His Sexy Cinderella Page 2

  I admired her spirit. She’d stood up to that loser who deserved far worse than being showered with a pitcher of margaritas. She was awfully sexy in that mini and I racked my brain trying to remember why she reminded me of someone… and oh holy crap, the opportunity I’d been desperate to pay a fortune to Mike Woodman had just landed in my lap with a bow on top. I almost missed it because I was too busy imagining her beautiful legs wrapped over my shoulders as I thrust into her.

  She slammed the door on her way out of the tavern. I sprung to my feet and strode after her. It was close to midnight on a warm and muggy summer evening. Except for the biker bar squatting on the corner, it was a quiet, residential neighborhood populated with older, small homes. There was a low rumble from planes that landed at nearby Midway Airport. Street lights glared overhead on the narrow avenue lined with parked cars. The air smelled of fast foods: Italian, Chinese, fried chicken, with an underlying layer of rotting garbage and lower-middle class fierce work ethic.

  I paused for a few moments to check Vivian out. She was the right age, feisty as hell, and could clearly think on her feet. She had that girl-next-door kind of look, the girl that you’d known forever but one day blossomed and poof, like magic, became sexy as sin. A myriad of unknown factors could screw my scheme to high heaven but I couldn’t help but wonder if my crazy plan could play out.

  Unfortunately, the beautiful girl who might have been the answer to my prayers was also walking away from me at an alarming clip. She threw her hands up in the air, either speaking with ear buds into a phone or talking to herself. “I’ll have you arrested for assault,’” she said in a falsetto. “Fucking wienie with short fat fingers. We all know what that translates to.”

  Yes. Definitely talking to herself.

  “Who needs this shitty, fucking job? Crappy hours. Minimum wage plus tips. Stupid short skirt that makes me look like I’m giving away pussy shots for free. Ugh.”

  I snorted but clapped a hand over my mouth and followed after her.

  “And I am done with these cheap, blister-producing boots.” She stopped in the middle of the street, propped one hand against a parked car, balanced on one foot, and unzipped a boot.

  I was mesmerized as that zipper slid down her upper thigh, past her knee, over her calf and all the way to her ankle. She latched onto the heel, wriggled her hips, and wrangled the thing off. My cock started throbbing. I turned my head to see if indeed there was a free pussy shot, but sadly there was not. I was spying on her like some kind of weirdo voyeur. What kind of prince was I?

  A prince who needed to get his act together or the golden opportunity that had presented itself would slip away. I walked toward her.

  “Hey lady. Maybe you shouldn’t be undressing in public. But if you insist, allow me to help—”

  She blinked under the glare of a street lamp. “Pervert! Stay away from me!”

  “Not a pervert. The guy from Mugshot’s Bar. The one who—”

  “Asshole!” She threw her boot at my head.

  The boot bounced off my face. I stumbled backwards and caught myself on a parked car. “Ow.”

  “Wait. You’re not that asshole,” she said. “Sorry! Then again, maybe you should think twice about approaching a single woman late at night on a deserted street and scaring the crap out of her. I’m in no mood. Leave. Me. Alone.”

  She turned and hobbled away, which wasn’t easy considering she had one bare foot and was still wearing the boot on the other.

  I could feel my eye socket swelling but I couldn’t help but laugh. I picked up the boot. “Hold on, Cinderella. You forgot your glass slipper.”

  She turned and stared at me. “It’s pleather. Burn it. Oh crap, did I hit you in the eye?”

  “Yes, Rocky. I’ve endured worse. It sounds like you’re out of a job. Will you be looking for a new one?”

  “Will politicians always lie?”

  I fumbled in my pocket for a card and extended it toward her. “I might have something of interest for you.”

  She walked a few feet toward me, took it, and held it up to the light. “Your name’s not on here. Who has a business card that doesn’t have their name on it?”

  “My name’s Maximillian—”

  “Nice to meet you Max.” She slipped the card down her cleavage and unzipped her other high heel. “You have an accent. Where are you from?”

