Chapter 5

Now he was the one who stared dumbly, frozen in place. He was at a loss. Her fingers still gripped his arm, burning into his skin like a brand. He was sure that when she released him, the mark would last indefinitely. He wanted to beg her to let go.

By the time he was ready to beg her not to, she slowly relinquished his arm, looking somewhat chagrined.

“I wish I had a talent like that,” she said wistfully. “To be able to express what’s inside so eloquently. You have an incredible gift.”

He didn’t like talking about gifts, especially when they were wasted. He was desperate to switch the subject back to her.

“You’re too hard on yourself. I’m sure you have plenty of talents of your own.”

She let out a soft snort. “Not like yours.”

“I don’t believe that,” he argued. “What do you like to do in your spare time? What inspires you?”

A hesitant smile played at her lips. “Well, I do like to write a little.”

Now he was getting somewhere. It was about time he pierced her armor, after she’d so thoroughly punctured his.

“What do you write?”

“Poems, mostly. Short stories.” Her shrug was self-deprecating.

“Really? That’s great,” he encouraged. “Why don’t you recite me one of your poems?”

She shook her head and her cheeks flushed the color of roses. “I don’t have any memorized.”

She looked up at him with those searching eyes again. He watched as they drifted over his features, pausing repeatedly on his lips. He found his own eyes following the same path over her face. He knew where it would lead.

“I’m sure you know something by heart,” he insisted.

She took a deep breath. “Well, there is one poem that’s kind of stuck in my head right now,” she admitted.

“What is it?” he asked softly. His head dropped slightly, his face drawing closer to hers. Her chin lifted as she leaned up toward him.

“It’s by a Swedish poet,” she began. She bit her lip and took another breath, then began to recite the words.

“My eyes want to kiss your face.
I have no power over my eyes.
They just want to kiss your face.
I flow towards you out of my eyes,
a fine heat trembles round your shoulders,
it slowly dissolves your contours
and I am there with you, your mouth
and everywhere around you --
I have no power over my eyes.”*

She was the one trembling as she finished. She couldn’t believe she had said those words to him; recited her favorite description of how she always thought true desire would feel. Of course, she left out the second stanza of the poem - the part that revealed the writer’s desire was unrequited and from afar; a mere fantasy that had no hope of being turned into reality.

But her reality was staring down at her right now, close enough to touch, to kiss with more than just her eyes. The embodiment of the kind of desire she had only dreamed about sat mere inches away, within her grasp. At last she had found the catalyst to turn her poetic notions of romance into reality.

He stared at her, transfixed. He had never cared for poetry, but this wasn’t the rhyming or pretentious kind. It was just . . . real. The words sounded raw and urgent in her quiet alto. He was used to women wanting to kiss him, but he’d never heard an entreaty like this. And he’d certainly never wanted to receive their kisses the way he wanted hers right now.

The wanting scared him a little. He wasn’t used to it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly felt it. Not like this - this yearning deep in his gut, twisting his stomach and pulling at the root of his groin, swelling his cock with need when he hadn’t even touched her yet.

His hand rose to her face to remedy that situation, tracing the blush of her cheekbone. Her skin was satiny smooth and soft under his fingertips. He let them stray over its creamy contours, down to her swan-like neck. Her head tilted back slightly in response, her eyes closing briefly.

“So beautiful,” he whispered at the sight of her beginning to give in to the sensation of his touch.

“Isn’t it?” she replied. “It’s one of my favorites.”

She was talking about the poem. The corners of his mouth raised in amusement. She had no idea how much lovelier she was than any string of words could be.

She couldn’t stop staring at his crooked grin, the left side of his lip raised in an Elvis-like smirk. She wanted to run her tongue along that pink ribbon of skin and memorize its moist contours.

He loved catching her in the act, watching her eyes reflect the sentiments of the poem she had recited. He could deny her no longer.

