father. “I
don’t think we could have gotten any more personal with her than we did when we
were at—”
“Hold it,” Hunt interrupted, then spoke into the receiver as though a person, not
classical music was on the other end of the line. “Be right with you.”
He frowned at Tim, not wanting the
man to mention Magique again, unless it was in the
most favorable and non-sexual terms. “The sooner I get through with this, the
sooner I’ll be in the conference room and you can leave for the evening.”
“Uh-huh.” He pushed away from the
pillar and spoke over his shoulder as he left. “If you find out anything about
her, I’d like to hear the details.”
Not a chance. She was his. Or would
be as soon as he—
“Prescott.”
Flannigan. Hunt swung his chair around to face the windows and spoke
as quietly as he could, “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Okay, I got what you wanted. Wasn’t
easy, but I got it. Do you have any idea who her father is?”
That wasn’t a question he’d expected
or particularly cared about. “Can you email me the file?”
“I’d rather have one of my
messengers deliver it. I don’t trust the damn Net ,
phones, pagers or any of that other electronic shit. You’ll have a hard copy in
a few hours.”
A fucking
eternity. Hunt pushed out of his chair and
paced as he talked. “How much did you get?”
“Don’t worry, we were thorough.”
That remained to be seen. No matter
how good Flannigan was, Hunt didn’t think the man could peer into Magique’s heart. “All right. A few hours. I’ll be in my office.”
“Figured as
much.”
“Wait,” Hunt said, before Flannigan
ended the call. “What’s her name?”
“ Alexa .”
It fit her. Elegant. Regal. He smiled. “ Alexa what?”
“Marsh.”
Hunt stopped pacing. His mind raced,
recalling what Flannigan had said about knowing who her father was. He blurted,
“As in the Marshs ?”
A chuckle sounded on the other end
of the line, followed by Flannigan’s sigh. “Told you you’d be
surprised.”
Chapter Four
It had been a good day, relatively
pain free. The first she’d experienced in weeks, allowing her to come to the
office and work. And now this had to happen.
Ronnie hung up her office phone and
glanced across the room. Alexa was at her desk, a
Louis XV replica, its mahogany inlaid with gold, its top inset with leather.
Typical over-the-top furniture for a madam, a blatant cliché, but Ronnie didn’t
care. She loved this stuff.
There were white roses artfully
arranged in numerous vases, sitting chairs with needlepoint embroidery and
gilded mirrors hanging on the walls. Surrounded by such opulence, Alexa might have been a princess-in-waiting at Versailles,
rather than a contemporary woman focused on the company’s spreadsheets, its
profit and loss.
Two years ago, Alexa had bought into the company, taking over its accounting and other business
matters. She was a whiz at that kind of work. No surprise. She had an economics
and management degree from Oxford and had been on the fast track to run an
international business or a government agency when she’d chosen this. A damn escort service.
“I’m not poor and I’m not interested
in love,” she’d told Ronnie when they first met. “So I’m not looking for a
sugar daddy or Prince Charming to rescue me. I just want to have some fun with
guys. Why shouldn’t I get paid for it?”
Ah, the young. They had such
remarkably simplistic ways of looking at things.
When Ronnie had been Alexa’s age, she’d been searching for Mr. Right for as long
as she could recall. She’d grown up in a trailer park in a particularly poor
part of Arkansas, the third generation of her family headed for welfare.
The grinding poverty wore at her,
along with working after school at a diner that offered no future. She wanted
pretty things and guys who treated her with respect, opening doors and speaking
gently, rather than bellowing or using their fists to get their points
don’t think we could have gotten any more personal with her than we did when we
were at—”
“Hold it,” Hunt interrupted, then spoke into the receiver as though a person, not
classical music was on the other end of the line. “Be right with you.”
He frowned at Tim, not wanting the
man to mention Magique again, unless it was in the
most favorable and non-sexual terms. “The sooner I get through with this, the
sooner I’ll be in the conference room and you can leave for the evening.”
“Uh-huh.” He pushed away from the
pillar and spoke over his shoulder as he left. “If you find out anything about
her, I’d like to hear the details.”
Not a chance. She was his. Or would
be as soon as he—
“Prescott.”
Flannigan. Hunt swung his chair around to face the windows and spoke
as quietly as he could, “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Okay, I got what you wanted. Wasn’t
easy, but I got it. Do you have any idea who her father is?”
That wasn’t a question he’d expected
or particularly cared about. “Can you email me the file?”
“I’d rather have one of my
messengers deliver it. I don’t trust the damn Net ,
phones, pagers or any of that other electronic shit. You’ll have a hard copy in
a few hours.”
A fucking
eternity. Hunt pushed out of his chair and
paced as he talked. “How much did you get?”
“Don’t worry, we were thorough.”
That remained to be seen. No matter
how good Flannigan was, Hunt didn’t think the man could peer into Magique’s heart. “All right. A few hours. I’ll be in my office.”
“Figured as
much.”
“Wait,” Hunt said, before Flannigan
ended the call. “What’s her name?”
“ Alexa .”
It fit her. Elegant. Regal. He smiled. “ Alexa what?”
“Marsh.”
Hunt stopped pacing. His mind raced,
recalling what Flannigan had said about knowing who her father was. He blurted,
“As in the Marshs ?”
A chuckle sounded on the other end
of the line, followed by Flannigan’s sigh. “Told you you’d be
surprised.”
Chapter Four
It had been a good day, relatively
pain free. The first she’d experienced in weeks, allowing her to come to the
office and work. And now this had to happen.
Ronnie hung up her office phone and
glanced across the room. Alexa was at her desk, a
Louis XV replica, its mahogany inlaid with gold, its top inset with leather.
Typical over-the-top furniture for a madam, a blatant cliché, but Ronnie didn’t
care. She loved this stuff.
There were white roses artfully
arranged in numerous vases, sitting chairs with needlepoint embroidery and
gilded mirrors hanging on the walls. Surrounded by such opulence, Alexa might have been a princess-in-waiting at Versailles,
rather than a contemporary woman focused on the company’s spreadsheets, its
profit and loss.
Two years ago, Alexa had bought into the company, taking over its accounting and other business
matters. She was a whiz at that kind of work. No surprise. She had an economics
and management degree from Oxford and had been on the fast track to run an
international business or a government agency when she’d chosen this. A damn escort service.
“I’m not poor and I’m not interested
in love,” she’d told Ronnie when they first met. “So I’m not looking for a
sugar daddy or Prince Charming to rescue me. I just want to have some fun with
guys. Why shouldn’t I get paid for it?”
Ah, the young. They had such
remarkably simplistic ways of looking at things.
When Ronnie had been Alexa’s age, she’d been searching for Mr. Right for as long
as she could recall. She’d grown up in a trailer park in a particularly poor
part of Arkansas, the third generation of her family headed for welfare.
The grinding poverty wore at her,
along with working after school at a diner that offered no future. She wanted
pretty things and guys who treated her with respect, opening doors and speaking
gently, rather than bellowing or using their fists to get their points
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