A/N: All rights belong to the writers, cast, and crew of Glee and Pretty Woman.

Thanks for all the reviews! (Also, to answer a question: No, they have not had sex yet.)

Previously:

Three thousand dollars! Man, San was going to kill her when she found out what she had passed up. The blonde just hoped things wouldn't be weird, like last night. But then again, the chemistry would definitely help with the dating game that they were going to put on. At least now she'd get to see the Rachel Berry in action.

Bring it on.

Quinn looped the phone cord through her fingers, listening to the drone of the dial-tone for the fifth time that hour. Her roommate couldn't have anything better to do right now, it was only late morning. Unless something bad had happened to her, of course.

The blonde frowned, and shook her head to clear the thoughts.

"Hello?"

She sat up straighter, relieved Santana had finally answered. "I called and called. Where were you last night?"

There was a pause. "Mamá?"

"It's Q."

"Oh. Hi. I had to party. Where are you?"

Quinn smirked. "Oh, lord. Are you ready for this? That person—the Lotus? I am in her hotel room in Beverly Hills." She paused, grinning. "The penthouse. Her bathroom is bigger than the Blue Banana!"

She overheard some grumbled Spanish. "Do I have to hear this?"

"San, she wants me to stay the whole week. And you know what she's gonna give me? Guess. You'll never guess." There was silence on the other end, and the blonde rolled her eyes before continuing. "Three thousand dollars."

"Bullshit!"

"I swear to God. And extra money to buy clothes."

"Christ, I can't believe gave that chick to you!" Santana groaned as Quinn laughed. "Three thousand. Really? ls she twisted?"

"No."

"Ugly?"

Quinn huffed. "She's good-looking!"

"Well, what's wrong with her?"

"Nothing."

"Did she give you the money yet?"

"At the end of the week," Quinn said, drumming her fingers against the tabletop.

"That's what's wrong with her."

Quinn snorted. "Well, she gave me 500 for last night. And, S? I'm gonna leave some at the front desk for you. I want you to pick it up. I'm at the Regent Beverly Wilshire. Write it down." She paused. "Are you writing it down? You'll forget it. Write it down."

There was a rustling noise and then clicking. "Reg... Bev... Wil."

"Now, one more thing," Quinn said, hesitating. "Where do I go for the clothes? Good stuff, on her."

"In Beverly Hills?"

"Yeah."

"Rodeo Drive, baby."

"Rodeo Drive, right," Quinn mumbled to herself, setting the phone back down into its cradle.

She swallowed thickly as the elevator doors slid open. For the second time in the past fifteen hours she found herself missing the old, sketchy motels that she was often taken to by her clients. At least she didn't draw attention to herself there. It was routine. She knew it, and the guests knew it.

Damn Rachel and her classiness.

Running a hand through her hair, she speed walked across the lobby, stopping at the counter. She tapped it twice, gaining the attention of the receptionist, smiling. "Hi."

"Yes, ma'am. May I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm leaving this here for Santana Lopez," Quinn said, clearing her throat. "She's gonna pick it up."

The guy behind the counter nodded, taking the thick envelope from her.

Quinn backed up a few steps, narrowing her eyes. "Don't open that."

"No, ma'am," he said, slipping it into a drawer.

Satisfied, the blonde turned and strutted out the door. She had left three hundred dollars for Santana, had three thousand more coming, and had who knows how much in her pocket, in a wad of cash and Rachel's platinum credit card.

Rodeo Drive, baby.

A man with carefully styled hair excused himself from a conversation, watching the blonde go through the doors. He turned to one of the workers. "Miss Wilson, do you know that lady?"

She followed his gaze and shook her head. "No, sir."

"Alright," he said, brow furrowing. "Thank you, Miss Wilson."

"May I help you?"

Quinn looked up from the clothing rack she was browsing. "I'm just checking things out."

The woman inched closer, hands fiddling together, waiting to brush away invisible wrinkles. She'd been staring and trailing the blonde since she had set foot in the boutique. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"No," Quinn said, before hesitating. "Well, yeah. Something... conservative."

"Yes."

The blonde missed her eye roll. "You've got nice stuff."

"Thank you."

She fingered a long, blue gown. "How much is this?"

The woman sniffed. "I don't think this would fit you."

"Well, I didn't ask if it would fit," Quinn said, squaring herself. "I asked how much it was."

The woman gave her a small smile, prying the dress from her hand to put it back on the rack. "How much is this, Marie?"

A woman behind the desk answered, not bothering to look up. "It's very expensive."

