Contents

Cover
Copyright
Dedication
The Hooker
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Connect
Books

ERENA

REY

www.serenagrey.com

This book is a work of fiction. All

names, characters, locations, and

incidents are products of the author’s

imagination, and have been used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

persons living or dead, locales, or

events is entirely coincidental.

THE HOOKER

Raven

Press

To each and everyone of my readers.

You have changed my life.

Also

You’re the best.

The Hooker is a short book featuring

the characters from Drawn to You:

Swanson Court series Book 1. It is told

from Landon’s point of view and

includes the events of the first few

chapters of Drawn to You.

For more information on Drawn to You,

here

For more information on Addicted to

You, the sequel to Drawn to You, go

here

cross the table from me, Aidan is

finishing the last bits of what used to be
my salmon. He’s silent, focused on his

food. He must have been ravenous, I
decide, frowning in concern. He wolfed
down his food in record time before
starting on mine.

The new play he’s directing must be

taking too much of a toll on him. When
he was a teenager, whenever he was
focused on anything, exams, a school
play, a girl, he would forget to eat. I
shake my head and take a sip from my
wine. Everybody calls me heartless, and
yet, here I am, worrying like a mother
hen about my twenty four year old
brother.

Aidan drops his fork and picks up his

glass of wine, taking a long sip as he
leans back on his chair. His gaze goes to
glass wall of the restaurant, from which

the city lights can be seen shining like
decorations on an endless Christmas
tree. He doesn’t say anything, and
neither do I. When we have these
dinners, verbal communication is not
usually the priority.

My thoughts are interrupted by a

waitress, young, with long black hair
and honey toned skin. She’s slender as a
bone, but adequately filled out in all the
right places. She walks towards our
table, holding a bottle of wine with a
napkin at the base. I watch as she passes
by, detached in my assessment of her
assets, but as she crosses Aidan’s line of
vision, I see his interest perk, and he sits
up, only a little, but enough to make me
smile in amusement.

“You can’t have grown tired of all the

talented girls on Broadway already,” I
say with a small smirk.

“Impossible,” Aidan replies matter-

of-factly, “New ones keep arriving every
day.” His eyes are still on the waitress,
who’s behind me now, but right in his
line of vision. With obvious reluctance,
he turns his gaze back to me. Looking at
him is like looking in a mirror, at a
younger, more carefree reflection. “I’m
allowed to appreciate beautiful women,”
he says with a shrug, “even the ones who
can’t sing and dance.”

“Appreciate away,” I chuckle. “I’ve

been hearing good things about your
play.” It’s his first time directing a play
on Broadway. Off Broadway, yes, a

couple of successful ones, but this is his
first big outing, and while I have no
doubt that he will be do great, I want to
be sure he feels the same way.

“There’s just been one viewing.

Nobody knows anything yet.” He
frowns. “I don’t want to talk about the
play. How’s the hotel?”

“Running.” The Swanson Court is our

family legacy. The multi-story hotel was
built in the forties, soon after the war
ended, by my great-grandfather, Gabriel
Swanson. A few years later, he almost
lost it, but my grandfather, Alexander
Court, saved the hotel and used his
money to turn it into a world-class name
in luxury. He also married Lily
Swanson,

Gabriel’s

daughter,

and

changed the name of the hotel to the
Swanson Court Hotel.

I own it. Most of it anyway, Aidan

has his shares, but it’s mainly mine, and I
run it too. In the ten years since my father
died, I’ve expanded the brand across the
country and made the Swanson Court
name synonymous with luxury living.

“I’m sorry I forgot.” Aidan says

suddenly.

I know what he’s talking about. “It

doesn’t matter,” I say. “I couldn’t care
less if it’s my birthday.” I remember the
headline from one of the news magazines
I’d seen in the morning, ‘Hotel
Magnate turns twenty nine!’ It had
screamed in bold font, with a picture of
me leaving some society event. Hotel

Magnate. When had that become my
name? “I’m just glad we’re having
dinner together.” I continue, as Aidan
empties his wineglass, “Next week I’ll
be in San Francisco, and you’ll be knee-
deep in the murky depths of perfecting
your play.”

“You’ll be here for opening night

though,” he asks. Suddenly he looks like
a child again, hopeful. Is Daddy coming
back?

I blink, then chuckle, banishing the

memory. “Of course.”

He grins, “If it bombs, at least you’ll

be there to take me to a place where I
can get well and truly wasted.”

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t bomb.”
“Well if it does, I want to wake up in

a suite in Vegas with no memory, and at
least three call girls who won’t care that
I’ve forgotten their names.”

