Summary: Carmen hires a call girl to fulfill a very specific fantasy. Carmen/OFC, hints of Carmen/Ivy.

Disclaimer: WOEICS is the property of not moi.

Author's Note: This is not a story for younger readers. While it is not explicit, it contains mature sexual themes as well as some coarse language. If consensual relationships between two adult women offend you, this is not the tale for you. But if you stick around, you might learn something about early 20th century modernism.

I didn't really know whether or not I'd see her again. She was a strange one, an odd mixture of ice and fire. So I went about my business, spent Sofia's money, and saw my other clients.

Some days after our first encounter, I turned on my computer and typed "Sofia Calderon" and "antiques" into a search engine. Nothing. I tried a few more combinations, still nothing. I really hadn't expected anything different. So, Sofia Calderon was not her real name. It hardly mattered- Alex O'Keefe wasn't my real name either.

A month later Diana called and told me Ms. Calderon had again requested my services. And would I be willing to meet her at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Saturday afternoon?

I was a bit surprised, because Sofia seemed too conflicted to become a regular despite the depths of her desire. But, more surprised that I had read her motivations wrongly. "Meet me at the art museum" signaled this was not about control after all. This was a fantasy. My role in it, I couldn't yet say. But the challenge of discovering my role, that was always a thrill for me. A bit like playing detective.

It was a bright day, warm for early March, when she met me on the marble steps of the Met. I loved this time in the city, the world beginning to thaw. Sofia smiled carefully when she saw me approach, then pulled me close for a short kiss on the lips. "Good to see you," she told me. She sounded like she meant it.

"Likewise," I replied. "So, what did you want to see at the museum? I've always liked the Egypt room."

"There's a special exhibit on Hopper and the Ashcan school," she paused and handed me a ticket. "I thought maybe you'd like to go."

"I'd love to." Her face brightened at having pleased me. Oh yes, this was definitely a fantasy of some kind.

I fell in line behind her and walked up the marble stairs through the grand edifice of the main entrance. Sofia was dressed differently today, black trenchcoat over a plum colored dress, looking for all the world like any other urbane New Yorker. Her beautiful long hair was down. Overall, her manner was much more at ease than I remembered. She, too, had thawed since last we met.

I've been to the Met before, mostly in college, and the place is an absolute maze. But Sofia got us to the exhibit room in record time; after making a quick detour through the medieval armor and the French Impressionists, we were there. My companion frowned to find the exhibit so crowded, but I don't know what she expected on a Saturday knew a lot about the various artists and would tell me funny stories and obscure anecdotes about their personal lives. Even though art was an interest of mine, trying to keep pace with her intellectually was exhausting.

After making a tour around the room, we at last arrived in front of the star attraction, Nighthawks, a masterpiece of light and shadow.

"I wonder if Hopper knew his painting of four people sitting in a diner would become so popular," I mused lightly.

Sofia gazed at the painting and her blue eyes dimmed a bit. "Well, the feeling here is very real, I think. A stolen moment of connection in a world of strangers. A haven of safety in an urban jungle."

I wondered if we were just talking about the painting anymore. "You sound like you live your life on the run," I said, only half-teasing.

Her eyes burned with blue fire but her voice was smooth as silk. "We're all running from something." Given my own history and what I chose to do with my life, I was inclined to agree.

"I know Nighthawks is the big attraction, but my favorite is actually this one." I pointed her toward Chop Suey, an earlier work. It featured two women in cloche hats sitting in a Chinese restaurant. The bright reds and woodsy greens, so vivid, always drew me in. It was like seeing an old friend.

"Really? What intrigues you so?" Sofia sounded oddly delighted. Suddenly it was as if we were back in art history seminar junior year, and I had been called upon to impress the professor with my insight.

It's a delicate balance in my line of work, what to keep guarded and what to give away. You can't manufacture the illusion of intimacy out of thin air- you must give something of yourself. Sharing my opinions on a favorite painting seemed harmless enough at the time. "I guess it's the ambiguity, it makes it seem so true to life. You don't know what they're talking about. Are they sad or happy? You have to imagine. And they seem to mirror each other, but they could be anyone. Friends or enemies? Sisters…"

"Or lovers?" Sofia finished and favored me with a seductive glance. She caressed my wrist with her thumb, causing my pulse to leap in response to her touch. "I think I've had enough of the museum today, haven't you?" Said in that rich, velvety voice of hers, it wasn't much of a question.

She led me by the hand through the crowd until we reached a heavy door marked EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. "Do Not Enter, Alarm Will Sound" a sign proclaimed in bold red letters. "Wait, we can't go through there. We'll set off the alarm."

Sofia looked altogether too pleased with herself, the proverbial cat about to eat the canary. She took what looked like a credit card out of her purse, swiped it and then punched a combination into the keypad with speed and finesse, as if she did it every day. The door swung open without a sound. Seeing my look of amazement, my elegant client explained, "I'm something of a regular here. Part of my work."