He felt like he was moving in slow motion as his face continued its purposeful descent toward hers, his fingers lifting her chin to meet him halfway. He couldn’t wait to taste those full lips; yet the agonizing anticipation of that first contact was almost as delicious as the kiss itself. He prolonged the moment as long as he could, relishing the quickening of her breath and the fluttering of her lashes as their features became a blur to one another.

She tried to stop the shuddering sigh that escaped her lips when they first met his, but it was no use. The tension consuming every cell of her body could no longer be contained. The exquisite feel of his lips on hers, soft yet firm, sent a swarm of tingles down her spine.

Why was this so different from any other kiss she had received? Maybe because it was thoughtful and deliberate; not hurried or impatient. He treated the kiss as if it were worth savoring in its own right, not as some annoying roadblock on his quest to get laid.

She pulled back slightly and gazed at the intensity in his eyes; felt his softly panting breath on her face. She was right about him. He did get it. He understood what was important. What was special.

She kissed him this time, anxious to build on the foundation of the first one. Her mouth opened against his, her tongue tentatively tracing his lips and pushing inside his mouth. The softest of moans escaped him as he responded in kind, lips caressing hers, tongue beginning a dance of exploration with her own.

Her hands were on his face before she knew what she was doing. His rough stubble under her fingers might as well have been the finest silk for the thrill it gave her. She stroked it gently at first, then more firmly, trailing her hands down the scruff of his neck to the line of his collarbone. She frowned slightly at the feel of his shirt collar in her way, and she slid her hands beneath it, only to have their progress impeded by the tie around his neck.

She broke their kiss long enough to grasp the knot of his tie and pull on it, loosening it until it came undone and fell to the floor beneath the piano bench. She needed to feel more of his warm skin under her greedy hands.

His breathing was heavy, his eyes wide with surprise as he stared down at her. The intensity of her reaction startled as well as aroused him. He assumed that she had come to him seeking something different than the crass groping of the boys she had known before; yet when he kissed her, she responded with passion and aggression. It didn’t make any sense. Yet he certainly couldn’t argue with her desires. He had no wish to.

He allowed her to begin to undress him while his hands wandered unbridled through her thick hair. He massaged her neck and scalp as he watched her nervous fingers fumble with his shirt buttons. He thought that maybe he should help her, but he wanted to see how far she would go on her own. Something had always stopped her before, or she wouldn’t still be a virgin.

He slid his fingers gently down her neck and over her chest while she finished unbuttoning his shirt. He ran the tip of his index finger along her skin where it met the bodice of her silky blue dress, causing a trail of goose bumps to rise on her flesh. She inhaled sharply and glanced up at him. Their eyes exchanged not just permission, but invitation. She exhaled shakily as she pulled his shirt tails from his trousers, leaving his bare torso glowing like burnished gold in the light of the setting sun.

She laid her hands on his chest; he inhaled sharply, his lungs expanding under her delicate fingers. She slowly explored the hard muscles beneath his rigid pink nipples, swirling her fingertips through the soft, sparse curls of hair that gleamed in the sunlight. She traced the planes of his abdominal muscles down to the soft skin of his belly, threading her fingers through the treasure trail of hair that sprouted below his navel and led to a noticeable bulge in his expensive pants.

She marveled that he wanted her already - that she had the power to turn him on so quickly. She tried to muster the gumption to let her hands travel further south; to stroke his hardness and feel it grow under her touch. But she stopped short, her nerves getting the better of her.

He sensed her hesitation and came to her rescue. He had figured out her pattern: rushing blindly ahead without any thought to the consequences, instead of taking her time and letting her mind catch up with her body’s impatience.

“Come here,” he said softly as he reached for her hand and rose from the piano bench. She laced her fingers through his and stood up, letting him lead her closer to the windows. He dropped her hand and placed both of his on either side of her face, marveling at how flawless she appeared in the unforgiving spotlight of a Seattle sunset.

