But Elle found herself answering him with a derisive snort. No one. Not unless the guy was getting paid to do it.
Paid.
Of course, that thought had Elle’s mind wandering again. That was what Lane did for a living. Who would take the time? He would. That was his job. The images that infiltrated her mind made her stomach twist. Lane being patient and gentle with some stranger. Lane putting his hands on the woman and coaxing a response from her body. Lane giving her something no other guy had been able to accomplish.
Elle wanted to maim the woman in the fantasy, and she was only imaginary—which further confirmed that Elle had made the right decision. Shutting things down with Lane was the smart thing to do. She was already feeling territorial. Way, way too dangerous a feeling for some guy she’d only slept with once.
She shook the images from her head and tried to focus on the movie. But then her mind tiptoed off in another direction. Lauren Hutton gazed at Richard Gere with that hungry look of a woman who knew she’d won some kind of sex lottery. In the movie, she was playing the older, married woman to his hot, young prostitute. In a way, she had won the lottery. Cake and eating it, too. And all she’d had to do was offer to pay for the privilege.
Elle took another long sip of wine, her thoughts now softening with the alcohol. She’d done the same. Offered money to Lane. She’d done it out of panic, knowing it would piss him off, knowing it would push him away and end things without her having to reveal how much he’d gotten to her. But what if he hadn’t been offended? What if he’d pocketed it and asked when they could do it again? What would she have said? Would she have agreed to pay for sex?
The idea seemed gross and pathetic on the surface, but did it have to be? When her muscles hurt, she paid for a massage. When she needed something done around the house, she hired someone. Why was sex so different from that?
If there was a man out there who was open to it and healthy and not forced into that kind of lifestyle, what would be the problem? It was simply a business arrangement. An exchange. She’d get what she wanted without the strings, he’d get money and hopefully enjoy himself as well. Did it have to be seedy? In the movie, Richard wasn’t hanging out on street corners and turning tricks. He was a high-end escort. He spoke three languages, could have intelligent conversation, and liked giving women pleasure. He lived a lifestyle that he enjoyed. Well—until he got framed for murder. Being in a movie was tough that way.
But hiring someone seemed like it could be the ideal set up. Neat. Clear. Lane would never go for it, but what if she could find someone like Lane? Someone who was capable of pushing edges? Someone who wouldn’t be insulted by the prospect of a business exchange, who would happily take a woman’s money and play by whatever rules she set?
She knew they existed. Gossip was a high-level sport in the circles her family had moved in. She’d heard her mother and her friends whisper about some of the men Mrs. Dawson would take to parties after her husband left her. They were always handsome, younger than she was, and amazingly attentive. Mrs. Dawson had claimed she’d met them in the sculpting classes she was taking at the local college, but no one believed that. Male escorts. That had been the rumor. Men who were trained in the art of being gentlemen in public and pleasing women behind closed doors.
Elle sat up a bit on the couch, the whisper of an idea becoming a bit louder in her head. At first blush, it made her feel like she’d officially hit desperate. Hell, maybe she had. Finding a man to sleep with wasn’t difficult. She cou
ld go to one of the many bars closer to the city and meet someone. But even when she found a guy she was attracted to, the sex was usually vanilla and not all that exciting. How could it not be? She wasn’t going to bring up kinky stuff with a stranger, especially if the guy showed no predisposition for that kind of thing. And the ones who did show that predisposition day one—well, she probably wouldn’t feel safe going home with them.
How many times had she wished she could just write out a checklist and then make that guy appear? It was a fantasy, but what if it didn’t have to be? What if she could hire a guy who would enjoy what she liked to do and who wouldn’t require any commitment from her except a payment?
In a lot of ways, it sounded ideal. It also sounded crazy.
But what she’d been doing had been failing miserably for a long time. Maybe it was time for a little crazy.
Chapter 6
Carlotta clutched the edges of her robe, groaned, and tipped her face toward the ceiling, her long dark hair falling along her back. “I feel so stupid.”
Lane sat in the metal fold-out chair he’d set up in the room. “Take a deep breath. There’s no rush and you’re not stupid. Anxiety is a badass villain to take down.”
“But we are in a rush. I need to get over this shit. I know they’re this close”—she pinched her fingers together—“to firing me. I mean, why deal with all of my drama when they have a hundred other actresses who’d kill for this role and have no problem dropping trou?”
Lane gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’d say the fact that they’re giving you some extra time shows that they really want you in the role. That you’re not so easily replaced.”
She sighed and finally met his eyes. “Everyone’s replaceable, Lane.”
The softly spoken words dug at something inside him, but he didn’t let it show on his face. Positivity. That was what Carlotta needed. “Maybe so, but you’re not going to have to worry about that because you’re going to get past this. I’m awesome at my job.”
She laughed at that, some of the tension lines in her face softening and revealing just how stunning she was. Long, shining hair, olive skin, and bright hazel eyes that would catch anyone’s attention. So many people would watch her on screen and envy her, thinking they want her life, but would never know how much Carlotta struggled with feeling good enough.
This was their fourth session in two weeks, and she hadn’t made it through one yet without a panic attack. Wednesday night, it’d happened with her just stripping down to her bra and modest underwear. But today, she’d insisted on trying to go topless with a G-string like she’d wear in the movie. She was convinced the only way to get it done in the timeframe she had was to rip the bandage off, but Lane had his doubts. He appreciated the determination but deep wounds didn’t get fixed overnight.
“Why don’t you try to do some of the choreography with the robe on?” he suggested. “Close your eyes and imagine that you’re topless when you’re doing it. Get into the head of your character and don’t open your eyes to break that. You’ll still know I’m here and watching. Pretend I’m a customer in the strip club scene.”
Carlotta chewed her thumbnail as she pondered and then nodded. “Yeah, okay. I can’t take this off yet. My heart’s about to jump out of my chest.”
“Practice the deep breathing you learned with Dr. Rush. Get your heart rate back down before we start. I’ll get the music set up.”
He rose from the chair while Carlotta practiced her breathing, and he cued up her music. But while he was doing that, he got another idea. He’d set up the session in a private rehearsal room at a dance studio so they’d mimic a little of the real scene she’d have to act out, but every light in the place was on and the mirrored wall was a distraction.
“You can start it,” Carlotta said, a tremor in her voice.
“Hold up for a sec. Let’s try something.” He walked over to the panel of light switches and messed around with them until there was only one shining spotlight in the center of the room. Carlotta was standing right at the edge of the lit circle.