“If everyone got that after a bad

show,” I say with a laugh. “I think we’d
see more of them.” I pause, and watch as
Aidan’s eyes find the slender waitress
again. “Call girls though,” I remark.
“You must be losing your touch.”

He turns back to me and grins.

“Maybe I’ve learned that the only
women who understand the term no-
strings-attached are those who expect to
get paid.”

He may have a point, I concede, my

mind going to Cecily. Cecily Fenstein,
curator at one of the bigger private
galleries. We’d met through mutual

friends, and she assured me that she
didn’t want commitment either. That had
only lasted three months before the usual
questions began. Where are we going
with this? Where do you see our
relationship going? And finally, the
ultimatum. She’d asked me to commit to
her or lose her, so I’d gone with the
second option. I don’t like hurting
women, and the sheen of tears in her
eyes when she told me that she hoped
she would never see me again still feels
like an indictment.

But she’ll get over it. For women like

her, it’s not the man that matters, but
what he represents. The money, the
prestige, and the diamond ring. Some
other guy will tick those boxes for her

soon enough, and as for me, I’ll find
someone else, and enjoy what I can get
before the demands for commitment get
unbearable.

“You have a point,” I tell Adrian. “At

least with a hooker everyone gets what
they expect.”

He chuckles, and when he looks at

me, there’s a familiar, mischievous glint
in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll get you one as a
birthday present,” he suggests.

I wouldn’t put it past him. “Thanks,” I

say firmly, “but I’m sure I can manage.”

He just shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

My apartment is at the top of the

Swanson Court. Three thousand square
feet of space that I don’t need, spread
out over two floors. It’s vast and silent,
and the sense of solitude it provides can
be overwhelming to others, but I like it.
I’ve never been the kind of man who’s
afraid to be alone.

Outside, the city is a mass of shapes

and light. Up here, I can’t hear the
sounds of cars and people, but I can hear
the wind, whistling and forceful.
Forceful. The word dances around in my
mind. Forceful, Ruthless, Single-minded.
The words the Press love to use when
they describe me. Cold, heartless,
unfeeling. The words the women prefer.
All the words that reduce me from

Landon Alexander Court, brother, friend
and whatever else I am, to just ‘Hotel
Magnate.’

Do I mind? I never did before. Not in

the years I spent planning how to expand
the scope of what my father left to me.
Not in the years I worked to engrave the
name of Swanson Court in every mind
interested in luxury living, and even
those who were not. I have expanded
what my great-grandfather built and
made it greater than either him, my
grandfather or even my father ever
dreamed.

So I am single minded, I am forceful,

I am determined, but I rescued Swanson
Court from the brink of bankruptcy when
my father died, and I am pushing further

than even he had ever dared to imagine.
If being ruthless is what it takes, then I’ll
do it all over again.

Taking another sip of my brandy, I

listen to the ice cubes chink against the
glass as I lower it from my lips. Against
the silence, I can almost hear the sounds
from my memories, of this silent
apartment filled with light and laughter.
My parents, the way they used to be a
long time ago. Aidan, running around
and sneaking off to torment hotel staff by
turning up in places he wasn’t supposed
to be. Love, and family.

All that’s left of that now is me, and

Aidan, now a man, no longer the
reckless rebel he used to be.

I think of my parents again and drain

my glass, turning away from the
windows, suddenly restless. I need a
woman, if only to distract me from
thinking about the past. Cecily would
have been perfect, but I can’t call her
now. The last thing I want is for her to
imagine that her ultimatum is working.
I’ll have to find someone else. Someone
who won’t be interested in commitment,
at least for a while.

I place my empty glass on a coffee

table and pick up my jacket from the
back of a chair where I’d draped it when
I came in earlier, deciding to go
downstairs to talk to the hotel manager. I
still have to thank the kitchen staff for the
birthday cake that’s now chilling in my
fridge. That’ll distract me from my

thoughts, if only for a while.

I shrug on the jacket and walk to the

foyer, towards the elevator. It’s not a
private elevator, but the call button for
the penthouse overrides all other
instructions, so once I’m in it, it doesn’t
stop on any floor but mine. On my floor,
the doors don’t open unless a special
passcode is entered from inside the car,
or the call button is pressed from inside
my apartment.

