Replacing the cap on her Montblanc pen, Stephanie Duvall closed her leather-bound notebook and offered the young woman a regretful smile.
Unfortunately, she wouldn’t do.
It was not that the girl was unattractive. She was, in an up-to-the-minute way, with wide-set hazel eyes and professionally lightened hair that fell just below her shoulders. She had dressed well for the interview—a point in her favour—but there was something missing. Stephanie would have settled for a spark of genuine interest or enthusiasm. Instead the girl was bland and complacent, almost as though she was simply passing through.
Since her business depended on it, Stephanie’s assessments had to be flawless. As the name suggested, Elite offered only the finest escorts—confident women who appreciated the finer aspects of the role. In addition to the sexual aspect, men expected intelligent and stimulating companionship.
This girl looked the part, but emotionally and mentally she was dull.
“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said, aiming for just the right amount of empathy, “but I’m afraid I cannot take you onto our books.”
There was a swish of nylon as she uncrossed her long legs and placed both pen and notebook on the coffee table. It was a clear sign the interview was at an end.
“Oh.” For a moment the girl looked nonplussed, then shrugged and reached down to pick up the oversized tote bag at her feet.
Following Stephanie into the hallway, she paused to hook the bag onto her shoulder. Her attitude, earlier so admiring of Stephanie’s perfectly styled ice-blonde hair and choice of Armani dress, was now openly disdainful.
“Thankfully I,” the single syllable was heavily emphasized, “don’t need the money that badly.”
Stephanie’s fingers had barely touched the handle of the period front door. The girl’s tone was condescending and bordered on rude, but she’d turned away enough applicants over the years to know the girl was merely reacting to the ignominy of rejection—and for the honor of being a whore at that.
“Of course not,” she replied pleasantly. “This line of work is not for everyone.”
The girl stepped out onto the tree-lined avenue and strode away without a backwards glance.
Shutting the door, Stephanie leaned against it and let out a sigh. Holding interviews was time-consuming and all too often disappointing, but there was no denying the demand for fresh stock. Not that there was anything wrong with the girls who had been with her for a while. Indeed, some men had a preference for the same escort over and over again. But generally speaking, variety and specialization were where the money was, and without that her clients might just as well stay at home and fuck their wives.
Making her way across the marble-tiled foyer to the room that served as her office, she paused at a console table and a display of old-fashioned roses. Three or four petals had dropped onto the polished surface. Gathering them up, she held them to her nose and closed her eyes. As usual the spicy, sensual fragrance did wonders to restore her equilibrium.
“Maddie.” As she entered the room, she dropped the crushed petals into the nearest waste bin. “Can you get me a coffee? I want to go over last week’s figures, and then I think we’ll take a look at our website.”
The hub of the agency was as beautifully styled as the rest of the four story Edwardian townhouse. It was furnished with an eclectic mix of restored French antiques and sharp, contemporary pieces. Seated behind the dual computer screens and phone console, Stephanie’s assistant looked up from her work.
“Do you want me to call Carl?”
“No, it’s too early for that. I’m not looking to make changes, more to brainstorm a few ideas.”
She settled into a Louis XV winged chair, one of her favourite pieces and positioned to make the most of the light from the full height windows overlooking the road. Placing her mobile phone within reach, she opened her laptop.
Maddie was already making her way to the door. “I take it that girl was no good?”
“No. At least not for us.”
Stephanie gave her assistant a tight smile, then pulled up a file and began running down a set of figures.
* * *
Maddie placed a cup onto the tray of the Italian coffee machine and pushed a button. Then she leaned back against the bench and lifted her face to the natural light streaming into the room.
The kitchen at the rear of the townhouse had once been a dark and narrow scullery leading off a rarely used breakfast room. Stephanie had immediately ordered her interior designer to remove the dividing wall and apply a generous coat of white paint. Her next priority had been the installation of full-width floor to ceiling glass doors to give unrestricted access to the small ornamental garden beyond.
Knowing that few other employees spent their days in such a luxurious environment, Maddie valued her job. It was unfortunate that her father would not have seen it the same way. A devout Christian, he would have been very disappointed in her, if the truth were known.
She felt the need to tell him that some things just couldn’t be helped. That life had a knack of throwing curve balls, and in some instances little could be done about it. But there had been no opportunity for that. He was dead, the victim of a road accident some three years earlier.
Burdened with her own grief, her mother became withdrawn, and her dependence dragged Maddie further down. The only solution seemed to be to leave the small town where she’d grown up and move to the city.
She knew no one and had no contacts or personal referrals, so it hadn’t been long before her savings, and her delicately balanced frame of mind, were tested. Desperate for a job and with limited skills to call upon, she’d applied for every possibility, including those that sounded only half hopeful. Stephanie’s advertisement for a personal assistant had been one of the latter.
Their initial meeting had been intimidating at best. Stephanie was tall and statuesque, a blonde goddess probably descended from Viking royalty, Maddie thought, feeling decidedly average in comparison. She also knew in her heart that her experience of working in an office environment would not be enough. It was patchy and mostly limited to a couple of years temping. And on top of everything else, she had mistaken the agency for a dating service, a place for the romantically inclined to meet others of the same ilk. When Stephanie calmly informed her of the reality, Maddie had taken a moment to overcome her shock and then proceeded to talk up her computer literacy. In truth that “literacy” meant little more than knowing her way around Word documents and making the odd foray into Excel. Nevertheless, she put herself forward as being a more than competent administrator.
Unbelievably, she’d been offered the job on the spot.
It had taken only ten days or so to overcome her misgivings. The agency was a million miles from her preconceived idea of prostitutes selling themselves on street corners. She also discovered the girls who worked for Stephanie weren’t so very different from her. One or two might have been a little—she removed the tiny cup of intensely aromatic coffee from the machine and placed in onto its saucer while trying to conjure up the right word—arrogant. But that was okay. Perhaps they had a right to be. After all, not every woman was capable of selling her body day after day.
She knew she couldn’t. Not even the once.
Positioning a much larger mug under the dual spouts, Maddie pressed another button. She preferred her coffee white and sweet and frothy.
The thought of having to take off her clothes and have sex with strangers was anathema to her. Perhaps that was why her social life was so limited. She’d never been one for clubs and bars. In fact she found it hard to believe that anyone would consider her attractive, given her unruly hair the colour of ripe chestnuts and the generous smattering of freckles across her nose. She was also a little shortsighted, but even allowing for her passion for brightly coloured frames, she knew she fell short when compared to the women she worked with.
They at least had the chance of one day gracing the pages of a fashion magazine.
The real trouble was, she had come to understand a little too much about the opposite sex. Initially she had assumed that Elite’s clients would be over-sexed or unhappy in their relationships, but she had been surprised to find most were decent and respectable. They loved their wives and families and would do anything to make them happy.
And that, she considered, was the problem. If good men could justify spending time and money on women other than their wives, it stood to reason all men had that potential.
With her employer’s coffee in one hand and her own in the other, she nudged open the kitchen door.