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party. Between them, she and Shelley might even have coaxed the old Brent out of hiding. The one who’d always had them in stitches with snarky remarks and razor-sharp observations.
    But Brent was still frowning, his black brows low. They all three were sitting in the kitchen together, the morning after the night before, touching base. There had been no chance to talk in the taxi home from the Waverley because the driver had been the nosy, garrulous kind, asking questions in a slightly seedy way about their evening. Lizzie had feigned an exhaustion that hadn’t been entirely faux, and once they’d got home, to the house they shared in a quiet suburban road, not too far out of town, Lizzie had scuttled to her room with yawned apologies to Shelley and Brent, not wanting to do anything but think about John Smith.
    And she’d done nothing but think of him all night. Despite her tiredness, she’d lain awake, imagining herself still lying under him, being pounded. She could still feel him now, as if his flesh had imprinted itself upon her, as if his cock was there inside her still. As if his strong, deft fingertip was still on her clit as he spanked her.
    Lizzie! Get a grip! Stop being a sex fiend!
    But hell, yes, that spanking. She kept coming back to it, again and again.
    And now, both Shelley and Brent were still staring at her. Shelley looked a bit lost in admiration, to be honest, but their handsome flatmate was cross. Lizzie knew why. He was worried about her welfare, and knowing what he knew about the life of an escort, she could easily see why he’d be concerned.
    ‘I think you’d have liked him. You’re a good judge of character. If you’d met him, you’d have known he was pukka.’
    Brent’s expression softened. ‘I’m not that great a judge . . . not always.’ He gave a shrug of his lean shoulders, and swept his dark hair out of his eyes. Eyes that could flash with wicked humour, but also show a terrible, terrible sadness. ‘But still, this John Smith of yours . . . I mean, “John Smith”, what the hell kind of name is that? At least he could have chosen something a bit more imaginative.’
    Lizzie fished a card out of her robe pocket. A business card, plain white, with a name and a mobile number in a sharp, no-nonsense font and a tiny logo, an entwined J & S in the corner.
    ‘It’s his name. Really.’ As Shelley craned for a look, she handed over the card to Brent, remembering her bark of astonished laughter.
    ‘It really is my name,’ he’d reiterated, smiling as she’d emerged from the bathroom, her clothing set to rights, even if her mind and her senses were still in turmoil. He’d changed into a long, dark blue silk robe, and the idea of his naked body beneath the thin, light cloth had almost made her beg him to let her stay.
    But she hadn’t. He didn’t want that. He’d calmly and composedly explained that all he wanted for the duration of his stay in the area – business stuff, looking over properties, acquisitions – was a beautiful and experienced woman to have sex with, someone who’d be comfortable with his ‘preferences’, and game for a bit of the ‘fancy’. He was willing to pay, and pay well, particularly if she were to make herself available exclusively to him for the duration. He’d make sure that she was well compensated for any income lost by not seeing other clients.
    Brent turned the card over in his fingers as Lizzie outlined all this to him, and Shelley listened, all ears.
    ‘Ooh, just like Pretty Woman . . . You lucky bitch!’ She grinned, and though Lizzie sensed a bit of genuine envy in her friend, she knew it was good-natured. ‘Trust you to score a freaking millionaire or whatever, you jammy thing.’
    ‘Well . . . on the face of it, it sounds like the ideal gig,’ observed Brent. ‘A high-roller with not too many strings attached, and hopefully not too weird. He doesn’t want the girlfriend experience, then? No all-nighters?’
    ‘Nope, just