Dating Games(45)

“I’m not a tourist, asshole!” I shout, getting back on my feet, no thanks to anyone walking by. Dusting myself off, grateful the only injury is to my ego, I scan the bodies passing, not one of them matching that of the man I observed leaving the café.

Frustration fills me. I was so close to unmasking the August Laurent. Still, I know more about him than I did an hour ago. But now I’m desperate for even more information, to find out what makes him tick, why he feels the need to hire himself out as a companion. He says he empowers women. That’s a reason they hire him. I want to know his reasons, too.

As I’m about to head toward Central Park to see if he went in that direction, even though I know it’s probably futile, my phone pings with an alert. It’s not unusual. I get dozens of emails every hour. But something makes me pull my phone out of my bag and open my email.

To: Evie Fitzgerald

From: August Laurent

Subject: Special Place in Hell





Dear Miss Fitzgerald,

You do realize there’s a special place in hell for people who walk away from the Steam Room’s famous chocolate hazelnut pastries. They are quite…sinful.





Kindest regards,





A





Smiling, I type a reply as I walk, no longer frantic about finding him now that I have his email address.

To: August Laurent

From: Evie Fitzgerald

Subject: Already Going





Dear August,

I’m already going to hell. I figure either go big or go home. So I’m going big, starting with leaving that pastry on the table. In my experience, delayed gratification only heightens that first taste.





E





I hit send, unsure what came over me to act so bold. I suppose we all feel a level of power behind the safety of a computer or, in my case, a phone, which pigs again.

To: Evie Fitzgerald

From: August Laurent

Subject: Deal with the Devil





Dear Miss Fitzgerald,

Now I’m intrigued as to what you’ve done to have earned a ticket on the proverbial Highway to Hell. And even more intrigued by your interest in delayed gratification.

I hope you have a productive Monday. I’ll be in touch soon and we can continue our conversation…speaking of delayed gratification.





A





Damn. He’s smooth.





Chapter Seventeen





My eyes are transfixed out the window of the town car on Wednesday as Julian’s driver, Reed, maneuvers along narrow streets where the wealthiest members of society play for the summer. High hedges and security gates prevent the outside world from peeking in, but it doesn’t stop me from gawking at the sprawling estates that pop up every quarter-mile. The closer to the shore we get, the larger and more impressive the properties. This is some serious money.

When I don’t think the houses can get any more extravagant, Reed pulls off the main road, stopping outside a secure gate. After punching in a code, the impressive steel gates open, allowing us entry. My heart thumps in my chest as he continues up a long, stone driveway.

I haven’t seen Julian since Friday. Hell, I haven’t even spoken to him since our conversation Saturday, apart from an email from his assistant telling me that his driver would pick me up today at ten in the morning. At first, his curt tone left a sour taste in my mouth. Maybe it’s a good thing. I’ve already felt myself wanting to blur some of the lines I insisted we draw. How much longer will they remain if he continues to flirt with me?

As the house comes into view, my jaw grows slack. It’s a sprawling three-story, shingle-style historic home that’s obviously been updated and taken care of rather well over the years. The pristine exterior has a sweeping lawn out front, the grass greener than any I’ve seen recently. Then again, I’ve been living in New York for the past several years. The only grass I see is when I visit Central Park, which isn’t often. It’s amazing how much you take the little things, like grass, for granted until they’re no longer part of your daily life.

Reed brings the car to a stop, then hurries to open the door for me. Immediately, a woman in her fifties or sixties rushes out of the front door, hustling along the stone walkway. She wears a dark suit dress, her hair pulled into a tight bun at her nape. Her kind blue eyes are filled with joy as she approaches me.

“You must be Guinevere.” She holds her hand out toward mine, shaking it excitedly. “I’m Camille, the head of staff.”

“Head of staff?” I repeat. “You mean there’s more than one person?”

She laughs merrily at my question. “Of course, dear. At least during the summers. Someone must ensure the household runs smoothly, particularly during parties. But the rest of the year, it’s just me keeping his Manhattan apartment in order. Reed will bring your things up to your suite while I give you the tour.”

With wide eyes, I follow her up to the front door, unable to mask my complete awe and amazement when she pushes it open and we enter a grand foyer, the ceiling over thirty feet high with a stunning crystal chandelier. It’s a circular room with a single round table holding a floral centerpiece of red roses, white lilacs, and blue orchids, tying in with the Fourth of July theme of the weekend. I step closer, the familiar aroma of powder-fresh flowers floating through my senses.