"It's very expensive," the saleswoman repeated.

"Look, I got money to spend in here."

"I don't think we have anything for you," the woman said, looking her over. "You're obviously in the wrong place." She stepped closer, challenging the blonde. "Please leave."

Quinn glared at her, knocking shoulders as she left the store. The woman gasped and staggered backwards, and the blonde didn't look back.

Instead, she focused on matching her breathing with her steps. If she thought about anything else, the tears would break through the dam she had constructed over the past years. People like that woman were the reason she never went outside the streets she and Santana lived on. Leering and catcalls she could handle, but it was the outright, unrelenting disgust that she could not.

Step, step breathe. Step, step breathe. Step, step—

Oh, fucking forget it.

She threw herself onto a bench as her sight became blurry, biting the inside of her cheek. This was worse than Georgia.

Damn Rachel.

She exhaled and blinked several times, listening to the chatter passing her, of the people pretending to be oblivious.

"Doctor's office? Two blocks down and to your left."

"Oh, thank you."

"Did you hear? Tiffany is taking the corner space; they like the project. We're very excited about the whole thing."

"Did you realize that Via Rodeo is the first new street in Beverly Hills in years?"

Quinn snorted, and the man glanced at her before picking up his pace. It may be the first street built in years, but there was nothing new about it.

The blonde had decided to retreat to the hotel, figuring maybe she'd call Rachel and ask her where to buy clothes. Or maybe she'd just pack up and leave. Three thousand wasn't worth this kind of harassment and embarrassment, anyway.

She was waiting by the elevator when she was tugged by the arm into a corner a few feet away. Yanking her arm out of the man's grip, she glared at him. He was pretty shrimpy, with pristine hair and an impeccable suit, with a funny looking brooch on the pocket. Weren't brooches and pins for old people?

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, miss, may I help you?"

"I'm going to my room."

"Uh, do you have a key?"

"Oh. I forgot that cardboard thing." Quinn faltered. "I'm on the top floor."

He shifted. "You're a guest here?"

"I'm with a friend."

"And who would that be?"

"Rachel."

"Rachel?"

"Rachel… Rachel, uh…" The elevator door pinged, doors sliding open. Quinn smiled as the bellhop stepped out. "He knows me."

The manager looked over his shoulder, and beckoned the young bellhop to join them. "Dennis, did you just come off the night shift?"

"Yes, sir," he said, grinning.

The manager nodded, and they turned their attention to the blonde. "Do you know this young lady?"

"She's with Ms. Berry."

"That's it. Rachel Berry!" She smiled at the bellhop. "Thanks, Dennis."

He nodded. "Evidently she joined her last night."

"Thank you," the manager said, and dismissed him. Quinn moved to go to the elevator, but the man blocked her.

"Oh, God! What now? What?" She glared at him. "What is with everybody today?"

The man held his hands up, softening. "No, no. It's all right. Just come with me. We'll have a little chat."

Quinn sighed, and followed him. "Fine, I'm coming."

"Uh, what is your name, miss?"

She smirked. "What do you want it to be?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't play with me, young lady."

The blonde bit her lip. "Quinn."

"Thank you. Quinn," he said, humming. "Well, Miss Quinn. Things that go on in other hotels don't happen at the Regent Beverly Wilshire. Now, Ms. Berry, however, is a very special customer, and we like to think of our special customers as friends."

Quinn's brow furrowed. What was porcelain getting at?

"Now, as a customer, we would expect Ms. Berry to sign in any additional guests, but as a friend, we're willing to overlook it. Now, I'm assuming that you're a…" He trailed off, looking at her expectantly.

She raised her eyebrow, returning his stare.

"Relative?" He suggested, sighing.

"Oh, yes."

"I thought so. Then you must be her…"

They entered another staring match, and he gave in again.

"Niece?" Quinn nodded, and he continued. "Of course. Naturally, when Ms. Berry leaves, I won't see you in this hotel again. "I assume you have no other aunts or uncles here."

Quinn shook her head, blushing slightly.

"Good! Then we understand each other. I would also encourage you to," he glanced at her clothes, "to dress a little more appropriately; that'll be all."

Quinn clenched her fists. "No, that's not all. That's what I was trying to do. I tried to go get a dress on Rodeo Drive today, and the women wouldn't help me." She pulled out the crumpled wad of cash, waving it in his face. "And I have all this money now and no dress! Not that I expect you to help me, but I have all of this, okay? I have to buy a dress for dinner tonight. And nobody will help me."

