Page 5 of Players Like Us (Reunion Gap #7)

R achel took in the elegance of the Westfield Plaza.

The ballroom sparkled with sophistication, wealth, and diamonds.

So many diamonds. She was definitely a long way from Reunion Gap with its down-home coziness and casual attitude toward dress.

Other than the Alexanders, did anyone own evening attire?

And if they did, where would they wear it?

Rachel sighed, grateful to be far away from the place and the people who’d been part of her life growing up.

She scanned the room, her gaze landing on a woman she recognized as a news anchor.

It was one thing to read about the notable and famous in the entertainment sections of a magazine, but to actually stand next to them?

Be a part of their world? Share in conversation, laughter, compliments?

Oh, but she could get used to this lifestyle and everything that went with it: the pampering, the chauffeurs, the special attention.

The connections that could forge relationships and careers.

Who wouldn’t want to be a part of this?

Other than her brother, Daniel, and his wife, Meredith Alexander Reese.

Daniel had worked his way into the lifestyle, lived it and later condemned it, whereas Meredith had been born into it and years later denounced it.

Easy for them to say and do when they’d had a taste of it.

But for someone like Rachel, who struggled to make rent each month and had to shop at thrift stores for evening wear?

Probably not going to turn down an offer for dinner at a five-star restaurant or the opportunity to meet the people who could say “yes” to her interior design portfolio.

Daniel just wanted to hand her a check every month to make sure you’re living in a decent place and eating real food . But what he didn’t mention was the lecture that would be attached to every dollar he gave her.

When are you going to get a real job?

Why can’t you stay put in one place?

Why can’t you pick more trustworthy friends?

When are you going to stop dating jerks?

And then, the one that made her fume and clam up. You’re thirty-two years old. When are you going to grow up?

She’d accepted limited help, but he was not going to support her, especially when he added the how-to-fix-my-sister’s life lessons.

At least he was married now and could focus his attention on his wife, instead of his sister and her many disappointments.

Besides, Rachel had a plan, a brilliant one that required a bit of maneuvering and imagination.

She would succeed, she had to, and then she’d show her brother and her parents that she was more than the screwup who chose the wrong friends, the always-wrong boyfriend, and the going-nowhere career.

Part of her plan involved finding a way to meet and converse with the decision makers of corporate America a.k.a.

the ones who could grant her an opportunity to showcase her work.

All she wanted was a chance, but in order to do that, someone had to notice her work, and since she couldn’t get the work past overprotective assistants, she had to employ another tactic.

Hang out in the places where the decision makers socialized.

Look the part, act the part, be the part.

That’s what she told herself every time she attended an event, but she’d not anticipated the other invitations that might arise—ones that involved a more intimate relationship.

Ugh. Nothing like a proposition from a sixty-something grandfather or a twenty-something trust-fund child.

Why could it never just be about merit? Why did it always have to turn sideways and end up being about her legs or her boobs or her butt?

Couldn’t a man for once say he appreciated her intelligence and wit?

Her charm? Even her sarcasm? Did it always have to end with Why don’t we go someplace more private?

I’d like to hear more. In fact, I’d like to see more. ..of you.

No, just no.

After five weeks of nothing but getting hit on, a woman about Rachel’s age stuffed a business card in her hand at a fancy event and whispered, Looks like you could use some help.

Call this number . And then she flashed her a bright smile and moved toward a group of middle-aged businessmen.

Seconds later, one of the men slung an arm around her waist and leaned down to kiss her cheek.

Rachel clutched the business card the mystery woman had given her and headed toward the bathroom of the swanky club. Whatever was on this card was private. When she reached the bathroom, she stepped into a stall, locked the door, and squinted at the black lettering on the gold card.

Claudia’s: Discreet companionship for all occasions.

What did that mean? Was this an escort service?

One with “benefits”? Did she look like a person who’d be into that sort of thing?

