Owned By the Prince by Tristan Rivers
Chapter 2
Blair
I’m way out of my depth. Even by my standards. I’m standing on a West Londis street, opposite the closest thing I’ve seen to a palace in my life. They’re going to figure you out in five seconds flat, I tell myself. Suddenly, my black pant suit, which cost me two weeks’ paycheck, feels cheap, and I’m regretting my DIY manicure. I’m not even a hundred percent sure I’m at the right address since there’s nothing that says Apotheosis anywhere, only a discreet number 14 to the right of the massive front door. It’s a grand, imposing building with a bunch of narrow, darkened windows and a row of big columns supporting a broad, pointy roof. So what if they laugh my ass out of here? I don’t give a damn.
But I do. I give a lot of damns. Because nobody told me you can’t make money waiting tables in Londis, and just the thought of how much I need to earn right now makes me throw up in my mouth. I take my phone out of my purse and gaze at my screensaver. He is why I’m going to walk into this interview and act like I’m Blair Kirkham from Boston and not a redneck from Buttfuck, West Virginia. A study-abroad year in Londis was my dream ever since I realized I could have dreams. But I didn’t know it would be so hard. That everything would be so expensive and the pay would be so low. And then Sabine, my new BFF, and I saw the ad for Apotheosis pinned on a student notice board:
Exceptional, highly polished, elegant and very well-spoken students required to host at high-profile events. Very generous compensation offered for the right candidates.
My eyes bugged out. “Does “very generous compensation” mean what I think it means?” I asked her.
“Yeah, it means they’re going to pay you a shit-load of money.”
“Host. High-profile,” I muttered the words, trying to figure out what they were saying. I’ve spent a lot of time doing this since I’ve been in Londis. I sighed. “I guess they’re looking for Anglians, though. How’s my Anglian accent?” I said, trying to sound as much like the native students as possible. I’ve always been a good mimic, which has done me a lot of favors over the years. But I’m not sure it’s going to cut it here.
“It sounds perfect to me.”
I raised an eyebrow. Sabine’s French Canadian, so I’m not sure she’s the best judge. “Do you think this is legit?”
“Legit?”
I tried not to smile. Her accent sounds so cute when she says certain words. “I mean, it’s not code for an escort agency?”
“That would be so funny!”
“Not for me.”
She gave a little gasp, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Are you going to apply?”
“I don’t know. It sounds kind of shady.”
“But they’re advertising here. The university must have approved it.”
“You’re right.”
I shrugged and took a photo of the ad, as nonchalantly as I could. But as soon as I got home, I sent a message to the email address and asked for some information.
And here I am, three days later, with a growing awareness that I’m about to make a colossal fool of myself. I watch as the clock on my phone changes to 21:26. “Here goes.” I force myself to breathe slow, smooth the lapels on my jacket, and stride across the street and up six steps to the black front door.
There’s no bell, just a huge brass door knocker. Quirky. I lift it, but before I can knock, the knocker is snatched out of my hand when the door flies open. A tall, broad man fills the doorway. He’s also in a suit—obviously a more expensive one than mine—and he has the hard, arrogant face of someone who’s used to getting what he wants. He scowls at me.
“Hi, I have an appointment with Genevieve Hanson,” I blurt out. His scowl deepens. Instead of replying, he runs his eyes over me from head to foot. There’s something possessive and mean in his gaze that sends a chill down my spine. He pushes past me, bumping my shoulder in the process, and pulls the door closed as he goes. Instinctively, I brace my hands against the door to keep it open. He throws me an irritated glance, mutters something I don’t catch, but releases it, and I step through.
I stumble into a vast hallway, my heart pitter-pattering. It has a high ceiling, and old oil paintings line the walls. An antique bench and table sit against a wall and there is a grand staircase at the far end. It’s very fancy and ostentatious. Definitely the classiest place I’ve ever been in.
I know right away that I shouldn’t have just walked in here. I should’ve waited until Mr. Hardface left then tapped on that big old door knocker.