Once in the foyer, I press the button,

expecting to wait, but I’m surprised
when the doors slide open immediately.
I look up, surprised, and immediately,
my surprise turns to a mixture of shock,
appreciation, and something else…
something wild and insistent that flares

to life inside me with a force that I can’t
quite explain. Inside the elevator, there’s
a girl. She’s slender, with pale skin,
beautiful red hair flecked with gold, and
green eyes fringed with long dark lashes.
She has a good figure, shown off by a
flattering green dress, the same color as
her eyes, which are right now trained on
me, her expression a curious mixture of
relief and apprehension.

My first thought, before I remember

Aidan, and his promise to give me a
hooker as a birthday present is, who the
fuck is she, and what in God’s name is
she doing here.

My second thought, after I remember

Aidan, and allow my eyes to linger on
the body under her dress is, ‘I’ll deal

with Aidan later, but right now, this girl
is exactly what I need.’

he’s staring at me as if she’s not quite

sure that she wants to come inside the
apartment. In my imagination, hookers
are confident, brassy creatures, but this
girl, she looks like she needs me to put

an arm around her and whisper
reassurances in her ear.

“Good evening,” her voice is halting,

unsure. Something in the voice makes me
want to pause, to ask if everything is
alright, but I shut it down, concentrating
instead on the way the material of her
dress skims over her full breasts.
Already, my body is hardening, my
fingers tingling with a need to touch her.
Her eyes land on my face again, and
beneath

the

apprehension,

see

something familiar in her eyes. Lust.

“Well,” I say slowly, my eyes

skimming over her body again, “You’re
not what I would have chosen, but you’ll
do.”

She doesn’t reply, and her eyes stay

trained on my face. I step back so she
can come inside the apartment, and she
follows me, moving out of the elevator
and into the foyer, before pausing to look
at me, a confused expression on her face.

“Come in.” I say again, wondering at

her hesitation. “I won’t bite.” Then with
a smile to put her at ease, I add, “Unless
you want me to.”

That does it. I sense it as she relaxes,

and I lead her into the living room,
shrugging off my jacket, and offering her
a seat. Her green eyes are wide and
fixed on me, and I start to wonder what
she’s thinking. “Would you like a drink?”
I ask. “Brandy, Water, Wine…?”

“Brandy,” she replies.
Going over to the bar to pour the

drinks, I can feel her eyes on me. I can’t
shake the feeling that I’m missing
something, but I don’t want to delve too
much into it. I want her. I can already
imagine how her skin would feel against
my fingers. I can already imagine those
eyes closed in ecstasy as she comes. It’s
all I can do not to pull that green dress
up to her waist and fuck her over the
sofa, but I’m not an excited teenager at
his first sexual experience, although right
now, I almost feel like one.

When I turn back to her, she’s looking

at the pictures on the wall - an old
family portrait, my mother’s ballerina
picture, and a few others. I pause to
admire the slender curve of her neck,
and that hair… I want to plunge my

fingers into it. I breathe, willing the
straining hardness in my pants to hold on
just a little bit longer. I walk towards
her. “Here,” I say, offering her the drink.

She turns to me, and her eyes linger

on the glass before she reaches for it,
slowly, almost gingerly. Her fingers
close around the glass and brush mine,
and I stiffen involuntarily, taken aback
by the jolt I felt from that small touch.

Taking a breath, I sit beside her on the

sofa. Her dress has hiked up, exposing a
lot more of her smooth thighs. My nose
fills with her scent, peach shampoo, and
a hint of perfume, and my body responds
by hardening some more.

It’s not helping that her eyes are

lingering on my face in a way that makes

me want to take the glass from her and
get down to business. “You like ballet?”
I ask, trying to stay cool. I’d much rather
be discovering what her luscious pink
lips taste like.

“Hmm,” she replies, looking confused

again.

Even that unfocused sound is sexy. I

breathe again and gesture at the picture
of my mother on the wall. “You seemed
interested in the picture.”

“Well, I like ballet, as much as any

little girl who ever wanted to wear a
tutu.” She laughs, and I wonder if she’s
nervous. It’s ridiculous, but somehow, I
feel nervous too. “But I was looking at
the quote from the picture,” she
continues, “It’s from one of my favorite

poems.”

To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew

Marvell. My mother had loved that
poem. I quote the first line, smiling at
her. “But you’re not coy, are you?” I ask.
“That would be inconsistent with your
profession.”

She frowns and I imagine that maybe

she minds being reminded that she’s a
hooker. Why are we still talking? I
wonder. I’m aching to fuck her. By now,
I should be discovering the body beneath
that green dress, working on this lust that
seems to be growing with every second.

Her voice snaps me out of my carnal

thoughts. “The woman in the poem,” she
says, “Was she being coy, or careful?
Many people have tossed caution to the

wind and surrendered to passion, and yet
come to regret it later.”

