“5’9” to 5’12”, strawberry blonde, in anything lace,” I repeated into the phone. “At the Renaissance, room 312, at 7:30 this evening, correct?”

“Yes.  Oh, and umm…make sure she’s a loud one?” tentatively asked the hoarse but soft voice that I’ve come to recognize as Horace Wassermanns’, a feeble man of 68 hopped up on Viagra.  He always was timid (over the phone at any rate; I’ve never had to keep him company), despite the fact that he’s been a client for about as long as High Heavens has been in business.

“That won’t be a problem,” I assured him as I keyed the entry into the agency’s records. “Thank you, and enjoy.”

Normally “Sugar” Sara Hargett, the receptionist slash bondage-and-all-things-kinky-go-to-gal, would have been booking the appointments, but she was with a client down in SoHo.  I hated sparing her, especially on one of our busiest days, but this particular client was the inspiration for the term “Sugar Daddy”.  He tipped diamonds and Hermes for his favorite companions – rare even amongst such an elite clientele.  Besides, he was only in town for tonight. 

I scanned through the photos of High Heavens’ employees – tasteful boudoir shots with the girls’ work and actual names labeled beneath for easy identification.  Clients were fond of the sweets-related work names assigned to each girl.  Supposedly, it adds to the fantasy they wish to conjure, or makes them feel “naughty”, though ninety percent of the clients were just balding middle-age men or qualified for Social Security.  Even though I had assured Mr. Wassermann that a companion would be at his hotel door, I had yet to find one that met his tastes for this evening.  He always requested a different type.

With a modest 25 girls registered with High Heavens Elite Escorts, it didn’t take all that long for me to scroll down to “Honey” Hilda Mikkelsen – a perfect fit for Mr. Wassermann’s description.

Of course, I didn’t personally know if Hilda was a “loud one” as Mr. Wassermann requested, but she did at one point aspire to be an actress.  I guessed it wouldn’t be too difficult for anyone with any remote acting experience to fake that.  Being adept at faking things was basically a job requirement in this line of business anyways.

Hilda and I shared common ground on account of our Danish background.  She’s full Danish, whereas I’m half.  The common ground fell through there, but out of the girls I’ve hired, she has become my closest friend, second only to Leila. 

All the girls and I shared common ground, though, come to think of it.  We all had an affinity for luxurious things – bags, accessories, clothes, shoes, even restaurants and men, you name it.  Hell, if that isn’t common ground, then what is?

I logged Hilda in for work at 7:30 pm, and glanced at the diamond adorned Rolex on my wrist.  It was one of the few items from my past that I had held onto.  I simply couldn’t discard Dave’s second anniversary gift to me.  The lustrous face that I had so desired blatantly stated that it was approaching 6:00 pm.

“Okay, I’m off now.  B.G.’s going to have a coronary or something if I’m late,” announced Russian-native “Maple” Magdalina with a flourish as her 5’10” Marc Jacob draped frame skirted past my door.

Except for Hilda, she was probably the last one out the door.  The few remaining girls were either already out or in their condos ten floors up.  Like myself, most of the girls preferred to just live above the agency.

My eyes focused past the open doorway of my personal office to the polished lobby.  Typical of Saturdays, the spacious office that made up High Heavens’ headquarters, pinpointed exactly in the center of Manhattan, was already nearly empty, as most of the girls scheduled on this evening were either already with clients or on their way there.  Like Leila.

A sense of unease, though inexplicable, nagged at me.  Leila had texted me to confirm that she had arrived at the designated location and all was fine – nearly three hours ago.  But her client only requested one hour.

“I can’t reach the phone at the moment.  Please leave a message and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible!” jovially chirped Leila’s cell.

Damn.  It was possible she was stuck in traffic, but cabbies were known for skillfully – dangerously, even – maneuvering through traffic. 

Okay.  Maybe she’s caught up in some Alexander McQueen sample sale. 

At this hour?  Unlikely. 

I knew Leila, and she wasn’t one to just wander off after work.  She had to return to shower first.

Unease settled in my midsection, where just last night a sensation much more pleasant had been.  Much more delicious. 

Concentrate, Candice, concentrate.

I scanned through today’s appointments until I came to Leila’s.  She was slotted for a 3:15 pm appointment at the Mandarin Oriental.  The typing confirmed my vague recollection that she was only on for an hour.  So where was she?  My gaze landed on the client’s name.  Tom Heinwitz.  A frequent client, but he was somewhat of a bondage freak to be frank.  Nothing too sadistic or threatening I’ve been told.  Nothing too normal either.  But what was normal anyways?

He typically requested Sara (or “Sugar” as he, and most other clients, preferred), but seeing as to how Sara was already tied-up (literally) for the evening, he had settled for Leila.

Room 5310.  I committed it to memory and grabbed my bone-white Chanel Cambon Reporter handbag as I rose to my feet and made my way outside.  The repetitive clicking of my four-inch heels, which had resonated so loudly on the tastefully crafted faux-marble floor of the agency, suddenly evaporated into the clamor of honking taxis, construction work, and chattering pedestrians as I joined the moving throng along 6th Avenue.