“Let me look at you,” he murmured softly, his eyes sweeping deliberately over her face, then down her body.

Her heart began to race at his slow perusal of her tiny frame. His eyes may as well have been his hands as he let them roam over the swell of her breasts under her dress’s clingy fabric. She felt the sensation of their caress just as strongly as if it had been an actual touch.

He continued down her body this way, eyes studying the nip of her waist, the curve of her hips, the impossible length of her ivory legs.

“Turn around,” he ordered softly, and her heart pounded even harder. She pirouetted slowly, awkwardly, in her high heels, feeling his eyes like hot flames licking her body as she twirled. He managed to ravish her thoroughly from every angle without laying a hand on her, yet she shivered uncontrollably as though his fingers had stroked her from head to toe. She was desperate for the feel of them on her flesh. She had never wanted any man to touch her so badly. What she had recoiled from in the past, she knew she would now welcome with open arms, and legs.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” he asked. He wondered how she had missed it all these years.

As she looked up at his face, carved by the light into a collection of masterfully sculpted curves and angles, she knew nothing could compare to his beauty.

He ran one finger down the length of her arm, delighting in yet another wave of goose bumps prickling her flesh. Her quick, shallow breaths in the quiet air were a heady aphrodisiac. He studied the rise and fall of her chest, and was irritated by the dress blocking his view. It was his turn to want to peel the offending garment from her and get to the silken warmth beneath.

He walked behind her, then pulled her hair to one side so that he could bend down and breathe directly in her ear.

“Will you do something for me if I ask you to?” he whispered.



*Excerpt from ”The Lover” by Solveig Von Schoultz

Chapter 4

He didn’t like the turn this conversation was taking. Tonight wasn’t about him. It was time she remembered that.

“Women don’t pay me to be myself,” he asserted gruffly. “They pay me to be whoever they need me to be. You must have had something specific in mind for tonight, or you wouldn’t have called an escort service.”

“That’s the thing - I didn’t, really,” she protested. “Not exactly. I just knew what I didn’t want. And you looked like you would . . . get that.”

She fell silent. She didn’t know how to explain why she chose this route to lose her virginity, or what it was about him that made him stand out from all the others. In fact, the more she thought about her decision, the more she wondered what on earth had possessed her.

He wondered, too.

“All right, then,” he said, somewhat bewildered. “I’ll do my best not to be whatever it is you don’t want me to be.”

His awkward words illustrated just how absurd her vague request was. She let out a frustrated laugh, and he joined her.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I know how ridiculous I must sound.”

“You’re fine,” he assured her. “We’ll play it by ear. Just don’t forget that you call the shots. This is your fantasy.”

He looked at her expectantly. Give me something. Anything, he thought.

Her gaze faltered, then fell to her empty plate.

He stifled a sigh. “On to the entrée,” he suggested with forced cheer. He pushed his appetizer plate away and moved on to the main course, waiting for her to follow suit before he started in on his steak.

They ate under a dense thicket of silence, perforated only by an occasional comment about how good the food was. The quiet was still uncomfortable, but less from anxiety this time. Instead, the air around them crackled with anticipation for what was to come. Their imaginations were fertile now that the seeds of mutual attraction had been sown.

The sound of his own chewing was driving Edward to distraction. He realized that he had forgotten to turn on the sound system and choose the appropriate ambience for the evening. He’d been sidetracked from his earlier preparations by Isabella’s giggle outside the door. He had figured it was that damned maid again, annoyingly persistent despite his numerous rejections of her advances. He’d been ready to tell her where she could stick her Swiffer when he yanked open the door, only to be pleasantly surprised by the sight of the pretty, unspoiled girl who now sat awkwardly across the table from him.

“Would you like to listen to some music?” he asked. Better late than never, he supposed. He frowned slightly at his own ineptitude. It wasn’t like him to be off his game like this.