I couldn’t care less about Andrew

Marvell’s coy mistress. Right now, I’m
fighting the urge to pick this girl up,
carry her over my shoulder to the nearest
bed and bury myself inside her warmth. I
can’t remember the last time, if ever, a
woman got me this hot without even so
much as a touch.

Calm down, I tell myself. Then to her.

“You’re absolutely right. Though only
my brother would find a hooker who
talks about poetry on the job.”

Immediately the words are out of my

mouth, she starts to choke on her drink.
Momentarily setting aside my lust, I
hurry to the bar and return with a glass

of water. “Here,” I take her drink from
her and give her the water, “drink this.”

She takes a few sips of water without

looking at me. Why is she so quiet? I
don’t know much about hookers, but the
women I usually spend time with go out
of their way to show me how clever and
sophisticated they are. I watch her for a
moment as she looks everywhere but at
me, then I reach down and take her free
hand in mine. It’s small and soft, and at
the contact, there’s that jolt again.

“Are you alright?” I ask.
She licks her lips and I almost let out

a groan.

“I’m fine,” she says, after a long

pause. A small smile touches her lips. “I
drank it too fast, but I’m fine.”

“Good.” I take the water from her and

set it down on the coffee table. “What’s
your name?” I ask.

“Rachel.”
Rachel, I repeat the name silently in

my mind. It suits her. “I’m Landon.”

She smiles at me. She still looks

uncertain, but I don’t allow myself the
luxury of wondering why.

“Did Aidan tell you it was my

birthday?”

“Yes,” she says.
I nod. “What are your rates?”
She hesitates, and I understand why.

It’s bad manners to ask the value of a gift
after all, but I’d like to know. “It’s
already been taken care of,” she replies.

“Of course. But tell me anyway.”

She tells me. It’s an impressive sum.

“My brother is being very generous,” I
say, “So… what do I get for that?”

She pauses. “The whole night.”
My fingers tingle in anticipation.

“Anything I want?”

Her voice is a whisper. “Anything

you want.”

Perfect. I get up from the sofa, unable

to wait any longer. “Follow me,” I tell
her, going towards the stairs and up to
one of the guest bedrooms. We’re
already there when I realize how ill-
equipped I am for an encounter with a
prostitute. I usually keep my rendezvous
with women away from this particular
apartment. Mainly because of the
memories it holds. What that means,

right now, is that if she doesn’t have
condoms, I’m going to end up having sex
with my hand.

“You have condoms?” I ask her.
She pauses, and my stomach starts to

contract in dread. Then she retrieves a
roll from her purse and hands them to
me.

I walk into the room and toss them on

the bed before sitting on the armchair
close to the bed. I’m trying my best to
stay cool, but my fingers are tingling,
aching to tear off her clothes and fuck
her till she can’t stand. She’s still
standing by the door, looking like she’s
not sure what to do. I motion for her to
move towards me, and when she a few
feet from me, I raise a hand to stop her.

“Take off your clothes,” I say.
Slowly, she unzips her dress, while

my whole body tightens in anticipation.
Under the dress is a black lace bra and
panties. Her breasts are full, her stomach
flat. Her legs in her high heels are long,
and I can already imagine them wrapped
around my waist.

She looking at me. Waiting for me to

say something. “All your clothes.” I
clarify, watching as she unhooks her bra
and her beautiful pink-tipped breast spill
out.

My cock is straining in my pants, hard

and insistent. My eyes fix on her nipples,
watching them harden. She bends to
pulls down her panties, and when she
straightens, I can’t look away from the

perfection that’s her body.

“Get on the bed,” I manage.
She walks over to the bed, her breasts

swaying with every step. I want to get up
and throw her onto the bed, spread her
legs and taste her. The thought takes me
closer to the edge. I get up, and start to
take off my clothes. “Take off your
shoes, Rachel,” I say. “Pull up your legs
and spread them, I want to see you touch
yourself.”

She does as I say, her fingers slipping

between her legs, rubbing over every
spot I have to fight the urge to cover with
my tongue. She moans, her head falling
back as she closes her eyes.

I tear at my buttons, watching her

fingers hungrily, and yet also needing to

see the look in her eyes. “Open your
eyes,” I tell her. “Don’t close them.
Don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”

She nods, and I rip off the rest of my

clothes, watching her eyes cloud as she
looks at me. She moans again just as I
pull off my briefs. My cock is rock hard,
tight and aching with the need to replace
the finger she’s right now slipping inside
herself.

