A Night Of Mercy Page 2

  Tall and lean with muscle, Parker Callahan is the single most gorgeous man I've ever seen. Hair, the color of gold silk, frames exquisitely strong features. His cheekbones are high and defined. His mouth is full and sensual. The perfect amount of stubble coats the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes are a unique shade of hazel. Almost golden. Golden skin, golden hair, golden eyes.

  He is, in every way, a man. The custom Tom Ford suit does nothing whatsoever to conceal that hard, powerful body. There's no simple way to describe him. He's everything all at once. He's old world sophistication and modern exuberance. He's got the roguish charm of Cary Grant and the ruthless calculation of Gordon Gecko. He is cold and detached and yet when I look at him, I see an almost animalistic sensuality.

  All I can do is stand there, unmoving. My mind is completely empty of everything. He's the only living person in the world, as far as I'm concerned. He moves towards me until he's close enough for me to absorb his scent. Earthy, minty and musky all at once. So primally male. My lips part on an exhale as the dim lighting in the den catches in the honey tendrils of his hair. His eyes are molten as they rake over me.

  "What's your name?"

  Christ. The sound of his voice makes my toes curl in my shoes.

  "M-Mercy." I swallow. Hard. "Mercy Chase."

  A single, golden brow arches in response. "Interesting name."

  "I've always thought so."

  His gaze doesn't leave mine as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out what I assume is my calling card. Every girl at the agency has their own that's unique to them. I've been told that clients usually receive one ahead of scheduled liaisons.

  "A night of Mercy..." he says, reading the line off the card before his eyes flick back to me. "Clever. Tell me, how long have you been in this business?"

  I'm a little caught off guard by that. Bethany told me I shouldn't ever reference my role as an escort when I'm with a client. They don't usually like being reminded that they've paid for a woman's company. Callahan, however, seems all too eager to address the elephant in the room.

  "Not long." I resist the urge to fan my burning cheeks. "You're my first."

  "Your first client, you mean?"

  My first everything, actually, but I don't think I need to tell him that. My calling card pretty much spells it out. So instead, I merely nod. "Yes."

  He takes another step towards me. Our fronts are almost touching. "How old are you, Ms. Chase?"

  Oh, God. What if he thinks I'm too young? I'm eleven years younger than him, after all. Are men like him really bothered by things like that? And besides, it's not like I'm underage. But what if he thinks I look too girlish? Too inexperienced? Ugh, I hate this.

  "It's just a question, Ms. Chase," he says with a hint of amusement. His hands are in his pockets. I had expected him to touch me by now. Bethany said her dates are usually pretty handsy. Does he not like my body?

  I take a deep breath. "Nineteen."

  He studies me for a moment, and then nods. "Thank you. For telling me the truth." And then, he reaches for me. I suck in a breath. He puts a finger under my chin, pushing lightly to tilt my face up. It's the barest of touches, and yet it almost undoes me. My entire universe shrinks down to that single point of contact.

  A thought crosses my mind, that I want his hands everywhere. On me. On my arms, my breast, my stomach. Between my legs. I almost forget that I'm being paid to be here. And that won't do.

  Don't let your hormones take over. This is a business deal. That's all you are to him.

  And yet the way he's looking at me, his eyes trained on my mouth, his soft lips parting softly on a sharp inhale, makes me feel like anything but a business deal. I feel alive and wanted and cherished. A dangerously heady combination.

  The finger under my chin, slides across my jaw and down my neck. My eyes fight to close as the featherlight touch sweeps across my shoulder.

  "Shall we?"

  My drooping lids fly open. "I-what?"

  His answering smirk makes my knees weak. "Dinner. I believe it's ready for us."

  "Oh. Right. Of course." I brush a hand over my burning cheek. "Lead the way."

  CHAPTER 4

  Parker

  We walk side by side to the dining room, my hands balled up into fists in my pockets. All I want to do is touch her. The memory of my brief contact with her soft, ivory skin burns like a brand on the pad of my index finger. I don't know what I was expecting when I walked into my den, but it wasn't her.