“Oh, are you going to play for me?” She smiled suddenly. “I had the hotel put a piano in here when I saw in your profile that it’s one of your hobbies.”

So that’s why there was suddenly an upright ensconced in the glass-walled corner of his favorite suite. He’d assumed it was simply a new hotel addition.

“Sure, I’d be happy to play something for you after dinner,” he offered.

“I can’t wait,” she said with a curious Cheshire grin. He didn’t understand her expression - almost smug, like she had a secret. His brow creased again as he reached for the elegantly-plated tiramisu. He didn’t wait for her this time, taking a forkful and savoring its rum-soaked richness.

She tried not to laugh out loud at his obvious discomfort. She couldn’t wait to catch him in his fib - to see him crack his knuckles over the keyboard and then regale her with “Chopsticks,” or maybe “Heart and Soul” if he was lucky. Anticipating his fallibility made her feel more at ease. She had to level the playing field somehow.

She still could not shake the thought that she was woefully inadequate compared to the gorgeous creature opposite her. When she had dreamed of having someone like him as her first lover, she had forgotten to factor her hopelessly ordinary self into the equation. It was all she could do to not bolt from the room in humiliation when she considered the glaring inequality between them.

That’s why she sought out his imperfections as she studied him. She appreciated the slight asymmetry of his features; his nervous hair-twiddling; his caustic manner when her words struck a nerve. She was surprised to find that she wasn’t at all interested in his perfect suit and matching manners. She was much more fascinated by the human flesh and blood beneath it, starting with that unruly hair atop his head. She longed to sink her fingers into it. Warmth seeped through her nether regions as she realized that for tonight, she was completely entitled to do so.

Her eyes drifted down from his golden-bronze mane to his pink lips as he politely chewed his tiramisu. She attacked her own, wondering if he would taste half as good as the dessert did. Maybe she could combine the two. She was well within her rights to simply lean over the table and eat the sugary confection right out of his mouth if she wanted to.

She did want to. She imagined pulling on his tie; ripping at his shirt. Sliding her hand under the waistband of his pants, then his briefs . . . Making him ditch his impeccable manners and take her right there on the dining room table.

Now that would be a first time to remember.

But of course, she couldn’t bring herself to do any of those things. She focused on her liquor-infused dessert instead, devouring mouthful after mouthful and washing it down with the increasingly delicious wine. She liked the mellow burn that permeated her belly as a result.

“This is delicious,” she said by way of explanation after she caught his mildly disapproving stare.

“It is. Why don’t you slow down and enjoy it?” he suggested with a laugh.

“Sorry,” she mumbled as she slowed her chewing. She couldn’t tell him the truth: that seeing him fall on his perfectly imperfect face was going to be a far more satisfying end to the meal for her.

Edward, on the other hand, refused to be rushed. He appreciated good food and wine far too much to inhale it. He wondered what her hurry was. Perhaps she was simply nervous over what would follow dessert. He was.

He deliberately savored a few more sips of cabernet, leaning leisurely back in his chair. He observed her coolly while she fidgeted. Was she really so eager to get this over with? She was behaving like her virginity was an embarrassing rash she couldn’t wait to get rid of.

She began to shake slightly, and for a second he panicked, thinking she was having some sort of seizure. When he realized she was pumping her leg furiously under the table, he almost laughed out loud in relief.

He decided to take pity on her nerves. “What would you like to hear?” he asked, setting his wine glass down and pushing away from the table. She leapt to her feet before he could reach her chair to pull it out for her.

“Oh, anything,” she said enthusiastically. “I have eclectic taste. Wow me.”

Wow her? No pressure there. He began to wonder if music was her minor in school. Maybe she was some sort of prodigy and was just waiting for him to eat her dust. He definitely got the impression that she was about to judge him on his musical prowess. That was a new one. Most women didn’t give a damn about his prowess anywhere outside the bedroom.