I’m about to slip through the door again and do just that when a woman appears from a door off to the side. She’s in her early forties, petite, trim, and she has auburn hair swept up into a French knot. She’s wearing a chic charcoal-colored formal dress and high-heeled black pumps. If she’s surprised to see me loitering in the hallway, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she gives me a very calm smile.
“I’m sorry, someone was leaving as I got here…” I say, gesturing toward the door.
She nods. “You must be Blair?”
“Yes.” I hold out my hand, and she surprises me with a crusher grip.
“I’m Genevieve.” She doesn’t let go of my hand, but squeezes a little harder. “In future, please arrive exactly at your allocated time. It makes things easier that way.”
“Sure. I’m sorry—” My throat closes convulsively, swallowing the end of my words. Goddammit. I don’t usually get nervous like this. It’s this place. It’s intimidating the hell out of me.
“That’s fine. As long as you understand that our clients put a high value on their privacy.”
“Of course, I do.”
Just like that, her face transforms into a huge smile, lots of white teeth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Blair. Please come through.”
I follow her into a large elegant room, filled with more antiques and heavy velvet drapes. She walks over to a huge, varnished wooden desk, sits down, and gestures to the opposite side of it. I see that my application, headshots, and full body shots are laid out. There’s no chair, so I stand there like a kid about to be lectured by a teacher.
“Can you take your jacket off, please?” she says.
Reluctantly, I unbutton it. The suit might have emptied my bank account, but my shirt is from a discount chain store. It’s a clinging black V-neck number and fine in the dark when you can’t see too much of it, but I get the sense that this woman has eyes like laser beams. A little flicker of heat begins in my chest, and I pray that it won’t reach my cheeks. Self-consciously, I take the jacket off and lay it on the desk. The way she’s looking at me reminds me of ranchers checking out horses. I half expect her to tell me to open my mouth so she can take a look inside. Then she raises a hand and makes a little circling gesture with her index finger. I blink several times. She wants me to give her a twirl. Seriously? She raises a very thin eyebrow. I turn around slowly.
“I hope you don’t mind me looking at you like this, my dear. I’m afraid we’re in an industry where physical appearance matters a great deal,” she says while my back’s turned.
“I understand,” I say, feeling stupid. Of course, it does.
When I complete the turn, she peers closely at my face. “You have very striking eyes, Blair.” The kids at school used to call them freaky, but I don’t tell her that. They’re deep set and an intense shade of blue, and my eyelashes are so long and thick that I often skip mascara.
“Now, which part of the States are you from?” she says, continuing to look at me thoughtfully.
Crap. I’ve been practicing my Anglian accent non-stop for the last few days, and I thought I’d got it down perfect. This is not good.
But when Genevieve sees my expression, she laughs kindly. “I can tell you’ve been working on your accent, and you’re almost there. But don’t worry. We Anglians like nothing better than to obsess over accents.”
“It’s not a problem that I’m American?”
“Of course not. As long as you’re entitled to work here.”
I nod. “I am.” I explain that I’m here on a one-year exchange, studying at the Londis School of Economics.
“And you’re from?”
“Boston, Massachusetts,” I lie confidently, as I’ve done many times before.
“Excellent. A lovely part of the world. I think you’ll fit in very well here. I’m sure you’ll charm our Anglian clients, and we have plenty of American clients, too.
She reaches for my application form and leafs through, one well-shaped eyebrow arched. “Now, in this survey you described yourself as very open-minded.”
“Yes,” I say hesitantly. At least, I ticked the box for “5” – most open-minded.
She lays an elegant fingertip across her lips. “I have a potential assignment, but I want to ensure you truly won’t be disturbed by it.”
I lift my hands. “I don’t think anything really fazes me.”
She opens one of her desk drawers and takes out what looks like some large color prints. “Have a look at these photos and tell me what your first reaction is.” She spreads them carefully across the table. I look. And my mouth falls open. Holy shit. They’re photos of people having sex. Lots of them. In a big, fancy room, a lot like this one, on sofas and ottomans and big, fluffy rugs. In pairs, triads, and numberless tangles of bodies. And they’re all beautiful. I’ve seen my fair share of porn since the men I grew up with didn’t exactly bust a gut to hide their viewing habits from me, but it was nothing like this. These people don’t look like porn stars, but fashion models. Boobs are real and the women’s faces are contorted with genuine ecstasy. Several people are wearing masks. A woman is bent over the back of an armchair, a man taking her from behind while she pleasures another man with her mouth. On the other side of the photo, a woman is lying on her back, a man’s head buried between her legs, while she jerks off two other men. My clit jumps. Hot is my first reaction. Closely followed by Why the hell is she showing me this?