  “Bellèno.”

  She kicked off the other boot. My gaze was torn between her gorgeous tits, her curvy hips, and her long, toned legs.

  “Aha. The word on the card. I’ve heard of that place. It’s a skiing town in the Alps, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  She stood up straight, barefoot on the asphalt on a warm summer night. She was around five feet six inches tall. The right height.

  “Tell me in one sentence what the job entails.”

  “Tough to describe in one sentence.”

  “So, it’s illegal,” she said, arching one eyebrow.

  “Not really.”

  “‘Not really’ means quite possibly.”

  She looked even more wholesome without the high heels, a far cry from the majority of women I met.

  “You’re smart. And you’re impossibly gorgeous.”

  “You’re hot,” she said. “But I’m not looking for that right now. Apologies about the eye. I wasn’t aiming for it. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Change your mind, Vivian, give that number a ring. Mention ‘The Crown Affair.’”

  “That doesn’t make your offer sound more legitimate, you know. Go home and put some ice on that eye.”

  “I’m staying at a hotel.”

  “I bet they have ice, too.”

  “I’m in town for a few more days. Trust me, this is a great opportunity.”

  “Thanks, Max.” She waved at me as she rounded a corner and then disappeared from my sight. “That’s what they all say.”

  Chapter 3

  VIVIAN

  Perhaps I should have thought twice about pouring a pitcher of watered down margaritas on some asshole’s head, because I was seriously out of money. I tossed and turned on my lumpy mattress. Worries jittered through my head like butterflies on crack. Around 3 a.m. I vowed to find a job the next day and finally fell asleep.

  Sitting at my hand-me-down Formica kitchen table, I sucked down coffee, opened up Daveslist on my computer. I hit the part-time jobs section. Surely there would be a worthwhile position tucked away in here somewhere.

  “Part-time Job: Driver Needed.

  ME: Ran into some legal issues and need a driver to and from work. Mon.—Fri. Pick me up at eight a.m. at my house and drive me to work downtown. Pick me up at work at six p.m. and drive me home. YOU: Have a car and a cell phone with more-than-decent coverage. I will provide gas money. ME: Willing to pay two hundred a week. Can you be on call during the weekends from two a.m. to four a.m.?”

  I don’t think so…

  “Part-time Job: Dog Walker Needed.

  Sweet, rambunctious terrier needs animal-loving walker with strong arms!

  ME: I will supply yummy, organic treats for both you and Crusher, as well as eco-friendly scoop bags. YOU: Proof of medical insurance and a signed waiver that you will negotiate with our insurance company in the unlikely scenario that you require medical attention due to circumstances that arise on the job. Pay: $15.00 a walk. Crusher’s shots are up-to-date, the ringworm’s completely under control and the doggie Valium has really calmed him down.”

  I’d love a dog someday but I’m not sure this is the job for me.

  “Part-time Job: DO YOU LIKE TO DATE?!

  Do you want to meet exciting, powerful gentlemen, enjoy five-star meals and attend glamorous events? US: We are a totally above board, legitimate service that sets up desirable women with sought-after men.”

  I believed this translated to a Triple Slam meal at Denny’s after which I’d be begged to perform oral sex on married, middle-aged men who were in town for a trade show. Meh—I didn’t
think this job was up my alley.

  The phone rang and I picked up. “Miss Vivian DeRose?”

  “You got her.” I examined my new acrylic nails. The glued-on crystals were sparkly and styling.

  “My name is Mrs. Jaslene Aquino—”

  “Hey Jas! Why so formal?”

  She sighed. “You gotta let me do this official-like.”

  “Um, Okay?”

  “My name is Mrs. Jaslene Aquino.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Aquino. Might I ask what this call is regarding?”

  “I am calling from the billing department at The Winterpark Assisted Living Center in regards to your uncle, Mr. Florio DeRose.”