“Well, I like to improvise,” he said. “I play by ear, mostly.”

He put his hand on her bare elbow to guide her back to the living room. A flood of goose bumps washed up and down her arm at his touch. Her cheeks reddened; he grinned. He liked her body’s reaction to him. It gave him hope for the rest of the evening.

The pair took a sharp intake of breath as they entered the living area. The setting sun had flooded the room with a brilliant golden light that gleamed from every reflective surface within its reach. The rich cherry wood of the upright piano and its matching bench glowed with warmth, inviting them closer.

“This is nice,” he murmured as he ran a finger over the ivory keys. He pulled out the piano bench and asked Isabella to have a seat. She perched on the left side of it, leaving him the right half. He removed his suit jacket and tossed it onto the nearby couch. He unbuttoned and rolled up his shirt sleeves and loosened his tie, then sat as close to her as he could yet still have room to play. When his skin brushed lightly against hers, every hair on his arm stood at attention.

That gave him even more hope for the rest of the evening.

He warmed up with a couple of simple scales, C to C, D to D, working both hands in unison swiftly up and down the keyboard. Beautiful tone, he thought. Perfectly in tune. This hotel would not offer anything less.

He glanced down at her to see her reaction. She appeared oddly disappointed, but he couldn’t figure out why. Sure, the piano was no Steinway, but it was still a fine instrument. What in the world would it take to impress this girl?

He let his frustration drive him and he attacked the keyboard, choosing a passionate, slightly dissonant piece he’d learned years ago. Even as his fingers flew over the keys, striking them with ruthless and precise fury, he wondered what the hell he was doing. He had planned to play something soft and romantic for her. He had a sweet melody he’d composed for cases such as this, to coax shy girls out of their shells and make them trust him.

But Isabella Swan wasn’t shy. She was simply quiet. Observant. Eerily so. He could not forget her sharp words earlier, forming an arrow so precise in its aim that he still smarted from the impact. He retaliated now, in his own way; “wowing” her so thoroughly that she would eat her words and choke on her smug smile. If she thought that he was some untalented pretty boy who couldn’t play his way out of a paper bag, she could think again.

As he came to the end of the piece, he slowed, and breathed, and collected himself. He didn’t like to reveal much of himself to clients, and music like this always brought his soul to the surface. He let the final chords of the song drift into a few extra bars of his own creation. He lingered there for a moment, playing a haunting melody that came unbidden to his mind and flowed out of his fingers seconds later in the usual, inexplicable way.

He felt her presence guiding him then: the simple warmth of her body so close to his, and the memory of that electric charge her touch had sparked through the hairs of his arm. He tried to capture that feeling in music before letting his hands fall limply to his lap.

He carefully turned his head to look at her; to read whatever message would be waiting for him in her eyes.

He was not disappointed. She gaped openly up at him, eyes glistening and wide with wonder. He had wowed her, all right, that much was clear. He felt a half-grin creep across his face, but something in her expression halted it before it grew haughty.

She was moved much more deeply than she ever could have anticipated. Her initial dismay that he hadn’t been a liar after all was erased within seconds of his impassioned performance. She’d never seen or heard an outpouring of talent like his before, up close and personal. She could feel the tension radiating from his arms as they swept past her, his fingers a blur over the keys, impossibly accurate despite their swift pace. His whole body moved with the music, his foot rhythmically pumping the piano pedals. His face was contorted in concentration, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, eyes locked on some distant vision inside his own mind.

He wasn’t just good. He was “concert pianist” good. He was brilliant.

What on earth was he doing here?

She stared up at him, bewildered. None of this made sense. A man this gifted shouldn’t be selling himself to the highest bidder for one forgotten evening after another. And she was certain that what his clients found memorable was scoured from his mind the minute the night was through.

She no longer cared if he was better-looking or more talented than she was. He was evidently just as disillusioned by life, just as stymied by fate. She could feel it when he played. He showed his true colors to her then, and everything else faded into the background.