  The moment I saw her was like a punch in the throat, constricting my airway, making it difficult to breath. At first, all I could think of was getting my hands buried in her hair. Piled atop her head in something my sister might call a messy chic updo, the glossed waves of rich chocolate looked like heaven to touch, with a few silken strands falling down around her face, sticking to her lovely pink cheeks.

  Her eyes look like a pair of priceless sapphires, shimmering in the glow of the firelight. So blue. So big and round, so wide and vulnerable. I can't seem to stop looking at her. Her long, elegant neck. Her lush tits and perfect curves wrapped in a tight white dress that leaves little to imagination. She's half-sex, half-innocence. That kind of thing can fuck with a man's head.

  Nineteen, I remind myself, jaw clenched tight. She’s nineteen years old. Just feed her a nice dinner and send her home. Stop ogling.

  In the dining room, I pull out her chair, using the moment of close proximity to inhale her scent. Vanilla and lavender. So sweet. So fucking sweet. I need to get my head on straight. I settle into the seat adjacent to hers at one end of my long dining table. A man in a white suit jacket appears from the shadows, filling our glasses with white wine. Candles burn in the center of the table, setting off a small prism of light in Mercy's diamond stud earrings.

  I find myself wondering what led her into such a business. One would have to assume that a girl ends up in this kind of position out of necessity rather than pure choice. Her clothes and jewelry seem nice enough. But those could have easily been loaned to her by someone at the agency.

  "So," I begin, taking a long sip of white wine. "Tell me about yourself, Mercy Chase."

  She's already drained half her glass, and I gesture at the server to top her off. The alcohol seems to relax her and I don't want her to be nervous around me. I want the meal to be enjoyable for both of us.

  "What would you like to know?"

  "Everything," I say without hesitation. "Where are you from?"

  "Long Island," she says with a fond smile. "Holtsville to be specific. Lived there my whole life."

  "Tell me about your family. What do your parents do?

  This seems to bring her up short. Her gaze is cast downward as she takes a long sip of wine. "Dad was in construction. He's retired now."

  I nod, tracing the rim of my wine glass with my finger. "And your mother?"

  She doesn't answer me at first, her gaze locked on her hands as they twist in her lap. My stomach knots uncomfortably.

  "She died." Her sapphire eyes finally lift to meet mine again, brimming with a sadness that nearly strips me raw. "A little less than a year ago."

  Unable to resist, I cover her hand with my own and try to ignore the electric shock that courses through me. "I'm sorry."

  She nods, but otherwise doesn't say anything. My curiosity is a raging fire within me now but I suppress it.

  "Do you have any siblings?"

  At this, her face brightens considerably. "A brother and a sister."

  "Older or younger than you?"

  "Younger." She beams at me. "Sophie is five. Jason turns twelve in two weeks."

  Her smile is infectious. "Are you close with them?"

  "Very." Her eyes go soft with love, looking like a pair of sun drenched lagoons I'd happily drown in. "They're the best part of my life."

  She looks almost contemplative for a moment before snapping out of it. Blinking rapidly and shaking her head, she nods at me and takes a sip of wine. "What about you? Will you tell me ab
out your family?"

  Baby, I'll tell you anything you want to know. I push the ridiculous words out of my head before I answer her.

  "Of course. Let's see. My father used to run CG— The Callahan Group, I mean— back in the day. He had a stroke two years ago and my mother threatened to leave him unless he retired."

  Mercy laughs at that and the sound makes me feel like I could grow wings and fly. "Your mom sounds like an impressive lady."

  "She is." The pride in my voice is unmistakable. "Would you believe she has two Olympic medals in diving?"

  "Really?" She's clearly impressed.

  "She won the silver in '84 and the gold in '88. She actually won the gold almost exactly one year before my sister and I were born."

  "You're a twin?"

  I nod. "Lorelai's twelve minutes older, though. God knows she never lets me forget it."

