CHAPTER 8

She sat me at the kitchen table and leaned against the side. “Why the heck didn’t you tell me you knew him?”

Of course.

“He was an anon. I didn’t even know myself until I got there.”

“An ex-boyfriend? Fuck, Gina. Why didn’t you get the hell out of there?

“Rule one hundred seventy thousand and ten of being a call girl: you don’t run out on a client once you’re introduced. Ever.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I had a job to do, Monica. He paid, I delivered.”

“No personal relationships!”

“After hire!” I argued. “I haven’t seen George Stone for seven years and I never thought I would again.”

Monica’s eyes flit across my face, examining every feature, and she finally relaxed. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“No.”

“Good. Because he’s your client again.”

'I’m sorry. What?'

“He called this morning. He’s traveling to his father’s other offices—Las Vegas, Sydney, Madrid, London, and Paris. He needs someone to accompany him for the next six weeks, and you’re the lucky fucking girl.”

What?

“And you’re telling me this why?”

“Because you’re going.”

“But you just said—”

“Oh, believe me, Gina. This has been fucking killing me all day, but Rosie said I should just let you do the job. You have a past, but he thinks you’re too smart to go fall in love again, right?”

“Right.”

“And Mr. Stone is paying triple your damn rate to get you on his arm looking pretty. But you listen to me. You go out? He buys you dinner. You need a new dress? He buys that fucker too. You need your hair done? A bikini wax? Your eyebrows shaped? He pays for every fucking thing you need. Even if it’s a candy bar.”

“I don’t depend on a guy to buy me stuff, Monica. I’m pretty damn sure I can afford to get my eyebrows shaped.”

She leaned forward and slammed her hands on the table, her light blue eyes piercing mine. “You need something, he buys it. Capiche?”

My jaw tightened. “Capiche.”

“Good. Now go home and pack. You’re leaving at Six a.m. for Las Vegas.”

“Six a.m.?!”

“Six a.m., and your share of the first week’s money will be in your account by the time you land.”

“Fine. What am I doing?”

She smirked. “You’re his girlfriend.”

Fantastic.

******* ********* ******** ****** *********

If one week ago you’d told me I’d be staring at three large suitcases wondering what the hell I was doing getting ready to travel around the world with George Stone, I wouldn’t have believed you. Hell, if you’d told me I’d see him again, I wouldn’t have believed you.

From the moment my seventeen-year old self touched back down in Seattle from Paris, he became little more than a memory. Every thump of my aching, broken heart reminded me of our promise to each other—one summer. Eventually, the pain receded, and six months later, my heart was beating to its own rhythm once more.

Now I was making sure I had everything I need for six weeks away, and I was wondering how I’d come to belong to George Stone once again.

I slid my feet into grey suede knee-high boots and tucked my cell into my pocket. My stomach was rolling with apprehension, and my heels clicked against the wooden floor of my living room. I kept alternating my glace from the window to the clock, even though there was still five minutes until he arrived.

And I didn’t even know what I was more worried about—seeing him or spending six weeks with him and keeping to the rules of my world.

Three soft knocks at the door echoed through my house, and I took a deep breath. I’d rather be doing anything but this. Anything at all. I’d even take Mr. Can’t Come right now. I flexed my fingers around the door handle and pulled it open before I had second thoughts about something I couldn’t change.

My eyes comb over his jeans and well-fitting blazer that was open at his waist. A white shirt collar peeked above the V-neck of his sweater, and my gaze finally found his face. There was a five-o’clock shadow lining his strong jaw, and soft pink lips were teased into a tiny smile, one that was reflected in the blue eyes staring down at me.

“George,” I said as softly as he knocked.

“Gina. Are you ready to go?”

I nodded once and stepped to the side so he can pass me.

He took my suitcases to the car while I grabbed my purse. I locked my front door, and when I turned, I notice that he was holding the car door open for me.

“Enough suitcases?” he asked, a glint of amusement in his electric blue eyes.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” I paused before lowering myself into the car, looking at him pointedly. “Girlfriends of the rich don’t travel light.”

I tore my eyes from his as I sat. As he slid in beside me, he sighed, and I looked out of the window. It wasn’t until I saw him standing in front of me that I realized how pissed I was about this. One coincidental night didn’t equal a fucking worldwide rendezvous.

Buying Christy McCartney for one night didn’t equal buying Gina Lopez for six weeks.

Silence stretched between us, the tension building until it was tight enough it’d snap if one of us sighed too hard.

“Gina—”

“Don’t Gina me. Just tell me why.”

He reached forward and shut the glass partition. “Dad asked me if you were coming—”

“Don’t try and put this on your dad.”

“—and I said no.” He gave me a look that made me close my mouth. “The more I thought about it, the more I wanted you to come with me. After seeing you the other night, I wanted to catch up and get to know you again. This was the only way.”

“By fucking buying me? Rich kids with their money akh.”

“Would you have come otherwise?”

I bit my tongue. We both knew the answer was no.

“Exactly. I just wanted to spend some time with you again. Is that so bad?”

It is when you’re the one person who could shatter everything I’ve strived for seven years to build.

I didn’t answer him, instead turning back to the window. His eyes were searing into the back of my head the whole way to the airport, tempting me to turn. When we reached the airport, I opened my door and got out of the car before he could do it for me.

Wordlessly, I followed him to the small private jet owned by the company. His arm snaked around my waist and I glared at him.