“I’m sure I’ll be a new woman the next time you see me.”
Annette laughed. “I’m counting on it. The old one is so last year.”
She clicked the phone off and stood and stretched. She still felt like ass from all the vodka. She needed a nice hot shower to get herself together for her next call. She’d finish her nails then.
The spray of hot water washed over her as a flash of memory hit. That sultry Russian accent wrapped around her once again as the steam rose off her skin.
“And what would you do?” she’d asked with fake innocence after making his mouth water with all the kinky things she’d claimed she was into.
He leaned in close to her ear. “I could kidnap you. I could take you away to my castle and make you my pleasure slave. I would take very good care of you. You’d be my pet. Would you like that, kiska?” His words weren’t slurred even though he’d had far more to drink than she had.
If she were just a bit more sober, this would worry her, considering the things he was saying even without the aid of too much drink.
Maybe he’d switched to water when she wasn’t looking.
“Yes. That would be so hot,” she whispered. “Would you tie me up?”
“I would have to. We wouldn’t want you to get away.” His hand grazed her thigh, moving ever higher under her skirt. She angled toward him and let her legs fall open. The stranger’s fingertips teased her through her panties.
“Or, I could take you home with me now.” He helped her up off the leather sofa and led her to the door. The strobe lights and electronic music made her feel as though she were vibrating.
Annette couldn’t remember most of what came after. Just that she’d had a dazed sort of panic as she realized she probably should get the hell out while she could. No way was she prepared to do half the things she’d bullshitted about. She’d just enjoyed his attention.
Those dark, smoldering eyes. That wavy black hair. And those cheekbones. To say nothing of his sleek, well-developed muscles that had been obvious through his well-tailored shirt.
The next thing she remembered, she’d puked on his shoes and then clumsily fell into the back seat of a cab. She didn’t remember how she got in her apartment. Maybe Janette had heard her fumbling around outside and helped her.
As she lingered on memories of the Russian, her hand slipped between her legs. Goosebumps broke out over her flesh even under the heat of the shower. She might lie about a lot of things, but the one thing that was honest was how much she’d wanted him to touch her.
She’d been too drunk. All the lies that had fallen from her lips to impress him were far more than she thought she could do with anyone. After all, from what little she’d heard, those sorts of games required a lot of trust, and liars had the hardest time trusting of all.
“I’m taking the corner suite on the third floor,” Anton said, as if the prime spots closer to the main spaces in the house hadn’t already been claimed anyway.
Lindsay and Gabe were both taking suites on the second floor. The two men couldn’t be more different. Lindsay was a fifty-two-year-old shrink—Brian’s shrink. And Gabe was the twenty-seven-year-old kid brother of one of Anton’s friends from college. Gabe had quit school to surf and live off his sizable trust fund until Anton had convinced him to find a more productive—if not criminal—use of his time.
Brian came upstairs then. He’d been busy setting up a makeshift suite down in the dungeons. He’d chosen the side with more rooms, the incinerator, and on the other end, a larger room with a bathroom which he’d claimed as his living quarters.
“Are we sure Michael won’t be joining us?” Brian asked.
Michael, Brian, and Anton had all been roommates at Yale. Brian and Michael couldn’t stand each other, and Anton had spent most of his time there running interference.
“I promise. He says he’s not into it,” Anton said.
“He’ll talk,” Brian said. He got that gleam in his eyes like he looked like he wanted to take care of the Michael Problem even before there was one.
“No. He won’t. The only reason he’s not joining us is that he just got married.” Though Anton wasn’t sure about that at all. Michael had seemed disgusted by the idea.
“It’s been three years,” Brian said. “They’re hardly newlyweds. But I get it. It’s not practical. I hate that son of a bitch anyway.”
“We know,” Anton said.
“What’s her name again?”
“Who? His wife? Vivian.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “Right. Vivian. With a name like that, she’s definitely trouble.”
“She doesn’t come from money,” Anton said.
“Even worse. And she isn’t even kinky. That shit will never work out.”
Anton wasn’t sure who’d come up with the business idea. There had been a lot of alcohol involved that night. But it was probably Brian. Lindsay had become more than a shrink to Brian. He’d become something of a friend. They’d been tossing back shots of a single malt scotch Gabe brought and making jokes about the kind of business they’d start if they could all start one together.