Disinherited trust fund baby becomes an escort specializing in helping older women live their wildest romantic fantasies. (MATURE)
CHASTAIN DEVILLIER, 20, is the loose cannon in a wealthy family descended from two very long and very aristocratic B...
I didn't like how frail she looked, Madame Claire. She'd been fat and sassy when I first met her. Lots of pep in her step, even leaning on that silver-handled cane.
But this time she looked like a little mummy, wrapped up in a lacy shawl like she was freezing on a 90-degree day. Still had that ageless, Nefertiti face, though. And those black onyx eyes almost burnt a hole in me when I told her what I'd done.
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"Was his baby, too, wunnit?" she snapped.
And I sort of wilted down into the big Queen Anne chair. And the bone china cup in my hand rattled in its matching saucer. "I was hurting him more by being there. Acting all crazy."
She snorted and set her own cup and saucer down on the little end table next to her chair. "Ran after you when you had all them damned Immigration people trackin' you down—that didn't scare 'im, did it?"
She might've shrunk some, but she was giving me all the attitude that day.
"You women now, you break like one o' these cups. Got to be warned before you watch somethin' on TV or read somethin' in a book—life don't give you no trigger warnin's."
"Oh, you've heard about that, huh?"
She tossed a hand and smirked. "Godchildren tells me this stuff. Think I'm mean as hell, too. And I am. Cause I had to be. And I'm not sayin' you gotta be as mean as me, but you gotta do better'n' you're doin', I'll tell you that much--where you at?!"
That last part was for her maid, but I felt like she was calling out to the Cielo she'd first met in a way. The Cielo who leapt into a delivery truck to slip past La Migra and wound up on her doorstep with Chas a few hours later.
She was a very willing accomplice. Mapped out the whole trip as some of you remember. Our little "adventure" was child's play to her, after living on the wrong side of the law her whole life.
When her pretty white maid arrived, she barked, "Give 'er that same house they was in before, her and that boy. So she can stew in her own juice for a while."
"I'll leave first thing in the morning," I said.
"Oh, you're lucky I didn't send your ass back home the minute I saw you. Come set on the porch with me. I need some sun on my face."
We settled into peacock chairs on the big veranda and as she raised that chin to the rays I marveled at how damned stunning she still was. Smooth, spotless terra cotta skin—only a few tiny lines at the edges of her eyes and mouth.
I took a picture when she dozed off. Another, as she was waking up again. I wanted shots of that fierce face to stare at when I was losing myself.
And she gave me a little speech to stiffen my spine. I recorded it on the sly.