Fuck. I roll on a condom and kneel on

the bed between her legs. Her fingers
are still moving and I cover them with
mine, taking over as I palm her cunt and
slip two fingers inside her.

She’s wet, and soft, and responsive. I

feel her body, warm and slick, tighten
around my fingers. Her groan is soft and

needy, and as I start to move my fingers,
she moves in time with me, driving her
hips into my hand. She’s so hot, so eager,
and it’s so arousing. “Don’t stop,” she
moans, “oh please don’t stop.”

As if I would. My cock is at the point

of pain, but still I wait, and plunge
another finger inside her. Her body
stiffens, jerking off the bed as she
comes.

I can’t wait anymore. As soon as the

first wave of her orgasm is over, I pull
out my fingers, grab hold of her legs,
spreading them wider as I bury myself
deep inside her warmth.

Sweet Jesus! She’s fucking tight, and

so hot. She feels so fucking good.

I barely feel her legs wrapping

around my waist. All I can feel is the
need to thrust into her again and again,
relishing the pleasure as her heat
surrounds my cock, hungry, demanding
everything. I hear her moan as her body
stiffens again, tightening around me, and
squeezing everything from me. I lose
myself, groaning as I come with an
intensity that I’ve never felt before.

y heart continues to pound against my

chest like a sledgehammer while I try to
catch my breath. When I finally do, I
release her legs and pull out from inside
her, feeling her body shudder and pulse
tightly around me. She lets out a soft sigh
and falls back on the pillows, her eyes
heavy. They follow me across the room
as I take care of the condom before
returning to the bed to join her.

We’re both silent. I hand her a tissue

from the box on the nightstand, turning
away while she cleans herself up.

Who knew sex with a hooker could

be so mind-blowing?

She’s still staring at me, her green

eyes almost dreamy. I have an impulsive
and insane urge to stroke her face, to

kiss her full pink lips, and run my hands
over her smooth skin.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she says

suddenly, and then she chuckles, a small
soft sound that for some reason makes
me want to smile.

“If it makes you feel any better,” I

reply. “I can’t feel mine either.”

Her chuckle turns into a laugh, and a

dimple appears on her right cheek, just
the one. I find myself staring, and when
the laugh turns into a small smile, my
eyes travel down to her nipples, hard
and pink, and I feel myself getting hard
again.

“Can I ask you a question?” she says.
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes back to

her face. “Go on.”

“Why would someone who looks like

you ever need a hooker?”

“Looks like me?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I

mean. Someone as hot as you.”

I’ve been described as good-looking

by many people, but hearing her say it
makes me grin like a fool. “Not to
mention devastating in bed,” I add, still
grinning.

“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” I tease, “but you said you

couldn’t feel your legs.”

She sighs. “Okay, devastating in bed,”

she chuckles. “Why would you ever
need a hooker?”

“Are all your clients unattractive?” I

ask, suppressing the sharp stab of

jealousy that accompanies the thought of
her with any other man.

She pauses. “Yes,” she says finally,

“or busy, or just adventurous.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m busy and

adventurous.”

She doesn’t reply. I find myself

searching for a topic, anything, so we
can keep talking. It’s ridiculous. I’m not
some average guy on a first date who has
to pull out all the stops to keep a girl
interested.

“Do you want another drink?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine,

thanks.”

I sit up, looking at her face. Where

did I hear that hookers don’t kiss? I want
to kiss her. To taste her lips. I watch her

eyes travel down to my cock, and back
to my face. A faint blush stains her
cheeks.

“You’re not tired,” I ask, “are you?”
She shakes her head.
“Good.” I run my hand down the side

of her body, from her shoulder to her
hip, and feel her tremble slightly. Then I
move my hand to her back, sliding it
over her soft skin until I’m cupping her
butt.

Her skin is flushed already, and when

I look at her face, her mouth is open, her
breath coming hard. I smile at her, then
turn her over so she’s lying on her
stomach, her butt facing me. I run my
hands over the supple skin, before
kneading her gently. She makes a sound

that’s anywhere between a moan and a
sigh.

Pulling her up on her hands and

knees, I reach between her legs, pleased
to find that she’s soaking wet. She moans
loudly when I run a finger over her wet
clit, and it turns into a groan when I
plunged my fingers deep inside her
warmth.

She lets out a soft moan, and I move

my fingers, out, then in again. “You’re so
wet,” I tell her, “so wet and so hot.”

Her body spasms as she tightens

around my fingers, demanding more.
Suddenly I’m impatient to be inside her
again. I reach for the condoms, rolling
one on, as fast as I can, then I take hold
of her waist, positioning her so I can

slide slowly inside her.

