Page 1 of Escorting the Bodyguard
1
Gemma
The elevator descends with a smooth,expensive whisper, and I’m already thinking about a hot bath and a glass of wine when everything goes to shit.
Through the glass walls, I can see into the Gramercy Regent’s marble lobby as we approach the ground floor.
Crystal chandeliers cast ambient light over emerald velvet chairs and polished floors. It’s the kind of hushed elegance that makes people speak in whispers.
My kind of place, filled with my kind of clientele.
Which is why Tim Roberts sitting by the fireplace with a newspaper feels like a violation.
The elevator dings as we reach the lobby, and I take a breath.
Stay calm. Don’t react. Don’t let him know you’ve seen him.
I step out with the kind of confident stride that suggests I own the place, because that’s the job. Project control even when your world is tilting sideways.
My reflection in the lobby’s mirrored walls shows exactly what I want it to: copper hair sleek, lipstick perfect, teal silk dress hugging every generous curve like it was tailored for seduction. Which it was.
I look like a woman who’s just earned two thousand dollars making a tech executive from Austin feel like the most interesting man in the world for two hours, even though the sex was about as memorable as his conversation.
I look like I belong here.
What I don’t look like is a woman whose former client has been stalking her.
Tim hasn’t looked up from his newspaper, but I know that sandy hair, the aquiline nose, the way his mouth turns down at the corners.
He’s positioned himself with a clear view of the elevators, newspaper held at just the right angle to watch without seeming to.
Third time. Third fucking time in one week.
Monday, he’d been across the street from my apartment building, pretending to check his phone.
Wednesday, posted at the corner table in my favorite coffee shop, watching me over his laptop.
And now here, in a hotel I’d never brought him to, watching me leave another client’s room.
The coincidences are adding up to something that isn’t coincidental at all.
I keep walking across the lobby. Don’t react. Don’t let him see that I’ve noticed. That’s Avoiding Stalkers 101. They feed off your fear, your acknowledgment, yourattention.
Tim had been my client exactly once, three months ago.
Polite enough during the appointment, but afterward he’d called the agency asking for my personal number. When Madam Victoria explained that wasn’t how Elite Companions worked, he’d pushed. Told her we’d shared a special connection, that he was sure I’d want to see him outside of work. Asked if she could pass along his number so I could decide for myself.
Victoria had flagged his file. No future bookings.
I’d filed him under “problem client handled.”
Apparently, he’d filed me under something else entirely.
I make my way toward the exit and the black S-Class Mercedes waiting at the curb. Elite Companions never skimps on the details that matter. As I slide into the leather interior, I glance back through the hotel’s glass doors.
Tim is staring directly at me now, newspaper forgotten in his lap. Our eyes meet across the lobby, and something cold settles in my stomach. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even blink. Just watches me with a focused intensity that makes my skin crawl.
Then, slowly, he smiles. Not shy or sheepish or even flirtatious. It’s the kind of smile that says he knows something I don’t. Like he’s already decided how this ends.