The man handed her the money back, picking up a phone.

"Oh god, if you're callin' the cops," Quinn groaned, then huffed. "Yeah, call the cops. That's great. Tell 'em I said hi."

"Women's clothing."

Quinn frowned. Wait, what?

"Mercedes, please." He waited a beat. "Yes, Mercedes. Hello. This is Kurt Hummel here at the Regent Beverly Wil—" he was cut off, and laughed. "Thank you, yes, but I'd like you to do a favor for me, please." He turned to the blonde. "I'm sending someone over. Her name is Quinn. She's a special guest. She's the niece of a very special guest."

Quinn blinked back a tear, for the second time that day. Thank you, she mouthed. Kurt only smiled and handed her an address.

"Now, this is the jewel in Schuster's crown," Finn said, pointing to a section of the board, "his son, David. The kid doesn't want to follow his father's footsteps on Broadway, but he is looking at Hollywood. They're settling down in LA, got beach property. So that's where you come in, Rachel."

"We just got the information, Mr. Hudson."

"Can you hold the projection, please? Rachel, look."

The brunette sighed, etching lines on the paper in front of her. "Yeah, what? Speak."

"Old Man Schue just got the inside track on a $10 million contract...to direct a movie for Hollywood."

"Hollywood contract. I can't believe this." Rachel sat up straighter, eyes widening. "You said they would need me to break into the Hollywood scene!"

"I thought they did! But with this $10 million, they've got a strong start."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock."

"Maybe we're lucky to get this information now, miss," the intern said. "See, we can still walk away from it."

Finn gaped. "Walk away? Forget it, pal. We got a thousand man-hours in on this! Nobody's walkin' away from anything."

"Finn, I think he's right," Rachel said, tapping the pen.

Finn turned to the intern, yelling, who shouted back, confident in his argument because of Rachel's agreement. After five minutes of clamor and testosterone, Rachel cleared her throat. "Gentlemen, relax! Relax!"

"Who do we know on Hollywood?" Finn asked, suddenly jumping up. Rachel eyed him wearily.

The intern squinted. "Steven Spielberg."

"All right, Spielberg. Let's find out where he is," Finn said.

"Hollywood is not gonna spend $10 million on anything without checking out the buzz on the film. If we get Spielberg to organize a dispute against Schue's film, we won't lose his money. Schue will come crawling back," Finn said, smug.

Rachel frowned. "I don't understand what's going on here today, gentlemen."

"Well, it's pretty simple, actually, we're—"

"No, I understand your proposition, Finn. I don't understand why we're resorting to blackmail. I have many sponsors, why do we need Schue this badly?"

Finn huffed. "He's the biggest one!"

Rachel sighed, pinching the top of her nose in thought. "Alright, here's how it'll go down. Schue has no experience in directing. He'll probably hire a professional. So, rather than buying his son's success and probably having him star in a film flop, I'll offer him acting classes. The plan is to win over his son, not blackmail him. This way, his support remains with me."

She stood. "I'll be in the office."

As she left the room, chatter started back up quietly. Her team was made of asses, but she couldn't deny that they had her back.

"Rachel!"

Okay, so maybe they were a little too enthusiastic. Rachel sat down and looked up at Finn, who hovered in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Listen, everything all set for the meeting tonight?"

She looked down at the choreography for the movie, running it through in her head. "Mm-hmm."

"Who, who is this girl you're going with?"

"Nobody you know."

"Hello. You must be Quinn. My name's Mercedes."

Quinn smiled at the warm woman, shaking her hand. "Yeah, hi. Kurt said you'd be nice to me."

Mercedes laughed, waving for Quinn to follow her. "He's very sweet. What are your plans while you're in town?"

"We're gonna have dinner."

"You're gonna go out? Dinner?"

"Mm-hmm."

Mercedes paused, as if scrolling through gowns in her head. "Well, you'll need a cocktail dress then. Come with me."

She stopped them a few rows back, and gestured at a rack. "Now, I'm sure we're gonna find something here that your aunt will love." She glanced at Quinn. "You're a size six, right?"

Quinn tilted her head. "Yeah. How'd you know that?"

"Oh, that's my job."

"'Cedes, she's not really my aunt."

The woman laughed, nudging the blonde. "Girl, they never are."

"Kurt!" Quinn said, cutting front of someone, "look!"

Kurt apologized to the man and Quinn held up the bag. "I got a dress!"

"Well, I'd rather hoped you'd be wearing it."