This time I take it slow, letting the

sensations wash over me. She whimpers
softly as I move, her fingers gripping the
sheets. I find myself wondering again at
how tight she is, how hot, how good it
feels to be inside her. I want it to last as
long as possible, so I flex my hips
slowly, sliding in, then out again, until
she’s pulsing uncontrollably around my
aching cock. Her body starts to shudder,
the hot clenching in her core urging me
deeper. I bend over her, losing control as
I plunge faster and deeper inside her
heat. I hear her scream, and feel the
contractions as she comes, and I reach
for her breasts, teasing her hard nipples
as her body continues to convulse

around me. Leaning back up, I grip her
thighs and lift her legs off the bed, losing
control as I thrust deeper into her pulsing
heat. Vaguely I hear her cry out as she
climaxes again, and the pleasure rises in
my brain until I can’t take it anymore. I
groan loudly and slam into her, almost
losing my mind as I come.

I release her legs and collapse on top

of her. She’s breathing deeply, her body
glowing with sweat. I pull out of her and
get rid of the condom before collapsing
back on the bed.

“Now, I definitely can’t feel my

legs,” she pants.

“Me neither.” I sigh, and surprise

myself by pressing a kiss on her
shoulder. She smiles at me and I smile

back. Who knew sex with a whore
would be this good?

The silence stretches as our breathing

returns to normal. “The elevator doesn’t
require a code to leave.” I inform her,
sure that she’s thinking of leaving. “Just
press the call button.” When she doesn’t
say anything, I turn to look at her, and
she has a strange look on her face that I
can’t decipher. I get up and retrieve my
wallet from my pants. Pulling out a
couple of bills, I leave the on the
nightstand on her side. “I know you’ve
been paid,” I tell her, “but consider that
a bonus.”

She gives me a small smile, but she

still doesn’t say anything. I imagine that
she’s tired and drowsy. I know I am. I

smile at her before laying back down on
my side. “You can leave when you’re
less tired,” I say, “and don’t forget to
leave your number.”

I’m a light sleeper, so I’m surprised

that I don’t hear her leave. When I wake
up hours later, she’s already gone. The
cash is still on the table, and there’s no
number anywhere.

cross from me on a conference table in

his lawyer’s office, a petulant Evans
Sinclair is signing the papers that will
ensure that he can no longer go around
badmouthing me to anyone who will
listen, as he has made a point to do in the
few months since I purchased the hotel
his father built from him.

His petulance won’t last long though,

I think, more than a little disgusted with
him. As soon as he’s out of here, he’ll go
back to spending the money he made
from the sale, as well as the small
settlement that’s part of the contract
we’re now signing, on exotic cars, fast
women and the never-ending party that’s
his life. He spent the years since his
father died paying lip service to his
position as the president of the

management board of the Gold Dust
Hotel, but as soon the other board
members forced him to sell rather than
watch the hotel die a painful death, I
became the villain, at least to him.

“Mr. Court.” The lawyer gets up as

soon as the signatures are on paper, and
extends a hand to me.

I rise from my seat, leaving Alex

Haven, my lawyer to retrieve the papers.
I shake Sinclair’s lawyer’s hand. “Thank
you.” I tell him. Then turn to Evans.

He gets up and takes my hand in a

soft, indecisive grip. “Fuck You
Landon,” he says resentfully.

I shrug, and redo the button on my

jacket, turning away from the table.
Before I get to the glass doors, I spy the

Gold Dust, soon to be Gold Dust – A
Swanson Court Hotel, through the floor
to ceiling windows. The retention of the
old name had been the condition of the
board members, all members of the
extended Sinclair family. I would take
total control, but keep the original name
of the hotel. I had no problem agreeing.
Before Evans, the Gold Dust name had
been one to be reckoned with.

Already, my team are working,

refurbishing

the

old

hotel

and

transforming it into an establishment
worthy of the Swanson Court name. In a
few weeks, we’ll open for business.

Downstairs, the hired car is already

waiting outside the main doors. My
chauffeur Joe, in the driver seat. He

looks nondescript, graying hair in a crew
cut, and ordinary black suit, but he’s a
security expert, deadly with a firearm
and a skilled martial artist. With him
around. I don’t need any other
bodyguards.

Not that I can’t take care of myself.

On good days, I can outshoot Joe. And I
still do mixed martial arts, but Joe’s job
is to make sure I never need to use those
skills.

