The Make

‘What? Extras?’ Emma made a grimace of disapproval. ‘If they want them, yes.’

Emma stared at him, her mouth working. ‘You know, my mother appears to be very fond of you. She obviously sees you as a friend, not as a—’

‘What?’ Now Harry felt a twinge of annoyance with her. ‘A male whore?’

‘Your words, not mine.’

‘Hey, you got something to say, just say it.’

Emma shrugged and dragged a hand over her face. She eyed him beadily.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Just swear to me,’ she said through clenched teeth, ‘that you never had sex with my mother.’

‘I swear to you,’ said Harry, hating the lie but knowing he had to tell it. ‘I never had sex with your mother. She’s a lovely lady. We’re friends. That’s it.’

‘Oh, thank God for that,’ groaned Emma, and stood up.

What the hell now? wondered Harry. She certainly was a mercurial girl. He liked that. She came over to where he was sitting and stood there in front of him, reached into her skirt pocket, pulled out a wad of money and counted out ten ?10 notes. She threw them down on to the couch beside him. Harry looked at it, bemused.

‘I want to book your services,’ she said, and then she sat down on his lap, and kissed him.

It was hopeless to try to say that he didn’t want it to be like this, that he adored her, that this escorting crap wasn’t him, the real him, it was just some mad idea of George’s that had blossomed and expanded until it had overtaken them completely. He was sorry he’d agreed to it now, even if it did pay. It seemed to be intruding on life in ways that he didn’t like.

‘Em . . . stop,’ he managed, but he was thinking oh shut up you fool, ain’t this what you wanted from the first moment you laid eyes on her?

But he didn’t want her thinking of him this way. As a chancer, as a little crook on the make. He didn’t want her to think he’d take her money and lay on the charm because he’d been paid to do it. He wanted to do this as an equal. But he wasn’t her equal. He knew he wasn’t, and would never be. So . . . he gave in, gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of having her close.

‘What do you mean, stop?’ she asked, nibbling at his throat, sending shivers down his spine. Christ, she was lovely. ‘I’ve paid for this.’

Harry was trying to push her away while she was – yes, she really was – trying to get his hands on to her breasts.

‘It’s upstairs outside only on a first date,’ he joked lamely.

Her eyes stared into his. ‘This isn’t a date, Harry Doyle,’ she said softly. ‘This is me paying you, and you putting out.’

Harry stared right back at her.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth, George would say.

Emma wanted him. And by God he certainly wanted her.

Her eyes were darkened, smoky with desire. ‘All right, Harry,’ she said softly. ‘Anything. Anything you want. Because you know what, Harry Doyle? You’re the most exquisite-looking man I’ve ever met.’

‘Thanks,’ said Harry, still trying to push her off his lap. This wasn’t right. No way was this right. ‘Em . . .’

‘No one’s ever called me Em before,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

‘No, I like it.’

‘Em . . .’

‘Shut up, Harry.’

They lay in her bed an hour later, arms and legs wrapped around each other, sated.

‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ said Harry sleepily.

He was having to do rapid re-evaluations about Em. She might look like Jackie, but she was totally different from her mother, that much was clear. Em was impulsive; Jackie was not. Emma was deliciously sexual; Jackie was a nice middle-class lady who would never succumb unless she was desperate or deranged, as she had been on that night . . . but no. He mustn’t think about that. He and Jackie had never slept together. That was the deal. That was the way it had to stay.

‘I can’t believe I did it either,’ said Em, snuggling in against him with a sigh and a smile. ‘Wicked, right?’

‘Wicked in every way,’ agreed Harry.

‘Your skin’s so pale. Like ivory,’ she murmured, smoothing a hand over his smoothly sculpted chest.

‘Yours is tanned,’ said Harry, turning over so that he could stare down at her. ‘All over.’

He couldn’t see enough of her. Her breasts were gorgeous, small and pert. Her waist was tiny. Her hips were very slight. The V between her legs was dusted with a pale cloud of blonde hair. He felt powerful beside her, masculine in a way he had never quite felt before.

‘Rooftop sunbathing,’ she yawned.

‘In Hong Kong.’

‘Mm.’

‘So exotic.’

‘It’s the most beautiful city on earth. There are all these elevated walkways, and at night it’s just magical, all lit up, and there are mountains, little islands, lovely beaches . . . it’s great.’

This girl is in love with a city on the other side of the world, thought Harry. Fuck it.

‘Em,’ he said.

‘Hm?’

‘Will you marry me?’

Emma gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Don’t be silly, Harry,’ she laughed, and hugged him.

Chapter 42

George was having all sorts of trouble. He didn’t know whether he was punched or bored. When he opened the door and there was a girl standing there with a big bunch of roses for him, he took the damned things in a daze.

Someone was sending him roses?

‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ asked the girl, and George agreed that they were, although what the fuck did he know about flowers except that they grew in dirt?

He closed the door and stood in the hallway reading the card. It said: All my love, George. Sandy.

George sighed deeply. Oh terrific. He’d already had words with Sandy Cole about this sort of thing. Granted, she’d started out as a fantastic client. Before and after her birthday night out, she’d hired him regularly, a couple of times a week. He suspected she was nearly bankrupting herself to do it. And then the gifts had started. First, expensive cologne. And now roses. Who the hell sent a man roses?

He’d talked to her after the cologne incident. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings, and of course he hadn’t wanted to offend a client, but she had to be told. This was business. She was a lovely girl, and he enjoyed their times together, but it was strictly a professional thing, and the gifts were . . . well, a bit inappropriate, couldn’t she see that?

Sandy had seemed to be mortified. She’d said yes, she completely understood, she’d overstepped the boundaries and she promised she wouldn’t do that any more.

And now – the roses.

She hadn’t taken any notice of what he’d said.

None at all.