The Elusive Mr Cullen By dariachenowith.pdf

The Elusive Mr Cullen By dariachenowith

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6972004/1/

Women are complicated. Men are easy. I prefer easy. That's why I'm a whore.

As always, I take my time primping. Manicure, pedicure, waxing every required

part of my body until it's free of hair and soft as a baby's bottom, scrubbing,

moisturizing, the whole deal. I've never been a girly girl, but I know how to clean

up well.

Lace and silk underwear, stay-up stockings, heels, a tailored, conservative yet

sexy dress. Just enough makeup to appear classy, hair pulled up into a flawless

chignon, a purse to match both the shoes and dress, and I'm ready to go.

Rose is already waiting for me at our usual table at the restaurant, sipping a

Mimosa she keeps scrolling through her BlackBerry. She looks up when she hears

me approach, a cordial smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"You're late."

"I'm five minutes early!" I protest. She only has a wry grin for that, and ignores

me.

Swallowing my irritation I take the seat across from her, then order some mineral

water from the waiter. By the time my drink arrives Rose is still occupied,

deliberately letting me stew, but after years of knowing her, I'm used to this by

now. She always seems to feel the need to put me in my place, but if the worst

she has to offer is ignoring me for ten minutes, I will survive.

When she finally deigns to acknowledge me she puts her phone away, then takes

a sip from her Mimosa.

"This one should be interesting. Very specific demands, but right down your

alley."

"Spoiled, rich kid?" I venture a guess. Somehow she always ends up giving me

the difficult ones.

"Not quite, but he did make his first million by age 24, or so they say."

"So money's not a problem?"

"When is it ever, darling?" she drawls, her smile turning a hint more genuine.

When she falls silent, I take the bait.

"You said his demands were specific? How so?"

"Hair and eye color, college education, above average intelligence, class."

I find it a bit strange that she doesn't mention looks or age, but I've had my fair

share of clients whose interests lie outside of the conventional demands.

"So he has a type and wants his perfect woman for the evening to be able to lead

a conversation. I hope you're not going to charge him extra for not appearing like

an ass but acting like a gentleman."

Her smile takes on a slight edge.

"We didn't agree on a rate yet. I told him what we charge as a standard fee, and

he said he wants to discuss the specifics with you. You know what that usually

means?"

I sigh, the flutter of excitement I briefly felt disappearing fast.

"Anal or something kinky, and he wants to book me for the weekend. Maybe I

should have worn latex instead?"

Rose simply inclines her head, then slides a business card across the table. Her

neat handwriting spells out an address in the old part of town, very posh, no

dashes between the numbers. Strangely enough, no name, but it happens.

"I hope you did a background check on him, seeing as you're so eager to send

me straight into the lion's den."

"That goes without saying," Rose replies haughtily. "He's clean. Not money-

made-it-all-go-away clean, but hard-working-ambitious-business-man clean. A

few traffic violations, but most of his track record is comprised of academic and

business-related achievements, and some charity work. Never been married, and

from the lack of information about previous women in his life, I take it that this is

not the first time he has contacted an agency."

As expected, and nothing out of the ordinary. Although I try to stay open-

minded, I already know how this - I check the card she's given me again – Mr. C

will look. Well dressed, well groomed, good manners and a trim body if I'm lucky,

and depending on his age, possibly a slight pouch. The hint of secrecy makes me

weary; I suspect he's going to ask for something sick or at least weird, but

maybe he is just a very private person and doesn't like my nosy pimp writing

down too many details in his file.

Most likely he will be bland and boring. That's usually why they ask for a well-

educated woman, so the girl can start, carry on and end the required

conversation all by herself. Or he's a driven egomaniac who wants someone

smart enough to know how to praise his greatness without sounding like a

fawning, star-struck girl. I've dealt with too many men of either cut to even blink

at the implications. They're usually easy to read and even easier to satisfy. Once

the time for talking is over, they all want to same thing anyway.

"Anything else?"

Rose makes as if to reach for her BlackBerry again, presumably to check, but I

know that she has all the details memorized to a T.

"Not that I am aware of. He didn't want to know your name or credentials, even

asked me specifically not to tell him. Slightly creepy, if you ask me."

I wonder if I should take that remark seriously, or if she is just dropping it to add

a hint of mystique to this otherwise business-as-usual deal.

"I'm sure he had a perfectly good reason for that."

"He's the client, he gets what he pays for. Now shoo, he's expecting you at seven

sharp. Your cab is already waiting."

I accept her dismissal for what it is, and get up after a last dainty sip of my

water. I've already turned around to leave when she calls after me.

"And Bella? Don't even think about screwing me over. You know I get my cut,

and just because I have no idea what I will be getting 30 percent of, doesn't

mean you can lie to me."

I wonder what has made her so exceptionally cranky today, but I shrug it off as

part of her usual charm. Rose is all bark and seldom bites, but she's always been

there for me when I've needed her.

"You do know that just because I'm a professional whore it doesn't automatically

mean that I'm a professional crook as well, right?"

This time her smile is real, and I continue towards the door donning one of my

own. The cab is indeed already waiting for me, and I give the driver the address

from the card. Some of my previous excitement returns the closer we get to our

destination, mostly because I love meeting a client for the first time. There's so

much potential and promise, and it's always fun to find out just what he wants.

The car stops in front of a house that can only be described as a mansion. Not

the creepy, walled-off kind, but grand and an indication of wealth, nevertheless.