“Blair?”
I lift my head. As I meet Genevieve’s gaze, I’m taken aback to see a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes.
I frown. “Are you asking me to take part in an orgy? Because I think that’s a whole new level of open-minded.”
She gives a well-bred laugh. “No, my dear, not take part. But I want you to be there to host at an event, make sure everything’s going smoothly. I usually give the assignment to my more experienced employees, but I think you have the polish necessary for the position. I’ll need you to welcome the guests as they arrive and just keep an eye on things, make sure nothing gets out of hand.”
I shake my head, trying to process all the new information. “How would you define ‘out of hand’?”
“Make sure everything’s consensual. You’ll get an eye for these things, trust me.”
“And…what would I be wearing?”
“Something similar to what you’re wearing now. I’d rather you look different from the revelers, so there’s no confusion you’re there to work.”
“So that’s it. I’ll be hosting. Nothing sexual at all.”
“Nothing sexual.” She pauses and looks at me seriously. “In fact, we expressly forbid our employees from fraternizing with the clients.”
I nod.
“You have to understand that we’re a very specialized agency, and we cater to some extremely high-profile clients. We endeavor to provide whatever kind of service they’re looking for. We pride ourselves on our discretion, and this is why a number of them have asked us to offer—” She breaks off and places her finger on her lips again. “Shall we say, sexual liberation.”
“That’s cool.” Stupid comment, but right now, I have no idea what else to say.
Genevieve beams at me. “I’m glad you think so. Now, are you interested in working for us?”
My attention shifts between her bright, sharp eyes and the hot, dirty photos. Interested? Yes. Freaked out? Totally.
“Can I have some time to think about it?” I say.
Her face hardens. “I’m afraid not, dear. I’ll need you to work tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I have a paper due tomorrow.
“I hope you understand what a fantastic opportunity this is. We have a waiting list of girls who are dying to work this event.”
I frown. “So why pick me?”
She takes a long breath, as if figuring out how she’s going to phrase her next sentence. “You have something special. You’re very elegant, very classy. I think you’ll uphold the standards of the agency beautifully.”
I almost laugh. If she knew where I came from, how I was raised, she’d choke on her words.
“You’ll be well compensated. We pay our hostesses five thousand pounds per night.”
Fuck me sideways.I do a quick calculation. That’s like seven thousand dollars US. More than I’d earn in a whole college term of waiting tables. “Okay. I’ll do it,” I find myself saying. “I mean—it’ll be an honor to work for you.”
She shows me her teeth again. “Fantastic. Now, I know you’ve already signed a confidentiality agreement as part of your application, but if you want to work on this assignment, I’ll just need you to sign a couple of additional forms.” She takes some more papers out of the drawer and places them on the desk. I scan them, certain phrases jumping out—stiff penalties…revealing the identity of any of the clients…consent to witness sexually explicit behavior of my own free will. I take the pen she’s offering and sign my name, pressing hard on the paper to conceal the tremble in my fingers.
“Be ready tomorrow evening at six-thirty p.m. A car will collect you from your home address and take you to the venue. I suggest you have a good sleep tonight. The nights can be long, but I think you’ll find them stimulating.” She shakes my hand again as she shows me out, her eyes twinkling with something like mischief. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Blair.” And that big heavy door closes behind me.
I walk along the somber, affluent street that leads to Great Portland Street underground train station in a daze. But when the brightly colored station forecourt and hubbub of people entering and exiting comes into view, I burst out laughing. The whole thing is incredibly funny. I’m used to being a fish out of water, pushing my way into a world where I don’t belong, making it look like I’m entitled to be there. But me at an orgy? Seriously. This might be my best performance ever. Hiding myself behind a tall advertising panel, I cackle like a maniac until I’m spent.
