pause. “Actually I’m, uh, wanting to buy. Dinah gave me your name. She said you might be … available.” Now she sounded nervous.
Shit! He leaned back on the sofa and tossed another silent curse toward the ceiling.
When he said nothing, the voice rushed on, “I need an escort for next week. The opera? She said a thousand—Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t say the money up front, but—” She stopped. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I guess you can tell I’ve never done this before, but Dinah told me—”
“Whatever Dinah told you,” Gus said, sitting up and shoving the newspaper aside, “it was wrong. I’m not available for stud at the moment.”
“Stud? Oh, no. I don’t want sex from you.”
“Of course you don’t.” That's what they all said . “All you want is a monkey in a tux, right? Until the monkey takes you home.”
“No, really … Oh, my God! I feel so stupid.” Definitely her first time. “Not stupid, baby. Duped. You’re Dinah’s way of reminding me of my not-so-illustrious past.” And probably testing my future.
He hung up. When his being-pissed-off-at-Dinah mood passed, he damn near laughed. He’d turned down an easy grand, which made him something like a drunk turning down a cold beer in the Sahara.
Things were definitely looking up. Now if that peculiar ex-nun would answer his calls, tell him she was going to take the money and run, Dinah would be history. Gus could get on with his life, which meant going back to work and getting this security contract he was working on and—he rubbed his brow—finding April.
But before that happened, there was this business with Mayday House and the nun … the ex-nun.
Keeley Farrell had to be the oddest woman he’d ever met. And he’d met more than his share. He couldn’t figure out what it was about her that got to him and wouldn’t let go. Maybe because she looked at him as if he weren’t there. It was as if she’d given him one piercing look, decided he was empty, and didn’t bother looking again. A new experience for a guy used to being paraded around like a stallion up for bids.
God, how he’d hated that—particularly early in the game, when Dinah’s friends would look up at him, smile and stroke his bicep, then squeeze it to feel his muscle. Or worse, run a finger along the scar that disfigured his jaw, and say, “Poor baby, whatever happened?”
He couldn’t remember how many of them had offered to pay for surgery to “get it fixed.”
It was a relief when Dinah quit passing him around to her friends, amusing to see her become possessive and insist on an exclusive arrangement. He’d been twenty-two then, smart enough and desperate enough to see a brass ring when one dropped around his neck. A tarnished brass ring, but good enough to form a circle of safety around Josh and get him settled in a decent school. Back then it was all about food, clothes, and a roof over the head—and steering clear of an outstanding murder charge.
“My friends have had their fair share of you, Gus,” she’d said after an afternoon of sex. “From now on you’re mine. All mine. I’ll take care of you and I’ll take care of Josh—”
“No one takes care of Josh, except me.”
“And my money, darling. Don’t forget that.”
“As if you’d ever let me.” He’d leaned down to kiss her, which he hadn’t minded doing in those days, because he was either a little bit in love with the woman or had convinced himself he was. Or maybe it was just a young man’s volcanic sex drive coupled with readily available sex with a woman who was white-hot in bed.
His phone rang again.
“Gus Hammond?”
“Uh-huh.”
A man’s voice said without preamble, “I’ve been called to a meeting which means flying out of town in the morning. I’d like to reschedule tomorrow’s meeting, move it forward.”
The potential security client. Gus reached for a pen. “Where and what time?”
“Right now, if you’re free. An early dinner at