  Her answering laughter is cut off by the arrival of the caviar. She eyes the dish warily, but I eventually coax her into trying it. Watching her eyes light up in pleasure as the flavor hits her tongue excited me much more than it should.

  Next is the soup course. We slurp through bowls of lobster bisque while I wait for our conversation to become more awkward and stilted but it doesn't. We can't seem to run out of things to talk about.

  She tells me about her 13-year run with the Girl Scouts and I tell her about boarding school in Maine. I learn that her favorite movie is Vertigo, but she always watches Steel Magnolias when she needs a good cry. She doesn't seem too put off when I profess my love for the Fast and the Furious series, even less so when I explain that my affinity is born from my general love of fast cars and not from any delusion that the movies actually contain some sort of substance.

  When the topic turns to books, though, we both appear to be in our element. I'm fascinated by her clear preference for twentieth-century classics like Capote and Hemingway. By the time we get to the main course— orange duck with mashed potatoes— I'm convinced she's read every book ever written.

  And as the night progresses, one fact becomes almost glaringly apparent;

  Mercy Chase has absolutely no business working as a call girl.

  When she excuses herself to the bathroom just before the desert course, I pull out my cell phone and type out a text to Regis, my chief of security.

  Find out everything you can about a Mercy Chase of Holtsville, Long Island. I want a full report as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mercy

  Once I'm alone in the bathroom, I do my best to take slow, deep breaths. The effects of the alcohol, combined with Parker's intoxicating presence, is beginning to make my head spin. I feel like I'm about to lose it.

  No. Remember why you're here. Think of Jason. Think of Sophie. Think of Dad.

  ... You mean the people who would be devastated if they knew what you were about to do?

  I shove that train of thought out of my mind before turning on the sink to wash my hands. I can do this. I know I can. It's just sex. People do it all the time.

  I rejoin Parker in the dining room and we have dessert. A decadent chocolate mousse cheesecake drizzled in raspberry sauce. Damn. Who knew hookers ate so well?

  "Are you alright?" he asks, golden eyes trained on me.

  "Of course," I lie.

  After desert, we return to the media room. For the first time this evening, we don't seem to know what to say to one another. I wonder if he's as nervous as I am, but then I remember that's impossible. A guy like this never gets nervous.

  Unable to sit down, I stand in front of the fireplace and resist the urge to wring my hands.

  "I'm not going to touch you. You can relax."

  I turn around to face him. Stunned. "What?"

  He walks towards me. Slowly. Casually, with both hands in his pockets, until we're about five feet apart. "When I'm with a woman, it's because she wants me. Because she wants my hands, wants my mouth on her skin. When I'm with a woman, it's because I've worked her up into such a frenzy, she can't bear to go another second without me inside her. Not because she feels obligated. And certainly not because I've paid her.

  My stomach bottoms out as I try to remember how to breathe. "I don't understand... why... why did you hire me then?"

  "I didn't." He gives me a wry smile. God, he looks so beautiful cast in the dim light of the fire. Like a statue of burnished gold. "My uncle hired you. His idea of a birthday gift."

  For some reason, I find this both a relief and a disappointment. "So... you don't want me then?"

  His face goes hard with something unreadable and fierce for the briefest of moments, before smoothing back into blank passivity. It's a long while before he speaks again.

  At last, he finally croaks out a single word. "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why are you doing this?" Why am I selling my body, he means. "Surely there are better ways to make money."

  I shrug. "It's complicated."

  For some reason, this response frustrates him. He crosses his arms across his middle and gives me a patronizing look. "It's not complicated at all really." His eyes are flashing as he takes a step closer to me. "You're selling yourself, Mercy. And for what? To make a few extra bucks?"

  A few extra bucks? Since I'm too stunned to speak, he keeps going. "Does your family know what you're doing tonight?"

  Oh. He's somehow just found the spot inside of me that aches like a fresh wound. His words feel like the lit end of a cigarette, twisting in angry flesh. Something inside me snaps.