  My breath caught in my throat and one hand flew to my chest. “Is he okay?” Uncle Florio was the ‘artist’ in our family, a painter, a scholar, and a writer. He was always sensitive, but suffered a nervous breakdown a few months after his brother, my dad, died. He never quite found his way back to his or society’s comfort zone.

  “He is fine. We love your uncle. He’s dapper and a gentleman with the ladies. He moderates our monthly Poetry Slam Night and plays a mean game of blackjack.”

  I smiled. “I know.”

  “Which is why we would like to keep him here. Mr. Florio’s account is past due. Management insists we transfer him to County Psych if we do not receive payment within five working days.”

  “Shit.” I grabbed my checkbook from my purse and looked at my balance: twenty dollars and forty-two cents.

  “Could I put a little something down on his tab and pay you the rest in, say… two weeks?” I looked back at the part-time job listing for the escort service. Maybe it wasn’t Denny’s. Maybe it was Marie Callender’s and I could get some pie before a guy suggested a different kind of job.

  “That is a splendid idea,” Mrs. Aquino said. “Send us six hundred dollars today and then an additional three thousand by the thirty-first, and his account will be current. For this month.”

  “I was thinking of, like, twenty dollars today?” I wrung my hands. “Uncle Florio’s been at your place for three years. I’ve paid every month. This is really the first time I’m late.”

  “Actually, it’s the thirteenth.”

  “Look, Jaslene—”

  “Mrs. Aquino.”

  “Mrs. Aquino. Could you take twenty now? I could probably get you another hundred in a couple of days. And handle the balance in two weeks. What do you think?” I crossed my fingers on both hands, squeezed my eyes shut, and held my breath.

  “Oh, Vivian,” Jaslene sighed. “You know I’m supposed to say no.”

  “I know. But Uncle Florio is so awesome. And you do such a great job with him. I’ve fallen on tough times recently.”

  “You mean tougher times.”

  “Sorry.”

  She whispered, “Mercury’s in Retrograde, a strange astrological time, where transactions and communications are constantly confused. Send me the twenty dollars now and it will be temporarily entered as two thousand. That will buy you a little time. But not much. And you can’t tell anyone that I—”

  I crossed myself. “Not a soul, Jaslene!”

  “Mrs. Aquino.”

  “Mrs. Aquino. Thank you.”

  “Pedal to the metal, Vivian,” she said. “Go find yourself a new job. I adore you and your uncle. Send us enough money so we can keep him in this over-priced, top-notch facility.”

  “Thanks Jaslene. I’ll do my best. You’re a peach.”

  I hung up the phone, sunk my head in my hands. I felt a little light-headed. Stress and low blood sugar always did that to me. I opened my small, sweaty fridge, grabbed a carton of orange juice and poured myself a glass. I sat back at my tiny kitchen table and continued to troll Daveslist.

  “Part-time Job: Wieners on Sticks seeks Sales Persons who love to bounce!

  WE: Are an up and coming mall restaurant featuring the finest hot dogs and kielbasas. We are looking for a few ambitious sales persons who are happy to bounce on mini-trams while serving customers our delicious food. YOU: Proof of medical insurance. Must pass stress cardiac test. An interest in fitness is preferred and if you are female underwire bras are suggested.”

  When had the job market for struggling twenty-something women who were still working on a college education gotten so difficult? Ah yes, since forever. I know I said I wasn’t interested in any kind of shady job. But this wasn’t the story of fairies, unicorns, and animated talking puppies. I had real responsibilities. I had real bills. I had an uncle with a disability who needed his rent paid.

  I dug through my purse and pulled out Max’s card. It was heavy. Embossed. Solid. It felt reputable in my hand. And yet there was no name, just “House of Bellèno” and a phone number with a country code. Who had a country code on their business card? If I rang him would my provider charge me extra? I doubted that I’d signed up for international minutes.

