Then I crest a small hill and see an expanse of soft, gold light, and my eyes focus on the largest English manor house I’ve seen in all my travels.
Holy crap, it’s bigger than a castle. My gaze moves over the balconies, doors, windows, and ivy crawling the stone mansion, visible behind the flickering light of torches. My mouth drops ever further when I realize there are two smaller manors situated in a horse-shoe around the driveway.
I gape at the brutally trimmed shrubs and the fruit-bearing trees that blot my view of the open sky. I feel like I’m in the South. Of England.
“Gorgeous...”
A plump rabbit flits in front of my car, and I laugh. So that’s the fluffy bunny thing! I roll another hundred yards or so and come to a stop right in front of the manor. A valet in a red and black uniform comes down the stairs, followed by two bellmen pulling a cart. My luggage is loaded onto the cart while a woman in a beautiful royal blue gown appears on the stairs. She steps out to greet me.
“Scarlett. I’m Juniper Francis. Come inside. Your luggage will follow.” She’s British—or a prostitute that specializes in voice fetishes (if that’s a thing). She’s got coal black hair with stylish bangs. Her hair is pulled into some kind of up-do that compliments her flawless, porcelain-doll face.
I glance at my brown slacks and soft blue blouse, feeling dowdy. My heart pounds as I step up the stairs, and the woman—Juniper—holds out both hands to me. I take them, and she squeezes.
“You’re the one on the billboard,” I realize.
She laughs. “So are you.”
We pass through two thick wooden doors held open by women wearing black and red lingerie, and I try not to gape at the vast foyer. The ceilings have to be at least forty feet high, with ornate, white-washed wood walls and three-pronged iron candelabras that flicker as we move.
Directly above my head is a sparkling crystal chandelier, and a few steps in front of me, an ornate double staircase that seems to fall out of the sky. I’m blinking up at it when I hear a good-natured chuckle. I look down, into the laughing brown eyes of a striking Black woman. She’s tall and curvy, dressed in a cream gown that’s part party-wear, part nightgown.
“Hi.” Her red lips curve. “I’m Geneese Loveless. You must be Scarlett.” Her smile widens. “You’re so pretty!”
Geneese holds out her hand, and Juniper clasps my other one, and together we walk around the stairs, through another set of smaller, but just as ornate double-doors, and into a room I can only describe as cavernous.
I’m struck first by the size of it—it looks as big as half a football field—and next by how much there is. There are so many little nooks, each with its own couch, love seat, and recliner. The room is divided by huge bookshelves, made cozier by coat racks and partial walls and house plants. The three dark wood walls framing the room are punctured by huge, two-story windows. The rug running under everything—a soft, camel-colored fabric—spans the entire room.
“Holy hell—” I say, embarrassed by my surprise.
“The rug?” Loveless asks. “Yeah, it’s really, really big.”
“It’s a custom job, of course,” Juniper says, and all I can think is blow job.
We stop beside a big desk that looks like it belongs in the oval office. The woman sitting behind it, looking at several rows of security monitors, smiles at me and says, “Hello. I’m Rachelle.”
“Nice to meet you,” I murmur. I’m hardly even looking at her, although she’s very pretty with blonde Shirley Temple hair and doll-sized blue eyes. There’s so much going on behind her shoulder, I feel ADD trying to take it all in. There are several mini bars, two elevator banks, a hallway cutting into each wall, and so many decorative details: moldings, glasswork, antique-looking fixtures, you name it.
“This is the heart of the main house,” Rachelle says kindly. “It can be a little overwhelming at first, but it’s really very cozy.”
As if on cue, a beautiful blonde in a ruby red gown leads a young man in an obviously bespoke suit to one of the elevators. I can hear him telling her about his day as they pass.
“All that’s left is the signatures.”
She applauds. “What a development!”
This is real, I want to say out loud, because it seems like—okay, I guess it is—a man’s idea of paradise. This is where people come to sell their bodies.
The notion makes me feel frozen, so it’s a good thing Geneese tugs on my hand. “Want to work out with us? Our shift just ended, and it’s boxing night.”
I’M TIRED, AND I don’t really want to work out, but if this is what they do at Love Inc., I will do it. I can already tell this place is its own little universe, and the last thing I want is to stick out more than I already do.