Chapter 2

She felt his hand reach for hers. Apparently he had tired of waiting for her to take it. He pulled at her gently, and she gave in immediately. She had no recollection of crossing the threshold. By the time she raised her eyes to the level of his adorable, slightly off-center nose, she was already inside with the door closed behind her.

“Would you like a drink, Isabella?” he asked politely.

The sound of her full name startled her. She’d never liked it. No one called her that except her father, and that was only through gritted teeth when he was upset with her. She’d never heard it sound like this before, so melodious. Maybe she would try being Isabella tonight. It matched the elegance of Edward’s name. And his designer suit. Her cheeks colored slightly at the thought of how her department store sale-rack dress must look to him.

“Sure, a drink would be great,” she managed to say. She’d try anything to take the edge off. In fact, drinking heavily might be an excellent idea if she really planned to go through with this crazy idea.

She watched him amble into the living area, its centerpiece a glass-topped table surrounded by modern but comfortable-looking chairs. She took a few hesitant steps after him, glancing around at her luxurious surroundings and trying to appreciate their sleek, expensive appearance.

In truth, she was much more interested in the dashing figure that the escort cut as he leaned over the table and picked up something from its surface. She noticed his hair was a curious shade of brown; almost bronze, with golden highlights. It duck-tailed neatly down the back of his neck, but spiked up from the top of his head in a display of artfully arranged anarchy, defying the studied perfection of his attire below.

“Red or white?” he queried as he turned suddenly to face her, a bottle of wine in each hand. Her unprepared eyes met his and she was paralyzed, gaping, like a salmon trapped in a frozen waterfall.

The computer profile hadn’t done him justice. It hadn’t even come close. The two-dimensional image she’d carried of him in her mind for the past two weeks was flattened further by the glory of the living, breathing being who stood mere feet away from her.

Edward Cullen’s eyes were the color and depth of Puget Sound shimmering in the distance through the glass walls behind him. His gaze swallowed her entirely. He was so handsome, she couldn’t find words to express it; and even if she could, she wouldn’t be able to utter them. She ignored his faintly bemused, quizzical expression and simply drank in his beauty like a desert cactus soaks up a desperately needed rain.

“If you don’t like wine, we can raid the mini bar,” he suggested.

He wondered how long it would take her to get her bearings and answer him. He was used to women gawking over his looks, but this girl really took the cake. She looked like she’d never seen a man before. He wondered if she had recently escaped a nunnery, or maybe prison. That was the kind of shit women never revealed on their applications.

He tried to make his smile appear patient and understanding. She didn’t look like prison material. She looked more like she’d perform a funeral service for a fly she’d just swatted. The nunnery was a definite possibility, though he’d never seen pious girls in heels and a short skirt like that. No nun should have legs like those, hidden away from a man’s eyes and hands. Those were legs that should be celebrated, then divided and conquered. Luckily for her, she had come to just the right place for the celebration to begin.

“Wine is fine,” she said, surprising him. He had begun to think he would have to carry on the conversation himself. He’d done it before; he could do it again. The conversation part usually didn’t last long anyway.

“Okay,” he smiled, returning the red wine to the table and reaching for the corkscrew to open the white. “You rhymed,” he added with the quirk of one thick, arched eyebrow.

Her cheeks turned a delectable shade of pink. “I prefer red,” she spoke up, less timidly this time.

His smile grew. Maybe the cat would let go of her tongue after all. He was usually good at getting pussies purring sooner or later.

“So do I,” he admitted. He did prefer red wine. He rarely lied to clients, except perhaps by omission. He found ways to say only what he meant, as much as possible. The honesty kept him balanced; kept the self-revulsion at bay.

He switched bottles and opened the red, a prestige cabernet sauvignon that he usually brought to these kinds of dates. After reading her application, he had put her on what he called the Enhanced Romance Plan. All women wanted some degree of romance, but a few of them required the whole nine yards: the very best flowers, gourmet food and wine, soft music, flattery and seduction. Many times, the fairytale was all they wanted, and sex never even entered into it.

He studied Isabella Swan’s big brown eyes a moment. He knew instinctively that she wanted more than a fairytale, despite the frilly, obviously fake name she’d chosen for the occasion. Behind the shy demeanor, he sensed that she was a girl with a plan of her own. She had a specific objective in mind. Before this night was through, he would ferret it out and fulfill it.

“I’m going to assume you’re old enough to drink this,” he said as he poured the deep garnet liquid into an over-sized goblet. Unless she had lied about her age on the application, he knew she was only nineteen. But a little wine would ease her nerves and loosen her lips. If he deemed her too tipsy to drive by the end of the night, he would pay for her cab ride home himself.