I smiled. "You were showing off." I'm not going to lie, it was a bit of a turn on.

She smiled, too. "A little. But leaving through the front door…it's just so passé."

We returned to my apartment and sex with Sofia could not have been more different in the bright light of day. She was slow, solicitous and tender. As if this was indeed a first date and not an encounter bought and paid for. It was all part of her fantasy, I knew.

After she had showered and dressed to leave for a pressing business engagement, my curiosity got the better of me. "So, who is she to you? This woman I'm supposed to be."

Sofia just stared at me, as if slapped. If looks could kill, I'd be on my way to St. Vincent's in an ambulance.

"If I wanted to talk, I'd see a shrink," she responded icily.

My temper flared. "And- pardon my French- if you just wanted to fuck, you wouldn't need to pay me a small fortune."

My client clenched her fists and I wondered if she was actually going to hit me. But to my surprise she just nodded in appreciation, "Touché." She strode over to my liquor cabinet and availed herself of the strongest spirit I owned. Straight no chaser.

"Is it that she doesn't like women?" I asked mildly. I couldn't think of another reason.

Sofia sank down on the lavender duvet beside me and let out a long sigh. "Honestly, I have no idea." She chose her words with great deliberation, the way some people select fine wines. "The young woman in question is someone I work with. A relationship with her would be highly inappropriate."

"So, you're her boss?"

"No, we don't work at the same organization. We are competitors," a lengthy pause, a sip of liquid courage. "I used to work for her company, but left years ago to…start my own firm. She's risen in the ranks to acquire the job I once had. And I'm fairly certain she despises me."

"She hates you because you left your job?" I had no idea the antiquities trade could be so cutthroat.

Her mouth gave an ironic quirk. "There's rather more to it than that."

"Are you in love with her?"

My mysterious and beautiful client laughed half-heartedly, "For my sake, I certainly hope not."

"But how could she not fall for you? You're gorgeous and cultured and rich. And nice," I added, almost as an afterthought.

"I'm not always nice," she confessed, reaching out to smooth my hair. "If you really want to please me, think more center forward and less Kappa Kappa Gamma. The temper, though, that was nearly pitch perfect."

"Until next time," she said, before sweeping out the door.

As darkness crept through my loft's large windows, I was struck by how bereft my rooms seemed in the wake of her departure, like the sun had disappeared behind the clouds. I thought of calling a friend, but the burden of my own double life wore heavy on me. How did it happen, that I, who had a dozen lovers, had come to feel so lonely? True moments of connection in this world of strangers had become all too few and far between.

Days turned to weeks. March became April. And then, again when I least expected it, an invitation to San Francisco for the weekend from the woman who had quickly become my favorite client. She flew me first class and sent a car service to pick me up at the airport, the kind of little luxuries that were their own acts of seduction.

I had assumed the driver would take me to a hotel downtown where I could freshen up after my long flight. But to my chagrin, he told me he had orders to drop me off directly at the restaurant where Ms. Calderon would join me for dinner. I hurriedly applied makeup and fixed my hair in the backseat. For all I knew, she wanted me to look travel-weary.

I believed you could tell a lot about a person by the restaurant they chose. Would Sofia go for something elegant, exclusive and French- the safe choice? Hip, deconstructed, trying-too-hard Asian fusion? Pretentious farm-to-table bistro where even the table salt was local and organic?

I was pleasantly surprised that she picked a well-known steakhouse. Rich red leather banquettes and polished wood paneling evoked a retro glamour; Frank Sinatra and the rest of the Rat Pack would have been completely at home. Sofia, too, seemed to have picked up on the establishment's masculine swagger, draping an arm around me possessively as we were escorted to our table.

She was the embodiment of casual luxury, tailored slacks and a fine gauge Oxford shirt, open wide to reveal a necklace of dark coral beads and the barest hint of décolletage.

"I like your necklace. That color…the red…it really suits you."

Sofia gave a low chuckle behind her menu. "Thank you. I know."

We ordered- she, the filet mignon, rare. And I…well, I normally would have chosen a salad, but somehow I doubted the athletic woman of Sofia's fantasies worried about watching her weight. So I opted for tuna tartare. Healthy, yet still filling. My companion's eyes sparkled with hidden amusement at my efforts at role playing.

"Save room for dessert, their chocolate cake is unparalleled." Her beautiful Prussian blue eyes sparked as she told me, "This is a night for indulgence."

And she did seem to be living that commandment to the hilt this evening. Watching her remorselessly cut into that bleeding steak made me quiver in anticipation, remembering how she had once ravenously devoured me. Sofia gave off a bold, powerful aura tonight. She had the kind of self-possession I had seen before on captains of industry and sitting senators. My client's identity remained a mystery, but she was undoubtedly a Big Deal.