Alex catches up to me before I get

into the car. He’s a few years older than
I am, and is a partner at Fincher and
Haven. The name of the law firm has
changed

since

they

were

grandfather’s lawyers back in the day.
I’ve known Alex for years, since he

started working there as an associate,
and he’s one of the people I know I can
trust to get results.

“I have a meeting with the interior

designer,” he tells me. “So I’ll be in
New York later tonight.

“Fine,” I say. I already met with most

the

people

working

the

refurbishment before my meeting with
Sinclair but there are still some
legalities Alex has to iron out. “I want a
full report,” I tell him.

He nods. “Are you returning right

away? You’re not staying at least a
night?”

I almost smile. Of course, he would

expect me to stay, to have a date ready
for my short visit to the city by the bay.

I shake my head, a brief image of red

hair and deep green eyes flashing
through my mind. “No, I have a few
things to do in New York.”

“Good then. I’ll let you know when I

arrive.”

I get into the car and Joe starts the

engine. “Airport?” He asks, looking at
me through the rearview.

I nod.
He starts the drive to my waiting

plane, and my mind goes back to the
image that’s been haunting my mind for
the better part of three days.

It wasn’t that she was more beautiful

than other women I’ve been with. She
was good-looking, pretty even, but I
knew many better-looking girls. Her

body wasn’t the best I’d ever seen
either, but in my memory, it felt perfect
in every way.

I feel the now familiar tightening in

my pants that’s become the norm
whenever I think of her, or remember
that night. Even now, I can still hear the
sound of her moans, like an aural
memory that won’t go away.

Get a hold of yourself, Landon. She’s

a hooker. She’s probably been with five
more men between then and now.

“Sir?”
I realize that I’ve spoken aloud.

“Nothing, Joe.” I say. “I’m just thinking.”

He turns back to the road.
I retrieve my phone from my jacket

pocket and call Aidan. It’s time to do

something about this. She didn’t leave
her card, her number, or anything else to
contact her by, which was bad business
on her part. That doesn’t worry me,
though. I’ll just go ahead and ask Aidan
how to find her again. This time, I’ll pay
for as much of her time as I need to get
her face and her body out of my mind.

Aidan doesn’t pick on the first ring,

and on the second. On the third, the
phone rings twice before I hear his
voice.

“Landon.” He sounds tired. “Sup”
“I take it you’re in rehearsals,” I say.
“You have no idea,” he sighs. “I have

to work with this nineteen year old
Broadway princess whose dad is
producing the show. If she wasn’t so

talented, I’d fire her and tell her dad to
go to hell.”

I chuckle. “If she’s talented, then

what’s the problem?”

“Where do I start!” he exclaims.

“Anyway, forget about all that. What’s
up?”

“Nothing. I’m in San Francisco.”
“Sinclair taken care of?”
“Yes.”
“And work on the new hotel is going

smoothly?”

The questions make me smile. Mainly

because Aidan has no real interest in
hotels or anything that doesn’t have to do
with performing arts. “Yes, everything
went fine.”

“Well congratulations,” he says.

“Thanks. But that’s not why I called. I

need to know more about the girl you
sent over to my apartment.”

“What girl?”
“On my birthday,” I clarify. “The

hooker.”

There’s a short pause on his side. “I

have no idea what you’re talking about.

I snort. “Aidan, the hooker you sent to

my apartment as a birthday present.”

“Landon, you told me you weren’t

interested, remember?”

“Since when have you ever listened

to me?” I ask. “Stop playing around,
Aidan, I need her number.”

“I’m not playing around.” he insists.
He sounds sincere, and I know when

Aidan is lying. “So you didn’t send a

hooker to my apartment.

“No.” he pauses. “Let me get this

straight. Some girl showed up at your
apartment and you had sex with her
thinking she was the hooker I promised.”

“Yes.” I grind out.
“Wooohoo.” He crows. “I don’t even

know if that’s funny or scary,” he says.
“Was she cute? Did you use protection?”

“Oh, shut up.”
“She could have been a thief… or an

assassin.” He laughs. “This is precious.”

I listen to him laugh some more.

“Why do you want to find her anyway?”
he asks.

Because I can’t stop thinking about

her. I pause, catching myself before I say
the words.“I have no idea,” I say

instead. Why don’t you go back to your
Broadway princess and show her who’s
the director?”

He’s still laughing when I cut the

connection, but I’m frowning. If Aidan
didn’t send her, then who was she, and
why was she at my apartment?