Once again, he waited in vain for her to react. To say something; to do anything except sit like a bump on a log, staring at him with those enormous brown eyes.

“I can play something a little . . . nicer. More romantic, if you’d like,” he offered. He reached for the keyboard and began to pick out his usual bland little melody, but he stopped short at the feel of her hand on his arm. She gripped his wrist firmly, stilling its motion.

“No,” she commanded abruptly. “That was perfect. Amazing.” Her eyes felt like arrows themselves now, piercing his, boring deep. “That was you.”

He flinched, but couldn’t look away from her knowing gaze. What the hell was he supposed to do now? She insisted on stripping away the pretenses that made what he did bearable. She responded only to the one thing he couldn’t give her.

Edward Masen.

Chapter 3

He was out of his element, and the feeling was unfamiliar, unwelcome. The tense vacuum of silence around them begged him to fill it with blather, and he was about to give in to the urge when there was a knock at the door.

He tried to silence his sigh of relief. Saved by the dinner bell.

“Speak of the devil,” he said, with a raised eyebrow at Isabella. She looked as relieved as he felt.

He hurried to the door to let in the bellhop, who pushed a cart laden with silver-lidded trays toward the dining room table. Edward already had two tapers burning there on either side of an enormous bouquet of mixed flowers. He directed the server to place their dishes at one end of the table, across from one another. He wanted to be able to watch her--her expressions, her mannerisms, her manners--and her reactions to his. He needed to get a better read on her. So far, she had been frustratingly enigmatic.

She followed the two men to the table and watched as the server lifted the lids off the courses, describing them one by one. She pretended not to be surprised at the crab cakes, grilled asparagus, filet mignon and tiramisu offerings, since she had listed them all as her preferences. The food looked, and smelled, delicious. Its scent overpowered the escort’s for the time being, and her appetite seemed to recover enough to temper her nerves.

As Edward pressed a wad of cash into the bellhop’s hand before sending him on his way, she realized that his dinner was identical to hers.

“Excellent choices,” he told her, returning to the table and pulling her chair out for her. She sat down while he continued to eerily read her mind. “I decided to order the same things. You can never go wrong with a little surf and turf.”

He disappeared to the living room, then returned with the bottle of wine. He refilled their glasses and seated himself across from her, giving her a stiff smile. She tried not to stare at him, but it was a losing battle. He must find her horribly rude. Or possibly a little touched in the head.

But her studies were revealing more about him, slowly but surely. Once her eyes adjusted to the glare of his beauty, she began to look for cracks in its veneer. He was human, after all. There was a flesh and blood man under that pretty face and impeccable Italian suit of armor.

His eyes were the first to betray his aura of confidence. They weren’t as cool and collected as the rest of his demeanor. Their gaze was uncertain; tentative around the edges. Then his hands began following suit, agitating his hair with habitual regularity, making its disarray more and more prominent. His mane defied gravity; his eyes defied circumstance.

She realized with a start that he didn’t like his circumstances. He didn’t want to be here.

He didn’t want to be an escort.

She frowned at her plate and wondered if she should call him on his bluff. Call this whole “date” off, and reject everything the exchange of money for services implied. Whatever his reasons for pursuing this line of work, she was now certain they were of necessity rather than choice.

The silence continued to oppress them as they unfolded crisp linen dinner napkins and spread them across their laps.

He wondered if she would ever speak.

She wondered what to say.

She stabbed a fork into her appetizer and tried to muster the courage to voice what they both must be thinking: that he’d rather be anywhere else than with her right now, and that she wasn’t sure she could go through with a night of loveless sex in a five-star hotel any more than she could in her dingy dorm room.

But before she could build up the nerve, he beat her to the punch.

“Why are you here, Isabella?” he asked with abrupt candor. At this point, he figured he had nothing to lose.