And then she asked a question that no powerful man would ever have cared to ask. "So, have you painted anything lately?"

"No, not really." It was a bit of a sore subject with me.

"Is it time you lack or inspiration?"

I bit my lip and tried to not let my temper get the best of me. I knew where this conversation was headed and I didn't like it. "Is this where you tell me I'm wasting my potential?"

"Are you?" Her words sliced into me, sharp as the steak knife she held in her hands.

I swallowed. "You don't want to hear about my problems. They don't make for romantic conversation."

She softened somewhat and said, "Try me. People so rarely tell me anything." When I didn't respond she prompted, "Let me guess. You became an escort so that you could support yourself as an artist."

And I knew then, that this sudden desire to mentor and advise me was part of her fantasy, too, but I gave in and told her anyway.

"Yes, that was how it started." I did some live modeling for classes and then one day, got asked to do more than that. One thing led to another, I met Diana, and I had been transformed from typical co-ed to scarlet woman. "But somewhere along the line…I just lost focus. It's like I started at point A to get to point B…and here I am at point Q. It's not just the money or all the free time…" I shook my head, "You are not going to believe this, but what I do…I know people think it's wrong, and more than that, it's illegal…but I sometimes like that it's wrong."

I was afraid to meet Sofia's eyes for fear she would look disgusted at my admission. But while her expression was unfathomable, her voice was full of unexpected compassion. "I understand. The thrill of the illicit is more potent than most people realize. And it can be quite…addictive."

"Like heroin," I admitted. "So…you don't judge me for what I do?"

"Your other clients judge you? That's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?" She flashed me a wicked grin before turning sober. "I'm in no position to judge anyone, Alex. But may I offer you some unsolicited advice?"

"Okay."

I thought she would tell me something cliché like "get out while you're young" or "be safe." But instead she just looked at me earnestly and said, "Keep painting."

Later that evening, we tumbled out of the restaurant into San Francisco's moonlit streets, both a bit giddy and slightly tipsy. Sofia grabbed me firmly around my waist and spun me into her arms, all the better to favor me with a kiss that set every nerve ending ringing. She embraced me like that, boldly, right on the busy sidewalk, without a care. And to my surprise, no one gawked or stared at us; it was that kind of town.

We walked arm and arm together in the mild night air, past sights that were familiar to her and foreign to me. Like something out of a movie, we hopped a cable car and rode down the most crooked street I'd ever seen. Flowers were in full bloom there that not yet even begun to bud back on the east coast. "It is always spring in San Francisco," Sofia told me.

My beautiful and enigmatic client had taken pains with this date, it was clear. More than our earlier encounters, she really embraced and got lost in her own fantasy. And there were moments where I found myself getting lost along with her, forgetting that I was a mere placeholder, absorbing the love and passion meant for someone else. A dangerous thing, for someone in my line of work.

But the truth was, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun, on the clock or off. The artist in me delighted at the play of texture and color as we walked down a hilly street filled with Victorian painted ladies. "It's lovely here. I almost don't want to leave," I sighed.

Sofia smiled one of her sad crooked smiles. "I know. Me too." My companion's eyes fixed on a spot off in the distance. "I used to live here, you know."

Ah. So this was all an evening of what could have been.

Sofia shook her long dark hair and her melancholy melted in an instant, replaced by a mischievous smirk. We had stopped in front of an old fashioned apartment building. She pulled out a key and held open the door for me. "My humble abode. One of them anyway."

Upstairs was a tastefully furnished if somewhat nondescript flat. The furnishings looked like a display out of a shop window and had about as much personality; no photographs or mementos to be seen. But honestly I didn't get much of a good look at the décor before my companion playfully dragged me off to her bedroom.

Despite what seemed on the surface to be passionate abandon, there was something she held back when we were together. In bed, especially, it was like Sofia was always on her best behavior. I knew- because it was my job to know- that there was some desire she dared not speak aloud.

And as I lay there naked, wrapped in soft cotton sheets and the tangle of her long limbs, I again wondered what had driven her here. People came to me to find what they lacked; so the shy and inhibited sought exhibition, the dominant and controlling to abandon their burdens of control. From what I could tell, Sofia longed to be tender and kind. Who the hell was she in her waking life that she could not express such easy, innocent things?

In the morning when I awoke, my companion was already dressed and about to leave. She brought me a cup of coffee and a flaky croissant and instructed me to drop off the key with super when I left for the airport. "Your flight's not until 7, so take some time and enjoy the sights," she suggested.

I blew on my coffee and took a small gulp. My head was still foggy from the revelry of the night before. "You're not staying then."

She shook her head. "I can't." Or won't.

"Oh. Will I see you again soon?" My question betrayed a neediness that was atypical for me.

Sofia reached out to stroke my cheek before kissing me on the forehead. "Yes, I'm afraid you will." Her touch made me flush all over, but the tone of her voice sent shivers down my spine.