It’s late in the evening when I get

back to New York, after spending most
the five-hour flight trying to work, while
being constantly distracted by thoughts
of Rachel. Who is she? Why was she in
the elevator on my floor? Why didn’t she
take the money, and why didn’t she leave

her number?

mind

churning

with

possibilities. Was she a thief? Unlikely,
apart from a few paintings, there aren’t
any items of immense value in the
apartment, and since I didn’t notice any
paintings missing, I could rule that out. A
corporate spy sent by a competitor to
steal information about my business,
maybe, but then her effort would have
been in vain, I don’t keep sensitive
information lying around, and the level
of protection on my computer ensures
that nobody else can log in. Now that I
think about it, I realize how careless I’d
been. If Aidan had sent her, someone
would have called from the front desk to
confirm from me that I was expecting a

guest, but I’d been too intent on fucking
her to think of things like that.

Could she have been lost? If she was,

why she didn’t just tell me instead of…

Instead letting me think she was a

whore and… the images of that night fill
my head. Her breasts spilling out of her
bra when she took it off, the thick cloud
of gold and red hair, how wet and tight
she’s been around my cock, her response
to my touch, her soft moans… as
annoyed as I am by all the unexplained
questions, my body reacts to the
memories. My fingertips clench, aching
to touch her again, to relive the images
in my head. I want to know who she is, I
want to know why she was at my
apartment, and yes, I want to fuck her

again.

As Joe navigates through the crowded

streets, I wrestle with my impatience to
get back to the hotel and find out what
really happened on Friday night. I’ve
already called the Jed Fray, head of
security, to review the security footage
from the elevators. I resist the urge to
call him again. I know he’ll let me know
as soon as he has something.

Almost as if I’ve communicated my

thoughts to Jed, my phone begins to
vibrate. I glance and the screen, then
answer it.

“Yes,”
“We reviewed the footage,” he says

without preamble. “The subject came
into the lobby at a few minutes past eight

and attended a birthday party for a
photographer called Chadwick Black at
the Oyster Restaurant.”

“and?”
“There seems to have been a heated

discussion between the subject and
another man outside the restaurant. After
that she took the elevator to the ground
floor.” He pauses. “Instead of exiting
when the elevator opened, she seems to
have entered the button for the
penthouse. We have the footage of her
leaving your apartment early in the
morning, but she went straight outside
and took a taxi.”

“The man outside the restaurant, do

you know who he is?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Find out everything you can, I want

to know who she is. Check the guest list
for the party, then do a social media
check.”

“Already on it.”
“Let me know when you have

something.”

Later, when I’m in my study

reviewing the videos the security
department sent to me, I watch her argue
outside the restaurant with a dark haired
man.When she walks away from him,
she enters the elevator, where the
footage shows her wiping tears from her
eyes. She didn't even look at the panel
when she pressed the button for the
penthouse, and At my floor, she seems
genuinely confused, as she vainly taps

the buttons on the elevator panel,
perhaps trying to make it go back to the
ground floor.

My desk phone rings. It’s Jed.
“I’m coming up.” He informs me.
“Fine.”
He lets himself into the apartment and

comes to meet me in the study, knocking
discreetly before opening the door.

“So?” I ask him.
“We’ve been checking the names on

the guest list and hoping to find her from
there. Then we identified the man she
argued with outside the restaurant. He’s
Jack Weyland, a senior editor at Gilt
Traveler magazine.”

He looks at me, then continues.
“He’s listed on the site as a

contributor, along with a headshot.” He
hands me a printout, “further along the
page we have another headshot, which
seems to be the subject.”

I find it almost immediately. The

gleaming hair stands out, as well as the
sweet half smile on her face. I read the
name beside the headshot. Rachel
Foster. Features Associate.

I tear my eyes away from her face.

“Anything else?”

Jed nods and hands me and envelope.

“That’s all we found on her.”

I study the envelope for a moment

before I reach for it. “Thank you,” I say,
dismissing him. As he leaves, I have a
short moment of sanity when I ask myself
why I’m bothering. So what if I slept

with some girl whose last name I never
bothered to ask. Why can’t I let it go and
forget about her?

I pull out the contents of the envelope

and I have my answer. The first sheet is
a picture of her, in color, wearing a t-
shirt with her hair in a ponytail. Her arm
is around someone but that part of the
picture has been cropped out. She’s
laughing.

I stare at the sheet for a long time

before I go to the next one, where all her
information has been neatly typed.

Rachel Foster, twenty four years old,

Columbia graduate with a degree in
English Literature, features associate at
Gilt Traveler.

Jed has even included her home and

work addresses, family information, and
printouts of articles she has written for
Gilt. I stare at the contents of the
envelope, confusion giving way to anger.

Rachel Foster is going to have a lot of

explaining to do.