Rachel stared at the address on the card, recognized the location as high-end chic.

Discreet companionship for all occasions.

That could definitely be a high-end call girl.

She’d tossed the card in her handbag and avoided the mystery woman the rest of the evening.

Three nights later, she ran into the woman who’d given her the card.

Did you call Claudia’s?

No, I’m not calling it either. Why would you give that to me?

To help you.

Help me become a hooker?

Laughter spilled from the woman’s glossy lips. A hooker? You’re way off. It’s a business opportunity. Protection, if you will, for you and your companion.

I have no idea what you mean.

And that’s why you should call the number.

The woman, whose name was Melanie, pulled her aside and within three minutes Rachel learned she had a Master’s in Psychology and was working on her Ph.D.

. She’d taken the job because the money was great and her boyfriend was finishing his residency in neurology.

A few more months and she’d have enough for a down payment on a condo they’d been eyeing.

According to Melanie, the patrons of Claudia’s were men who required a certain type of protection—the appearance of a significant other.

These men either wanted to avoid unwanted attachments or give the appearance of an attachment.

Melanie had worked with both types of clients and understood the delicate nuances of each.

As for the women who worked at Claudia’s?

They understood there could be no physical exchange beyond a quick kiss—not on the lips.

If for whatever reason the couple did become enamored with one another, there was a sixty-day waiting period once the contract finished before personal contact could be initiated.

Should there be a violation of the contract, all monies were forfeited, and both parties were prohibited from further association with Claudia’s.

Once Rachel heard the details, she couldn’t see much downside to a very profitable situation. She could earn big bucks, attend high-end functions, and meet the right people. Maybe one of her “dates” would even introduce her to someone who could recommend her design services.

As for “falling” for a man while under contract? Not likely. It had been a while since any guy had stolen her breath, her logic, or her heart. Truth? They’d never stolen anything, especially not her heart, and she’d begun to doubt any man ever would.

Rachel signed on with Claudia’s four weeks ago and soon learned she could earn a crazy amount of money by using two of her strongest assets—her conversational skills, and her curiosity.

People loved to talk about themselves, especially men, and if she smiled and asked the right questions, they’d puff out their chests and tell her everything.

She was camouflage and protection for the wealthy men who did not wish to be stalked or tracked.

But she also provided beauty and intrigue for those who didn’t have the time or interest in finding a companion for a particular event.

Why not keep a roomful of business associates guessing if the woman clinging to the very ordinary gentleman was more than a “hired” date?

And then there were those who wanted to get away from a relationship gone bad, one the other party refused to accept had ended.

Rachel and others from Claudia’s service provided an interpretation of “the new woman” and no one, especially the wounded party, needed to know different.

Her current “date” fit into category one.

Simon Eddington Bainbridge, partner in the family’s law firm, well-educated, old money, very eligible.

If the money and the lineage didn’t attract women, the blonde looks and athletic build definitely would.

Add the cultured voice and politeness to the man’s persona and it was no wonder he’d sought out Claudia’s as a buffer.

Why shouldn’t the man be able to enjoy a night out or an event without becoming a target?

This was the second event she’d attended with Simon.

Last night had been a dinner with colleagues at the country club where his family belonged.

Simon had been more than the perfect gentleman and an excellent conversationalist. He didn’t pry or push, and he certainly didn’t raise a brow when she confessed she’d bounced from city to city in search of the “right” place.

The man shared his own tales about “finding what fit” and how the journey wasn’t an easy one.

It was an enjoyable evening and when Claudia contacted her the next day for another event with Simon Bainbridge, of course, she agreed.

Tonight was a gala event at the Westfield Plaza.

Simon had introduced her to his friends, brought her a glass of chardonnay, and stayed by her side, attentive, polite, charming.

She’d just finished telling one of his friends about the time she tried skydiving when a man appeared from the fringe of the crowd, homed in on her as though he recognized her and wished he didn’t.