What We Do in the Night (Day to Night #1) - Stylo Fantome Page 0,17

barely recognized you. You clean up very well ... Valentine, wasn't it?”

Goddammit. The jig was up. She knew better than to beat a dead horse. Really, someone recognizing her outside the club had been inevitable. Chicago was a huge city, but still, it had been bound to happen. And now it had, so she could put it behind her.

“Yes,” she said, smiling big at him. “Just like the holiday.”

“Hmmm, if I remember the story correctly, Richie said you were a lot more like a vacation.”

She was used to flirty banter. She was used to downright sexual banter. He wasn't saying anything she hadn't heard before, and yet still. As he stared down at her and kept smiling at her, she felt her heart start to race.

The guy in the suit.

Ari must have been the man in the suit from the night before, the one who'd worn the mask covering most of his face. His friend Richard had introduced him as Aaron. How did Aaron become Ari? She could remember that at the time, she'd felt like he'd been staring at her. Clearly, she'd been right.

“Richard has an awfully big mouth, the bad boy,” she teased.

“How long have you worked here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he chuckled and raked a hand through his hair. His stupid, wavy, stupid, perfect, sexy, so fucking stupid sexiest hair ever hair. “I've known Richard Linkletter a long time, and he's never successfully picked up a woman as hot as you in his entire life. They can smell his nerves from a mile away. How much did he pay you?”

It was a distasteful conversation in her opinion, but also one that she'd have to have with a client, so Valentine swallowed her pride and looked him straight in the eye.

“Three hundred dollars for three hours.”

“Oh my. I hope you're worth it.”

“Most think I'm worth more.”

“Most, hmmm? See, that just makes me curious about the ones that don't.”

Were they flirting? Was this man flirting with her? And was she blushing?

Of course it had occurred to Valentine that a lot of the men she spent time with were married. Many of them were much older than her, and corporate types. Middle America good ol' boys. She never asked, and none of them ever offered the information, but surely some of them had wives or girlfriends at home. Possibly even whole families, all while they made out with some twenty-two year old escort in an underground secret club.

But since she never asked, she never really knew, so it never “counted” in her mind. It wasn't real.

Ari, though, was different. She not only knew he was in a relationship, she knew his fucking girlfriend. God, her grade in design management depended on his girlfriend. She couldn't mess with him. Fuck, she shouldn't even be talking to him.

“This is all fascinating,” she drew out the word to emphasize how bored she was with their interaction. “But as you've so astutely noticed, I'm working. You're interfering with that. Have a lovely night, Mr. Sharapov.”

“How do you figure I'm interfering?” he asked, and she laughed.

“Most men aren't comfortable with hitting on a woman when she's already talking to another man. You're scaring away business.”

“What makes you think I'm not business?”

She'd handled a lot in her time at Caché, but for some reason, this man kept leaving her at a loss for words. Val gaped at him for a second, then tried to recover quickly.

“You do understand what it is I do, correct?” she checked.

Ari stared at her for a second, then took a step forward, getting in her personal space. She held her breath while he walked in a slow circle around her body, and she could feel his gaze on every inch of her, almost like he was searing her skin with his look. When he got back around to her front, he didn't step away.

“I actually don't,” he answered. She sighed in relief, but that relief was short lived. “You didn't fuck Richard, I don't care what he said. But is fucking people part of your job? And if so, how much does that cost?”

Valentine took a very deep breath, then let it out slowly, refusing to look away from his penetrating gaze.

“I won't be fucking you,” she informed him. “Not for any price.”

“But it is on the table?”

“I cost three hundred dollars for three hours,” she ignored him. “In those three hours, I will show you the absolute best time you can possibly have at Caché. I will show you