There's only a number on the gate, no name. Before I get close enough to ring

the bell, the cast iron door swings open, accompanied by the nearly inaudible

buzz of electronics.

Slipping the card into my purse I straighten, then stride through the gate and

towards the door with confidence in my step.

Only one way to find out who this elusive Mr. C is.

The front door – real oak, no cheap veneer, I'm sure – opens as miraculously and

as silently as the gate, but before I can enter, someone steps up to block my

path.

He is well dressed, wearing a conservative suit and tie, his short, brown hair

cropped close to his head. It's hard to guess his age, something between thirty

and forty, and while he fills his suit well, he has neither the air of a bodyguard

nor an accountant, although for all I know he could be either. The most

remarkable thing about him are his piercing blue eyes, and the hard stare he

directs at me is making me vaguely uneasy. I'm used to being looked at because

of my body, but that's not the sense I get from him.

"Whom should I announce?"

His voice is rich and dark yet lacks any kind of interest or warmth. No greeting,

either, something I'm not accustomed to.

"Isabella Swan, I'm here for -"

"I think we both know why you are here, Miss Swan," he interrupts me, then

steps away. The small bow and extended hand that bids me inside are

immaculate gestures but somehow only serve to underline the rudeness of his

behavior. I'm normally not a petty person, but something about him rubs me the

wrong way.

"And may I ask who you are?"

He is obviously displeased that I'm speaking instead of entering the house, but

after a moment he straightens and I even get an answer.

"My name is James. If you haven't guessed yet, I'm the butler."

James the butler? I have to fight hard not to grin, but he's not the kind of guy

who would appreciate that, I think. In a way, he even fits the stereotype,

although I can't quite shake off the sense that he's also the kind of butler you'd

accuse of being the murderer in a mystery novel. Even if it was the gardener.

I try to be gracious as I nod in turn end enter, jumping slightly when he closes

the door behind me with a little more emphasis than strictly necessary.

"If you will please follow me?"

He doesn't wait for my acknowledgement but turns around and walks up a flight

of stairs, forcing me to hurry after him before I have had enough time to

appreciate the lavish luxury of the rooms inside.

It isn't hard to guess that the interior matches the exterior, but from what I can

see the entire house has a very unique character. Dark, polished wood

everywhere, lush carpets in rich colors, tasteful paintings on the walls that I'm

sure are originals and cost more than I will make in my entire life. It is all very

high class yet at the same time not overdone, stylish but neither spartan nor

pretentious.

Up the flight of stairs I manage to catch up to the butler, but he keeps walking

just a tad too fast for my comfort. Over the years I've become used to a certain

amount of hostility from employees and staff of clients, but that usually happens

due to some ulterior motive like paranoia or jealousy. I doubt the butler has the

hots for his employer, and considering they had me show up here in their home I

think I'm the one more entitled to be suspicious. As it is, I'm not a little girl who

scares easily, and I won't let something as inconsequential as a rude butler throw

me off balance.

The butler finally stops at the end of a broad hallway in front of a set of

mahogany double doors. He knocks but doesn't enter, and I take a moment to

compose myself. Seconds pass, then a muffled male voice can be heard from

inside the room.

"Yes?"

"You have company, Sir," the butler answers, still not opening the door. "A Miss

Swan is here to see you."

I can't help but be surprised that he hasn't said something like, 'The whore is

here,' but apparently his hostility only extends towards me.

"Thank you, James. One moment please."

I wait patiently, even when the 'moment' stretches into a minute, then two. The

butler keeps scrutinizing me but his gaze doesn't make me fidget. I'm slowly but

surely getting the impression that this is a test of sorts. I have no idea why, and I

also don't care, but I seem to have passed when the door swings open a minute

later, revealing the mysterious man behind the voice and the 'C' on the address

card.

He's in his mid-thirties, tall, trim, attractive, very easy on the eye, but it's his

obvious confidence that draws me in. I like men who know what they want, and it

only takes a second to see that he is definitely one of them. He's wearing

tailored, dark slacks and a light blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, with the

sleeves rolled up to his elbows, casual but obviously part of his business suit. His

hair is short and artfully arranged in that deliberately tousled way that so many

men think makes them appear youthful and sexy, but for him it's actually

working. In the dim light of the hallway it's impossible to say if the light shade of

reddish brown is his real hair color or not, but it fits his green eyes.

As he looks at me his gaze is intent but warm, and he offers me a smile that

lights up his eyes as he steps back and makes a sweeping gesture with his hand.

"Please come in."

I smile in return, holding my head high as I pass the butler, who is still scowling

at me. He closes the door behind me and walks around to the desk on the other

side of the room, remaining standing, while I follow him at a more leisurely pace.

He offers me his hand then, something that not many men do but I appreciate

the gesture, and his handshake is firm but warm.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Swan. I'm Edward Cullen."

Ah, so the elusive Mr. C has a name after all. I usually only use my client's given

name, but some prefer an alias. I don't care either way. It is not my job to check

their credentials. The agency does that for me.

"Isabella Swan." I offer my full name. He signals at the leather chair in front of

the desk for me to take a seat, then waits until I'm sitting before he does the

same. I like his manners, but they don't surprise me. Most men who want more

than a blowjob for twenty bucks at the next street corner behave like gentlemen,

at least at first. There are always exceptions, but my price includes taking insults

when the client gets off on calling me a 'dirty whore' or something similar. I don't

peg him as one of those, though, he seems to value class, also in himself.

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