Page 92 of Cocky Prince
“Victoria,” she says with a heavy Latin accent. South American, if I’m not mistaken.
“Pleasure to meet you. Are you a guest, or…”
“I work,” she says shyly.
I nod, considering. “Have you been in Lake Tahoe long?”
She glances at the bodyguard a few feet away, then back at me, but not looking me in the eye. “No.”
I peer at the guard I vaguely remember hiring. He was one of about ten Blackwell requested. “Do you plan to stay?”
She wrings her hands together. “Ye-yes.”
That didn’t come out confident. And it didn’t sound like a person happy to be here either. “How old are you, Victoria?”
She hesitates. “Eighteen.” This time she looks down.
It’s difficult to tell, because she’s dressed as a mature, seductive woman, but she doesn’t come across as seductive, or secure, or eighteen.
“Have you seen much of Lake Tahoe? Taken any tours?” I’m talking to keep her engaged, because something isn’t right here.
She hesitates a moment, as though translating my question in her head. “No,” she says, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, avoiding eye contact again.
“You haven’t been to the lake?” Lake Tahoe is the reason people travel from all over the world to visit.
“I not stay long,” she says in broken English, then looks hesitantly to her guard. “I here for work.”
“I see.” But I really don’t. This conversation is getting stranger by the minute. “What part of town are you living in?”
The guard steps forward. “All right, Victoria,” he says, cutting off the conversation. “Give the other ladies a chance to talk to the gentlemen.” He grabs her lightly by the elbow and guides her away, leading her to the elevator.
What the fuck was that?
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and study each of the women inside the suite, including the new ones who arrived a few minutes ago. A couple of them look comfortable talking to the men in the room, and the burlesque dancers seem totally at ease, but the others appear just as uptight and nervous as Victoria. And they seem to be rotating in and out through the elevator instead of the front door.
I spot Paul across the room. He’s talking to a guest—another retired athlete, by the look of him. I stand and walk over.
“Pardon the interruption,” I say to the guest, and turn to Paul. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
Paul flags a waiter and grabs another drink for his guest, then waves over one of the burlesque dancers. His guest seems happy to replace him with the beautiful woman, and Paul and I move into a corner.
I lower my voice, my expression mild. “Where did you find the escorts?”
Paul nods across the room at another person who just walked in. “Gorgeous, aren’t they? A little green, but that won’t take long to wear off.”
I keep my anger in check, but after tonight, it’s a challenge. “You could say that. The one I spoke to appeared scared.”
Paul’s satisfied smirk drops, and his gaze slides to me. “They’re trained to be friendly. Which one was it?”
“Trained? Are we discussing pets, or women?”
“Is there a difference?” At my look, Paul straightens the sleeve of his shirt beneath his jacket. “Don’t be uptight, Cade. They’re professional escorts. They’re paid to be pleasant and friendly.”
I nod toward the back of the room. “Why are they entering through the emergency elevator and not the front door?”
He chuckles. “You seem overly curious. Interested in one of them?”
“Answer the question.”