  "How dare you judge me?" I hiss, rage welling up in me like an inferno. "Do you think this is what I want? Do you think little girls grow up dreaming about being hookers? Because they don't. I certainly didn't. Trust me, if I had it my way I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have spent the last two days unable to eat, unable to sleep or feel or fucking breathe through the shame."

  His eyes are wide and he looks completely at a loss for words. I laugh without humor.

  "What? Did you think I just woke up one day and said to myself, hey screw babysitting. If I need shopping money I'll just start sucking cock on the weekends."

  I can practically hear his jaw tightening as his hands curl into fists at his sides, but I keep going.

  "Tell me something, rich boy. Do you have any idea what it means to be desperate? Can you even imagine how desperate someone would have to be to sell their virginity?"

  I turn away, unable to look at him, and I wrap my arms around myself in an attempt at comfort. Something else is bubbling towards the surface. Something that knows all too well the truth in my words. It feels like all the broken pieces I have inside of me are poking at my skin, trying to break free. Tears prick at my eyes as I take a shuddering breath.

  When I finally turn back to face him again, I freeze. Parker's face looks like a cross between a thunderstorm and a wildfire. Blazing hot fury, a whirling, raging anger that flashes across his face like lighting as he stalks towards me. His nostrils are flaring, his jaw is bunching.

  He stops just in front of me and I can practically feel the heat radiating off him. His anger is a living, breathing thing, staring me down like a bull about to be released from its chute. That I've managed to provoke such a reaction from him should terrify me, but for some reason it only makes me feel powerful. And then the power gives way to arousal so acute, I feel myself swaying on my feet.

  He's close. So close. It would be so easy, to push up to the very tip of my toes and press my mouth to his. But I don't. I only look at him. I suddenly have the urge to memorize everything about him. Every inch of this beautiful, golden man. The barely there sheen of sweat glistening in the stubble at his jaw and in the hair at his temples. The defiant curve of his full lips. The wide set of his shoulders, the fabric of his fine clothing stretching tight across the planes of impossibly hard, powerful body.

  "You're a virgin?" He forces the words past his lips as though it causes him intense pain. "And the people who hired you... they know this?"

  My mo
uth goes dry. "I—"

  A knock at the door sends us jumping apart.

  Parker clears his throat. "Yes?"

  A man in his late forties with a stern face and a thick black mustache opens the door and steps into the room. "Forgive the intrusion sir. You have a phone call. I'm afraid it's urgent."

  Parker doesn't take his eyes off me for a long moment. "Thank you Miles. I'll take it in my office."

  The man called Miles nods his head and leaves. I hold my breath. For the longest time, Parker doesn't move. I begin to wonder if we're just going to stand here all night. But finally, he reaches for me. Taking my hand, he brings it to his lips and presses a hard kiss to the meat of my palm.

  "Wait here," he all but growls.

  Without another word, he's gone.

  Thirty minutes later, the man named Miles returns. Now that I've got a good look at him, I notice that his eyebrows are about as black and bushy as his mustache.

  "Mr. Callahan has unfortunately been called away on some last minute business. He's asked that I send you home with one of our drivers."

  Stunned, my mouth falls open. "Can't I... shouldn't I at least say goodbye first?"

  "I'm sorry Ms. Chase, but he's already left."

  ****

  The black Range Rover is sitting at the curb when I arrive downstairs. I climb into the back seat and give the driver my address. I expect him to protest when he realizes I've just asked him to drive me an hour away, but he doesn't. Instead, he simply pulls off onto the dark Manhattan street and we fall into a comfortable silence.

  I can't seem to make sense of my feelings. Of course for the most part I'm relieved. As prepared as I was to go through with it, I was always aware that selling my virginity would change me. That it would kill something inside me that I'd never get back. But I can't ignore the faint sense of regret I feel mixed in with the relief. Part of it has to be because of the money.

  I was supposed to make $10,000 dollars tonight. And knowing what that money could do for my family, it's hard not to feel regret. But surely, I can expect at least a fraction of that sum. No, we didn't have sex. But that's not my fault. I held up my end of the deal.