Page 9 of Resist

“She was, just as all of my girls are screened.”

“But she was by my doctor. For me.”

I nod my head, even though he can’t see it, and roll my shoulders. This was one point he was adamant about, and as much as I wanted to strangle him for the hoops he required me to jump through, I can’t blame him for it.

“I’d be more than happy to direct you toward some of my other girls who can meet your needs—and your medical requirements,” I say to direct the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“And that means they wouldn’t be able to meet my needs this evening as I previously scheduled with Lola.” I hear what I think are his fingers drumming on his desk. “What exactly do you plan to do to fix that?”

I scan the calendar of my planner and see that every single girl I have who could possibly fit the bill until Lola recovers is otherwise occupied. Shit. This is not what I need right now.

“What about you, Vee?”

I almost ask him what he means when those four words break through my thoughts. And then I laugh.

“I’m not for hire.”

“Anyone’s for hire if offered enough. What exactly would your amount be?”

I’m not sure why the simple question flusters me when I’ve been asked more obscene things in my life, but it does. My brain’s not functioning properly, and rather than just flat out tell him he’s crazy, I open the door by giving the lamest of excuses.

“I haven’t been medically screened.”

His hum slides through the line. “You and I both know that’s not true. A woman like you is meticulous in everything she does. Details, semantics . . . everything matters. You wouldn’t be able to run your operation if they didn’t. So let’s cut the crap and not pretend like you don’t go and get tested every single month just like you make your girls do because you’re a set-the-example type of boss.”

“And who said I haven’t had unprotected sex since then?” I ask to throw him off like his accurate assessment has done of me.

It’s that murmur of his—the one that’s laced with just the right amount of amusement—that tells me he likes this challenge. “Because you haven’t. You can pretend that you have, but we both know you haven’t. A woman like you is too busy running her empire and too disconnected from what sex actually involves to ever care to have it.”

I stare at his picture on the computer screen in front of me and curse him.

He’s wrong.

Dead wrong.

Jesus Christ, he’s right.

“And the silence says it all,” he says, making me grit my teeth.

“You’re wrong.”

“Let me guess. You’re one of those self-proclaimed feminazis who can go on and on about equal pay for equal work, and yet when it comes down to it, you exploit women for a living.”

Screw you. Irritation has me biting back my temper out of professionalism only. “I do no such thing.”

“Then why don’t you put your money where your mouth—or other areas of your body—is and step in for Lola tonight.”

There’s something about the directness of his tone that makes me feel vulnerable—like he’s watching me through my windows somehow—either that or he has me on the stand during cross-examination, and despite every part of me wanting to hang up the phone and return the money he’s already transferred to my account, I don’t.

Because $4,000 a night for a girl is a lot more than I can take in normally.

“Not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“I could be hideously unattractive.”

“I doubt it.”