He held out the glass of wine for her to come and take. He would not approach her; he would wait patiently for her to come to him. She took a few tentative steps until they were face to necktie. He did not miss the slight wobble of her ankles above their skyscraper shoes; she did not miss the deliberate brush of his fingers against hers as he handed her the glass.

He poured one for himself and held it up. “What shall we toast to, Isabella?”

She almost snorted aloud at the question. None of the answers that popped into her head were things she could possibly say out loud. Her heart palpitated helplessly as she stared up at his gorgeous face. He looked even better up close. Who actually looked better up close? Now she could truly appreciate the inordinate length of his sable eyelashes, the smoothness of his skin, the prominence of his stubble-covered jaw. She could even smell him from this proximity--clean, slightly spicy, with a hint of musky maleness. She unconsciously leaned into his scent. She wanted more of the musk.

Her awkwardness was uncomfortable for him to watch. Her eyes were enormous, like those of a frightened but curious fawn. Still, he adored the way she blushed and bit her bottom lip, her two front teeth leaving an impression behind after they released it. He stared at the white imprint as it filled with pink again. He could almost taste it. Moreover, he wanted to taste it.

Odd. He rarely ever wanted to kiss clients, and usually took steps to avoid it until absolutely necessary.

He wanted to kiss her.

He frowned slightly at the realization, then focused on the task at hand. He needed to come up with a toast.

“Here’s to this evening being everything you want it to be,” he said, his tone laced with careful innuendo. It was always a good idea to identify the reason they were both here. There was no point in her wasting her money or his time if she didn’t know what she wanted.

She swallowed audibly as she nodded and lifted her glass to his. “Cheers,” she said softly.

He noticed her voice was smooth and low. Nice. He’d take quiet and reserved over shrill and overbearing any day, though he wished she could pipe up long enough to take his cue and fill him in on what she expected. Her application claimed she wanted all the usual frou-frou trappings, but he was skilled at reading in between the lines. She didn’t care about parading him around in public like a piece of arm candy, or showing him off at a wedding or reunion to prove she could get a date.

She wanted to be alone with him.

He knew from experience, however, that a private date didn’t always end in sex. He hoped it would tonight, though. He already knew he wanted to fuck her. He was grateful for that, because it would make the evening much less tedious. He cherished the nights when he was actually attracted to his client. They were becoming fewer and further between. Either the women of Seattle were losing their charm, or he was losing his.

But jaded wasn’t such a bad way to be. Life had become a lot easier to deal with when he had stopped letting it surprise him so much.

She took several quick sips of her wine, not seeming to savor it. Perhaps she was anxious for its narcotic effects to kick in. He watched her lips caress the glass and he wanted to kiss her again.

Crazy. He needed a distraction.

“I hope you like the room,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the Grand Suite, or at least what they could see of it. It boasted a kitchen, living and dining rooms, a master bedroom and bath, and a guest room. He would live here exclusively if he could afford it. Maybe someday he would.

She looked around, trying to take it all in. The place was almost as gorgeous as he was, save the crucial deficiency of being cold and inanimate. Edward Cullen was easily the most attractive thing in the room.

“The view is spectacular,” she said. He didn’t notice that she was looking at him instead of the city skyline beyond the expansive glass walls.

“Isn’t it?” he agreed, gazing out over the water in the distance. The sun was beginning its slow descent in the west, casting a warm glow through the windows and bathing the entire room in gold. Isabella’s pale skin took on its warmth, and it suited her. It softened her eyes into two chocolate drops atop her flushed cheeks, and brought out the reddish highlights in her long chestnut hair. She seemed to get prettier the more he looked at her.

Or maybe it was just the wine.

He took another sip, and another stab at conversation. “I went ahead and ordered your favorite foods for dinner. I hope that’s okay. Room service should be here any minute.”

“What? Oh, that’s great. Thanks,” she said, trying to disguise her confusion. She couldn’t remember what she had listed on the application as her “ideal dinner.” Spinach ravioli, perhaps; or maybe filet mignon, if she had been feeling decadent that day.

She didn’t really care about the menu. The food, the wine, the small talk were all just a prelude. A prelude to something that suddenly felt so enormous that she wasn’t sure she could go through with it. She gulped more wine, barely noticing its dry yet velvety feel in her mouth before swallowing.

He winced at the sight. He hated watching college girls drink wine. They had no idea how to savor or appreciate it. That was one area where older women excelled. He preferred their experience and refinement. They had taught him a lot--one perk of the job, he reminded himself.

He was ready to attempt more conversation; to ask her if she was about to start the fall semester, and what grade she was in, and what she was studying. But when he looked into her eyes, the blunt honesty he saw there crippled his tongue. This girl would not be impressed by banal chit-chat or glib flattery. He could see that his usual techniques would not seduce her.

The question was, what would?