Darlene gave a shrug, not amused. “Your loss, darling.”
After the woman disappeared through the glass doors, Marise stood under the streetlamp, feeling frustrated. God knows she could have done with some stress relief, but brash, entitled Darlene, although she would have been experienced in the bedroom, didn’t appeal at all.
She’d never had scruples before. God knows she’d had enough one-night-stands over the years that meant nothing, but her mind rebelled at being paid for sex. She wasn’t a whore—she always controlled the narrative when it came to that part of her life.
But now it was Kathleen’s face that flickered like a tic at the back of her mind, no matter how hard she tried to shut her out. She stalked back toward the curb to call a cab. Getting involved with a client wasn’t supposed to happen and she was furious with herself for letting it.
She’d have to hurry up and get the info she wanted and get out of New York.
The next morning, her phone rang and she recognized the number immediately. Elise.
Marise answered, her voice cool. “Veronica speaking.”
Elise’s tone was calm as always. “You’ve been requested for tomorrow evening.”
Marise closed her eyes. “Client name?”
“Dr. Knowles. She asked for a quiet dinner. No event. No special instructions, aside from meeting her at a restaurant in Carlton. Seven-thirty.”
Marise sat up abruptly. “She asked for me?”
“She did.” There was a pause before Elise added, “She said it would be nice to see you again.”
Marise let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Confirm the booking,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
“I’ll send the details.”
When the line disconnected, Marise stared at the phone for a long time before setting it down. So, Kathleen hadn’t retreated. She hadn’t buried herself behind plants and test tubes and vanished into the quiet routines that usually protected her.
She wanted to try again.
Marise stood and crossed to the window. The lights of the city blurred slightly through the glass. She didn’t smile, but something in her posture shifted, like a decision being made, even if she didn’t know what it was yet.
Tomorrow, she would go. But this time, she would get what she wanted.
Marise arrived at the restaurant five minutes early.
It was one of those quietly expensive places, tucked between a pharmacy and a clothing boutique on a Carlton side street—discreet signage, and wide-set windows, soft lighting. The kind of place that didn’t advertise itself. It didn’t have to.
Inside, the hum of conversation was low. A mix of date-night couples and subdued professionals. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. White linen, polished cutlery, good food and a maître d’ who greeted her like an important guest.
“Reservation under Knowles,” Marise said.
“Of course. Your friend is already seated.”
The hostess led her past the open bar and through to a smaller alcove tucked near the rear of the space, intimate but not hidden. Quiet enough to feel separate from the rest.
Kathleen sat with her back straight, a menu in front of her, hands folded in her lap. She wore a floral blouse, simple gold earrings, and her hair half-pulled back the way it had been at the gallery. There was colour in her cheeks which wasn’t makeup.
When she looked up and saw Marise, she gave a small, tight smile.
Marise approached the table and let her smile ease into something warmer as she murmured, “Hi.”
“Hello, Veronica,” Kathleen said, rising slightly, then sitting again when she remembered herself. “Thank you for coming.”
“You look great.”
Kathleen glanced down at her water glass, then back up. “So do you.”