A large bite of crab cake went down her gullet in a hasty gulp. “What do you mean?” she stalled. She hadn’t expected him to put her on the spot instead.

“You’re not my typical client. You’re young and beautiful. You could have your pick of eligible guys. Why do you think you need me?”

She stared into his serious gaze. Damn, he was good. She almost believed him.

“Look, I know you have to say those kinds of things because I paid you good money to,” she said. “But I’m letting you off the hook. You can cut the crap. I mean, I know the truth.”

“You don’t know anything,” he retorted. He frowned, his thick eyebrows squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Just because you don’t believe what I say doesn’t mean it’s not true. I don’t have to tell you you’re beautiful. If I didn’t find you attractive, I would just say that your dress is lovely, or your hair looks great, or you look amazing tonight. All of which is true, by the way. I don’t tell everyone they’re beautiful. Hardly anyone, in fact.”

He was being generous. He’d never told any client she was beautiful, ever. He had found all sorts of creative ways to get around that bit of dishonesty. From the start, he had decided that the only things he was obligated to prostitute were his body and his time. All else--his opinions, his preferences, his needs, his desires--were his and his alone, to bestow as he saw fit.

And as he sat across the table from Isabella Swan, watching the candle flames illuminate her porcelain skin and flicker in her deep brown eyes, he found her indisputably beautiful. The notion that she saw herself as anything less confounded and disturbed him.

She could see that he was serious; offended, even, that she hadn’t accepted his praise more graciously. She looked him in the eyes and said with utter sincerity, “Thank you. That’s quite a compliment coming from you.”

His expression was one of bafflement. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, come on,” she said with a slight roll of her eyes. “Look at you. You’re . . . ” She paused as her eyes swept over his broad shoulders, up his masculine neck, and lingered over his achingly attractive features. “You’re ridiculously good-looking. I’m sure you know that.”

“What am I, Zoolander?” he said with a light snort of laughter. She barely cracked a smile at the joke. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he added, with a sardonic twist of his lips. He hated talking about his looks. He hated the arrogance it implied to even acknowledge them.

She found his tone surprising. It smacked of sarcasm, as if his handsomeness was nothing but a sham. She wondered how someone like him could look in the mirror and not see what the rest of the world saw.

But his words also meant that he found her beautiful, just as she did him. That was something she did not expect. She was still hesitant to believe him, even though he spoke with conviction. Perhaps he was so practiced at the art of flattery that his falsehoods rang true. But something in his eyes told her that he was not yet that jaded.

“What about you?” she countered, letting her curiosity - and the wine - make her brave. “Why are you here? Why do you need this?”

He stared at her blankly. Clients never asked him that. Well, some of the older ones did. They assumed it was the money, and they were mostly right. He liked to think he did it to stroke his ego a bit, too, except that he didn’t have one. But he was great at faking it.

“The pay is excellent and the perks are, well . . . ” He finished the thought by raking his eyes up and down her slight frame, pausing to stare provocatively at the bare expanse of flesh right above her breasts.

Her cheeks flamed hot, but she remained undaunted. “Besides that,” she pressed.

He shrugged dismissively. “There is nothing else. It’s easy money and I’m good at it. My friends always used to joke that I was so good at picking up women that I ought to get paid for it. One day I decided that maybe they were on to something.”

Her eyes narrowed. She was studying him again. He was used to appraisal, but not scrutiny. He squirmed uncomfortably and polished off the rest of his wine.

“That’s bullshit,” she finally declared with a shake of her head. “You like being used. You think that’s all you’re good for. That that’s all you deserve.”

He felt the impact of her words like a knife to the gut, piercing and deep, spilling his entrails out on the table before he ever felt the pain of the attack. It was too late to raise his shield, so he launched a counter offense.

“Let me guess--you’re a psych major,” he said with a withering sneer. “Is that why you came here? To psychoanalyze me and figure out why I’d make such a fucked-up career choice? Just don’t forget to turn the microscope back on yourself while you’re at it. I’d love to hear why a beautiful young girl would pay two months’ rent to be seduced by a complete stranger.”