"Oh, no, I didn't want to get it messed up!" Quinn said, grinning. "Listen, I got shoes too. You wanna see?"

Kurt suppressed a smile. "No, that won't be necessary. I'm sure they're quite lovely. Thank you."

"Okay, well, listen. I didn't mean to interrupt you, but Mercedes was really great...and I just wanted to say thanks." She paused. "You're cool."

Kurt shook his head. "You're welcome, Miss Quinn."

The blonde smiled at him once more before heading off to the elevator and up into the penthouse. When she stepped inside the room, the phone was ringing.

She dropped the dress on the sofa and hovered over the phone. On its last ring, she picked it up and bit her lip. "Hello?"

There was a pause. "Never, ever pick up the phone."

Quinn smirked, leaning on the counter. "Then why are you calling me?"

Rachel laughed. "Did you buy clothes today?"

"I got a dress. A cocktail one."

"That's good." She hummed. "I'll be in the hotel lobby, 7:00 sharp."

"What? You're not comin' up to the door?" Quinn teased.

"This isn't a date. It's business."

"Where are you takin' me, anyway?"

"I'm taking you to a restaurant called the Voltaire."

"Very elegant," Quinn mocked, and smiled when Rachel laughed. "All right. I'll meet you in the lobby, but only 'cause you're paying me to."

"Well, thank you very much."

They hung up, and a moment later Rachel called her assistant. "Get her back for me, please."

"Uhm, Mr. Hudson wanted to see you."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Yes, tell him I'm in the middle of a very important phone call."

The assistant nodded and redialed the number for Rachel, giving her a nod when it was ringing. The brunette picked up the phone, smiling when Quinn picked up again.

"Hello?"

"I told you not to pick up the phone."

She chuckled. "Then stop callin' me."

Rachel shook her head, smile stuck on her face.

"Kurt!"

The manager glanced up, frowning. "It didn't fit?"

Quinn looked down, realizing he meant the dress, which she had yet to put on. "Oh, no, no, no. Uh—I've got a little problem."

Kurt quirked his eyebrow. What more could this woman possibly need?

"All right, Miss Quinn, one more time." He folded stood beside her table, silverware all set up. "Dinner napkin."

"Dinner napkin, laid gently in the lap," she repeated, unfolding it onto her lap.

"Good. Elbows off the table." The blonde quickly pulled them off. "Don't slouch." She sat up straighter. "Shrimp fork, salad fork, dinner fork."

She hesitated, pointing to the middle one. "I definitely have the salad fork. The rest of the silverware is a little confusing."

Kurt nodded. "All right, if you get nervous, just count the tines." He bent over to pick up each fork, counting the rungs. "Four tines: dinner fork. And sometimes there are three tines in the salad fork. And sometimes…"

Rachel stood in the lobby ten minutes early, checking her watch every few seconds. She was nervous. She hadn't lied when she said it wasn't a date, that it was just business, but her mind was having a hard time accepting that. It felt an awful lot like a date.

"Pardon me, Ms. Berry. I'm Mr. Hummel. I'm the manager of the hotel."

"Uh-huh. Excuse me, I just want to make one call," Rachel said, turning towards a phone.

The manager stepped in front of her. "Yes, um, miss. I have a message for you."

Rachel's brow furrowed. Oh, god. It was probably Quinn canceling. "From who?"

"From your niece, ma'am."

"My what?"

Kurt shifted. "The young lady who's staying with you in your room, miss."

"Oh. Hmm," Rachel said, chuckling. "I think we both know that she's not my niece."

"Of course."

"The reason I know that is because I'm an only child."

"Yes, miss." Kurt said, nodding.

"What's the message?"

"She's waiting for you in the lounge." He paused. "Intriguing young lady, Miss Quinn."

"Intriguing," Rachel repeated.

"Have a good evening, miss."

"Thank you, Mr.- ?"

"Hummel. I'm the manager—manager of the hotel."

Rachel nodded, shaking his hand, and walked off to find her date—acquaintance.

The brunette stopped in the doorway of the lounge, listening to the piano. She stepped towards the bar, and turned back, not seeing any blonde and pink hair in the room. When she decided to check the bar again, a young blonde had spun the chair to face her, donning a lacy, black dress. There were no longer any tell-tale pink streaks in her hair, but there was no doubt who she was. Rachel's eyes widened.

The blonde stood and sauntered over to her. "You're late."

"You're stunning."

The blonde blinked, smiling as she dipped her head. "You're forgiven."

Rachel laughed and offered her arm. "Shall we go to dinner?"