Grace Unchained

3: Naked Lunch

Lunch, when she'd cleaned herself up and fixed her mascara, was raw oysters and arugula salad on a veranda overlooking the grounds, a bottle of cold chablis dripping with condensation in a silver cylinder between them. The day was unusually warm for October, though she could see that the patio had outdoor heaters if the weather got chilly.

They sat in awkward silence for several minutes, he sipping his wine and she toying with the fresh greens in front of her, wondering if she had the energy to don any kind of professional demeanor or if she should even try.

"I hope you don't mind the food," said Lowell, adding a spoonful of mignonette sauce to an oyster. "Edward is...a bit old fashioned when it comes to feeding attractive young ladies."

"Old fashioned?" she asked, not understanding.

"You know," he said, "the oysters. The wine. Traditional aphrodisiacs. Or so he tells me."

"Oh," she said. The entire situation felt increasingly strange. The moment of relieved emotion at the foot of his desk had passed, leaving her more aware than ever that she was a sex worker in the home of a complete stranger.

"Edward," she said after a moment. "He..." She trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence, and realizing suddenly that she probably shouldn't.

Mr. Lowell—for she realized she still didn't even know his first name—looked at her closely, a small smile curling his lips. She wasn't sure she liked that smile.

"Yes," he said. "We have a, shall we say, mutually beneficial arrangement." He put down his wine glass with a gentle click. "I'm a very busy man, Ms. Cavanaugh. As much as I might wish to, I don't have time to personally vet every woman I see. And I don't play games with my health or safety. Which is why I only do business with firms as well regarded as yours, and why I delegate the finer details to someone I trust."

Grace looked at him, her mind working, a thousand different questions, concerns, and fears churning in her head. He was surprisingly blunt—even blasé—about the fact that he hired prostitutes, and did so regularly. Something of her thoughts must have shown on his face. "You're wondering why someone like me"—he spread his arms to indicate their opulent surroundings—"needs to pay for sex." He smiled again, less lasciviously this time.

"I suppose I am," she said, seeing no reason to deny it. They were past the point where she could pretend there was any kind of polite wall between them. She was a whore, he her client. She'd already been stripped and manually stimulated in his bathroom, before breaking into tears in his study.

He shrugged slightly, considering the question. "Because I choose to. Because I prefer it." He took a sip of wine. "It's...simpler. And far more honest, believe me."

Edward appeared from the house to take the remains of the oysters, which she'd barely touched, and top up her wine glass, which she'd emptied. She blushed fiercely and looked at the tablecloth, though for his part Edward appeared the soul of etiquette. When he'd left, Lowell continued.

"It's not difficult for me to find women," he said. "Even if I were ugly, all of this is a powerful attractor. Money is the ultimate aphrodisiac, I find."

"But real women have expectations," she said, thinking she understood. He raised an eyebrow.

"You don't consider yourself a real woman?"

Now it was Grace's turn to shrug. "I mean, women who aren't...who don't do...what I do." Or what she was trying to do. She didn't feel very good at it so far.