She looked flummoxed, and he was glad. She would think twice before she left her glass house for another attack.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he continued. “I’m sure I can guess. Your boyfriend treats you like crap, or maybe he’s lousy in the sack, so you came here to find out if there’s something better out there. Or maybe it’s the opposite--he’s complaining about your lack of expertise, so you thought you’d get some from a professional before you lose him. Am I getting warm?”

The only thing warm was her face. She was livid. How dare he make such presumptions about her? Never mind that you just did that to him, her guilty conscience chided her.

“You’re ice cold,” she said, in a tone to match.

“Am I?” he challenged, his eyes boring into hers, searching for answers. “If things are so hunky-dory with your boyfriend, then why are you here?”

“There is no boyfriend, okay?” she exploded. “No boyfriend, no sex, no . . . nothing.” She bit her lip, cutting herself off too late. Her status as a loser was confirmed. Now he could gloat, and be arrogant, and fulfill all her worst fears about him. He was well on his way now, so he might as well finish the job.

But when she looked at his face, his expression was thoughtful, not judgmental. He slowly leaned forward and picked up the wine bottle, refilling her glass and then his own.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he asked. “A girl like you will have those things before you know it. You don’t have to buy them.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “If you saw the guys at my school, you would beg to differ.”

His smile was wry. He wondered why she thought he was so different. It hadn’t been that long ago that he was one of those ordinary boys she scoffed at, looking for a girl like her. A girl who might actually make him feel something. A girl who could have kept him from walking down this path he’d chosen. He’d given up on the endeavor, and apparently, so had she.

He sipped his wine slowly as the truth sank in. Now he knew the real reason she was here. She was through waiting for clumsy college boys to figure out how to get it right, to make her want to take that last step with them, to go all the way. She wanted her first time to be with a handsome prince on a cloud of four-hundred-count percale sheets, not in the back seat of a rusted-out car or the squeaky bed of a cramped dorm room.

She did want the fairytale, even if she had to buy it.

He could almost see the logic in it, except that she had overlooked the most important part. How on earth could Isabella Swan, or whoever she was, think that paying for sex would make it special? Didn’t she understand that the exact opposite was true?

He had never taken a client’s virginity. This would be a first for him. Older women seemed to prefer him, and he found them easier to deal with than the young ones. The conversation was less stilted, and they had a better handle on what they wanted out of the situation. They often told him he was an “old soul,” whatever that meant. He didn’t question it. He didn’t give much thought to any of his jobs. He kept his mind focused on the money and what it could do.

He took a deep breath and dug into the crab cakes on his own plate as he deliberated how to proceed. Could he really do this? Did he want this kind of responsibility?

He watched her from across the table for a moment. Her face was hard, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, eyes downcast as she speared another forkful of crab. She refused to look at him now. It made him want her unnerving gaze upon him like he’d never wanted anything before.

He longed to reach out and touch her across the table . . . to soften her edges; strip away the tough shell that hid her tenderness within. He wanted her to look at him like she’d never looked at any man before. Not with that suspicious, disbelieving stare, but with eyes far more vulnerable, trusting and willing.

Yes, he was ready. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

He wanted to be her first.

It was his job to give women a night they’d never forget. He would give that to Isabella Swan in the very best way he knew how, and make sure she didn’t regret it. But no matter what he did for her tonight, he knew he would never be able to match the gift she was about to give him. He only wished she would realize how precious it was.

He stared relentlessly until she finally looked up at him. His voice came out a little raspier than he intended.

“I’ll be whoever you want me to be tonight,” he said.

Those must have been the magic words, for he got his wish. Her eyes visibly softened as she regarded him.

Her voice was as raw as his when she replied. “I want you to be yourself.”

They both wondered who that was.