  I hoped Max wasn’t running a sex slave ring, selling expensive time-shares for ski chalets in Europe, or operating a cold-calling bank for a sketchy politician. Give your head a shake Vivian, I’d take the time-share sales job in a heartbeat. How much did I have to lose? I gathered my courage and dialed the number.

  “House of Bellèno,” a female operator said in a clipped voice. “How can I help you?”

  “Max gave me this number. He said I should mention ‘The Crown Affair.’”

  “Yes, the apocalypse begins. Stay on the line, love, and I’ll patch you through. There might be a brief moment of silence.”

  “Thank you,” I said, heard a few clicks and then...

  “Vivian,” Max said. “I’m so happy you called.”

  “How’s the eye?”

  “You were right, the hotel had ice.”

  I smiled. “I’m taking you up on your offer. Job’s still available?” I crossed my fingers.

  “To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

  “Great. Can you tell me more? FYI, I’m not interested in anything illegal or immoral. No spying for oppressive governments, stealing secret documents, intellectual properties, or renditioning clerics out of the country.”

  “There will be no cleric renditioning on my watch. Hey, can you send me your resume?”

  “Of course.” I said, searching my computer for something that could pass as such.

  “Perfect. I’m connected to a group looking to hire a girl like you for an exclusive part-time job.”

  “‘A girl like me?’”

  “Feisty. Thinks on her feet. Can handle difficult personalities. Plus, you fit the profile in the looks department.”

  “I’m not an escort.”

  “Sex isn’t a requirement for this job.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “The work will only last a few weeks. You’ll have to sign a confidentiality agreement. They’ll run a security check. On the flip side, the pay is lucrative. You won’t have to toil at a place like Mugshots for quite some time if you are picked for this position.”

  “You don’t want a kidney, right? I’m attached to both.”

  “No on the kidney. Can you meet us this afternoon?”

  I looked at my online bank statement again. “I’ll clear my calendar.”

  “Great. Forward your resume. I’ll text you the details. Also, I should warn you, the people I work with can be…”

  “Assholes.”

  “No.”

  “Giant assholes?”

  “No. Pearl clutchers. Wear something conservative.”

  “But you burned my boots.”

  “Ha!” he said. “See you soon.”

  I texted Lola and left her House of Bellèno’s number.

  Vivian: If I go missing forward this info to the cops.

  Lola: What are you getting yourself into?

  she texted back.

  Good question.

  An hour later I stood on the sidewalk on the curve of Lake Shore Drive and headed north. I wore a pastel skirt and jacket suit from Cheswick’s of Boston. There wasn’t a pearl clutc
hing interviewer on the planet that wouldn’t appreciate Cheswick’s. A blister erupted on my foot from the nasty high heels I’d been forced to wear at Mugshots, so I paired my pretty outfit with pastel sneakers.

  Oak Street Beach was a narrow patch of pricey sand filled with tourists and posers and young families. Lapping onto its shores was the grand mama herself—Lake Michigan—a body of water so large she was called Great.

  I gazed up at the Drake. It was approximately twenty stories tall, majestic and reeked of old school fancy. This hotel had been around forever and was practically a Chicago institution. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio had carved their newly wed names into the booth at the Cape Cod Room, the in-house seafood restaurant. Princess Diana stayed here on her only visit to Chicago.

  I examined the address on the printout. The interview wasn’t just taking place in the Drake, it was being conducted in a penthouse suite. Max’s associates had to be interesting, let alone have deep pockets to pay decent wages. I crossed my fingers as I jogged across the intersection.

  Perhaps the part-time job people were millionaires? Or drug dealers? Maybe they were millionaire drug-dealers with a lucrative side business selling twenty-something women into sex-slavery? But that didn’t make sense.

  Didn’t sex-slaver types usually deal in skinny girls with big boobs? I was far from being a twizzle-stick. I was totally over-thinking this thing.

  I closed my eyes, gathered my courage, crossed myself, and entered the hotel’s front doors.

  Chapter 4

  MAXIMILLIAN