Luckily, I managed to hail one of the dozens of cabs driving past nearly immediately.  I was just beginning to think that wearing a new pair of strap-on Jimmy Choo wasn’t such a wise idea.

“Mandarin Oriental,” I said, even before the driver could open his mouth to question my destination. “I’ll tip twenty if you can get me there in less than ten minutes.”

If the Chanel handbag on my arm, Jimmy Choos on my feet, David Yurman around my neck and wrists, and Vera Wang on my body weren’t sufficient enough reminders, moments like these when I could get halfway across the city in jam-packed traffic in under ten minutes certainly served to remind me why I so loved this life and profession.  Who was it who said money wasn’t everything?  It sure makes the world spin. 

* * * * *

A blast of cool air mercifully greeted me as I stepped into the placid atmosphere of the Mandarin Oriental’s brightly lit lobby.  The interior differed from those of most of the other luxury hotels which were decked in an over-the-top Rococo manner (frills on steroids).  The beige walls were bare, spare for the occasional Asian-inspired modern art type wall hangings.  That, combined with the large flower centerpiece in the center of the room placed on a Persian rug on the limed oak flooring, created a balanced and tranquil ambiance that appealed to the Thai blood of my Eurasian self.  Or maybe it was just that I was so relieved to be out of the summer humidity that plagued Manhattan’s streets.

Even though the three female receptionists positioned behind the check-in desk, immaculately dressed in uniform midnight black skirt suits, were not in any sense occupied (only one guest demanded their attention), I strode directly towards the elevators, as if I were merely another guest who belonged there and had every right to go directly up to her suite.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the polished elevator doors (probably the work of an obsessive-compulsive polisher).  Well, I supposed that I did, on appearance, fit in with the hotel’s typical clientele – a painstakingly coiffed bouffant ending in loose curls cascading down my back (meant to appear as if it had taken all but five minutes), coral Vera Wang dress that fell mid-thigh (with the desire of appearing as if it was just a random draw rather than the result of nearly half an hour’s contemplation), and complimenting accessories.

I realized that I was the spitting image of thousands of other women in Manhattan – trophy wives, fellow elite escorts, old money, new money.  It’s funny what determination and an endless stream of revenue could do to a person.

I fiddled with the licorice-black strap of my handbag as I awaited the doors to open onto the 53rd floor where the Presidential Suite occupied by Tom Heinwitz would be located. 

I stared at my reflection on the elevator’s double doors.  A long oval face with a soft, but defined jaw and chin.  High cheekbones framed a straight, sharp nose.  Beneath that, naturally pouty cupid’s bow lips that were now set in a hard line of worry.  Never before had I realized how much my physical appearance leaned towards my Danish half.  Only my naturally hazel, large almond-shaped eyes gave hint to my Thai half.  That and the naturally deep chocolate brown hue of my hair, which was so dark that it bordered on black.  And even then, the hint was only slight. 

I never considered myself cute or pretty.  I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was plain though.  But I did exude something that allowed me to rise up this far.  Charm?  I would like to think so.  Confidence?  Whatever confidence I emitted was crafted, not innate, the result of years of pushing aside insecurities and putting on a self-assured front.  I’ve often been complimented as alluring, glamorous, mysteriously seductive (maybe my being Eurasian is to credit?).  I basked in the surge such compliments gave me, but did I really believe it?  Not really, I suppose.   

   The slight creases between my threaded and slightly arched brows expressed my increasing apprehension.  Among the fastidiousness of my appearance, the creases stood out like seven-inch, clear platform heels at a charity gala.

My reflection disappeared, to be replaced with an elongated, empty corridor as the elevator doors opened.  Within a few strides, I faced the bare white door with 5310 in gild.  Suddenly I realized that, in my hurry to get here and in my concern about Leila, I hadn’t thought about how I would actually enter the room.  Well, since I was already there, it would be silly to turn back and leave.  But I certainly didn’t want to disturb a regular client either.

I called Leila’s cell again and pressed my ear to the door.  Still she didn’t answer.  I didn’t hear any ringing from the room either.  Would I be charged with trespassing if I used a credit card to unlock the door?  I wasn’t even sure if that would work though.

After much debate – a minute’s worth anyhow – I decided that the best way to approach this would be in a straight-forward manner.  I tried turning the knob with as little noise as possible.  To my surprise, it actually did turn.  I thought that at a hotel like the Oriental, the doors would have automatically locked upon being closed.  I’ve got to keep that in mind for my next stay here. 

Then a thought stopped me in my tracks as I was about to push the door open. What if I walked in on Tom Heinwitz in the throes of ecstasy?  That wasn’t my first choice for Saturday night entertainment.

Well, the sight that greeted me certainly wasn’t on that list either.

Next Chapter: CHAPTER 2