The techs on staff routinely eradicated any lines, smoothed the surface of that face, added fillers. While she’d never have the dewy freshness of nineteen, when she’d launched her career as an escort, her beauty remained, polished and perfect to her mind, at a ripe sixty-four.
The woman who opened the door wore a black skin suit, one that plunged deep between her breasts. The glittery choker at her throat ensured—with an electric jolt—that she didn’t step outside the house.
She wouldn’t, of course. Auntie had trained her personally five years before, and knew Raven—so named for her thick fall of black hair—devoted herself to her master.
“Good evening, Auntie.” The full lips coated with slick red dye curved in greeting. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
Auntie glided into the soaring entrance hall with its desert-sand marble floors, its lavish gold-and-crystal chandeliers, its bold slashes of art.
The lush roses, white and pure, on the central table perfumed the air.
“Master will join you shortly. May I escort you to the parlor?”
“Of course.”
The parlor, lavish as the rest, held a white grand piano, a marble fireplace, divans, settees, oversize chairs, all in patterns of white on white. White roses flowed from vases; ornately framed mirrors of all shapes and sizes reflected the cold splendor of the room.
“Champagne, Auntie?”
“Please.” So saying, Auntie arranged herself on a divan and watched her former trainee lift the bottle from its bed of ice in gleaming silver, pour it into a flute.
Perfectly done, she thought, and congratulated herself.
“Is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable while you wait?”
“No.” She flicked a hand. “You can go.”
“Enjoy your evening.”
She intended to. Her partner invariably served the finest wines and food perfectly prepared. Their long association benefitted them both.
Some bumps, of course, along the way. Including now the despicable, ungrateful girls. But a successful business accepted certain losses as part of doing that business. A certain percentage of trainees failed, and that was the reality of it.
She and her partner would discuss it all over dinner.
He’d been a client once, she mused. Long ago, and long ago he’d seen her potential. He’d financed her when she’d launched her own escort service.
A hugely successful one, one that had catered to the wealthy, the exclusive, the famous and infamous. That partnership had done exceedingly well.
Then the government legalized the sex trade—and regulated it. Those regulations, inspections, screenings, taxes cut deep into the profits.
Licensed companions, she thought, disgusted, as if you could license sex and passions and desires. But they had, so no more party packs of drugs to keep an escort fresh—and no more taking the cost—plus service charge—out of the fee. If a client got a little too rough, put some marks or dings on the rental, the girl filed a complaint—and her company had to pay the medical.
Oh, and the medical, she thought. Those steep monthly payments to ensure her stable passed all those annoying screenings.
Now and then, of course—rarely, but now and then—a client might do more than mark or ding. But that added on a hefty disposal fee.
No more of that, and no more standard confidentiality fees added on to the client’s bill.
Worse, many she’d brought in, groomed, trained, decided they no longer needed a madam, and struck out on their own.
Ah well, she thought as she sipped more champagne. When things change, the wise adjust. And innovate.
She heard him coming, angled toward the door, and smiled.
He wore black tie so well, she thought, and always had. Though he’d let his hair go white—and it suited him—it remained thick around a face that had weathered nearly seventy years very well.
It remained angular and sharp with hooded eyes of deep, dark brown. Though he stopped a few inches short of six feet, he had the presence of a tall man.
Perhaps it came from being born into wealth, then inheriting it all before he turned twenty-five.
Jonah K. Devereaux possessed a sharp and canny mind for business, and, she thought, whatever else he wished.
In their long association, she’d seen him burn through lovers—one literally, as he’d ordered the cottage in Switzerland where she’d fled to torched. With her inside.
Auntie admired his decisive ruthlessness, because it melded so well with her own.
Once, she’d bedded him—and others for his viewing pleasure—had jetted and sailed with him. While they remained genuinely fond of each other, their sexual relationship had ended some two decades before.