The hotel was an Art Deco masterpiece, a dazzling remnant of a bygone era. Jane stood just outside, under the elegant marquee, at absolute war with herself.

Twice she'd gone to Pepper's salon - as ordered - the first time a few days ago to be waxed, plucked, and covered with various muds and wraps, and wasn't that an experience she had no desire to repeat.

Good God, it had hurt. She had no idea how Pepper - how anyone - was able to tolerate that sort of - of trauma - on a regular basis.

Although… if she were being perfectly honest with herself, she was at least coming to an understanding of why. It actually felt rather nice to be so… well, smooth. But oh dear Lord, the process. It had been a full week ago and the experience was still fresh in her mind. Lying on that padded table, fists clenched, breath hitching in anticipation as she'd braced herself for the next horrendous RIP - whispering frantic affirmations to herself between gritted teeth.

I can do this. I'm strong. And I'm not putting myself through this just to show him up. That would be petty and shallow, and that's not who I am. I'm doing this because I want to do this. This is for me. For me. For me-EEEEEEE!

Jane's mother had always maintained "It hurts to be beautiful". Jane personally thought this was complete bullshit, and rejected the premise that she needed to be beautiful at all. She was making her way through the world just fine on a combination of brains, ambition, skill and sheer moxie. But all feminism aside she had to admit, she felt powerful. Like a predator, some big cat stalking its prey. A coug -

Oh, hell.

She wasn't exactly cougar age, but she was marching - no, gliding - gliding gracefully - into this hotel to pick up a stranger and pay him to -

Nope.

No, no way, not happening, never in life. For what had to be the fifth time - at least - Jane whirled back toward the street, pawing frantically through her beaded clutch, searching for her phone.

This evening, as it stood, was a disaster, but if she actually went inside it would escalate to a full-blown catastrophe, and no. Just no. She was going to Uber home and eat half a gallon of ice cream, in the bath, and forget that she'd ever… she'd ever...

GodDAMN it.

She stopped again and turned, much more slowly this time, back toward the gilded double doors… and everything that lay beyond.

"You must be crazy," she whispered to herself. "Fucking crazy, Jane Turnkey." She stopped herself, with a concerted effort, from raking a hand through her hair - she'd paid Pepper's stylists too damn much, too much by half, to go and make a tangled mess out of it now.

The girls in the salon had made much of her hair, its striking color, its… startling abundance. Jane, for her part, usually considered the unruly mass an annoyance, when she thought about it at all - but she had to admit they'd done it proper justice for tonight. She wasn't sure what sort of magic they'd wrought, but gone was her customary nimbus of orange frizz. In its place was a cascade of red-gold curls that tumbled down past her shoulders, nearly loose.

Nearly, but not quite. Almost as an afterthought, the lead stylist had woven in a rope of pearls which gave the whole arrangement an almost… medieval feel. It was… unusual. And Jane liked it.

And her dress - oh how Pepper had squealed the first time she'd seen it.

Jane wasn't curvy, never had been, but the fit and flow of the dress accentuated what few assets she possessed. The style could almost be described as a mermaid gown, but was split down the back and stitched with a manageable train of tulle. The top was a fitted halter -it was modest enough- and the back - well, there wasn't much to the back except for a loooong expanse of lightly freckled skin.

It allowed for a range of movement Jane could never hope to achieve from most dresses - at least attractive ones - and in her secret heart of hearts, the little bit of fluff made her feel like a lady. But that was not the best part of the dress - the best part - her favorite part - was its highly unusual embellishment.

Jane had never seen - never felt - another like it.

The main body was covered, from top to sinuous bottom, with over-sized pointed sequins which had been stamped, tooled, then overlaid in a flowing pattern that shifted and shimmered with every movement. The entire piece was a deep, dark blue-green; in another life it could be aquamarine. The color and scale motif were probably meant to evoke the ocean, to call to mind graceful sea creatures or even a mermaid from the depths… but Pepper had immediately dubbed it the dragon-scale dress, and Jane liked that idea much better. It just… resonated with her, somehow. It felt… powerful. When Jane slipped into that sheath of scales, she could almost imagine herself a dragon.

In this case… a dragon turning around and going home.

Because there was no way, no fucking way in hell she was going to -

Jane spun again, back toward the curb, nearly tripping over her own high heels. Her questing fingers finally closed around her phone -

Only to have it immediately start vibrating in her hand.

Swearing under her breath, she fished it out, to be confronted by a new text from Pepper -

Get your stunning ass in there, Petal. NOW.

How? HOW? How did Pepper know her so well?

Jane positioned herself so the hotel was clearly visible behind her, plastered on the sweetest smile in her repertoire, flipped her phone the bird, and took a picture. She'd barely sent it off to Pepper before the one-word response came through.

NOW.

Sighing, finally fully resigned to her fate, Jane tucked the phone away and walked back to the hotel doors.

And through them.

Once she got past the lobby and her own desire to run, run, Jane was able to fully appreciate the grandeur of the ballroom. Christmas had come and gone, as had New Years, and all of the over-the-top holiday frippery had been pulled down and stowed away for another year.

The hotel was a grand old thing, with good bones and history, and in recent years had been modernized by an expert hand. Jane took in her luxurious surroundings; there was a flow to the room she didn't usually associate with Art Deco - it was bright, airy, open, and held none of that oppressive masculinity that seemed to permeate the style.

The colors were lighter than what she'd expected, the ceilings high. The room itself was open to a stained glass dome which soared majestically two stories above. Both floors were ringed by a series of little alcoves; each appeared sumptuous, comfortable, and secluded enough to afford privacy when needed. The whole space was reminiscent of an opera house that had abandoned its harsh reds and browns for much gentler shades of soft grey and muted plum… though the vast majority of the room was white. The dance floor - were it not covered at the moment by men and women who looked like moving artwork themselves - presented a subtle contrast in blacks and greys.

This, this was how you did Art Deco.

Jane couldn't help but sigh at the beauty of it all. She wanted to look everywhere, all at once.

Still, first things were first. She immediately scanned the room for any sign of her ex.

It was impossible to see into every nook and cranny, every cozy alcove that lined the larger space. But she didn't think he was there yet. He wasn't mingling, or dancing, or standing at the bar… and he wouldn't have tucked himself away in one of those little seating alcoves, not this early in the evening. He liked to be seen too much, to be noticed and admired. He thrived on attention, craved it, needed it.

Drank it down like a vampire slurping blood.

And Jane, being on such anxious, high alert, would have spotted him immediately. So no, if he wasn't easily visible, then he most likely hadn't arrived yet…

Unless he'd concealed himself to lie in wait for her…

Jane suppressed a shudder, then ordered herself, firmly, to stop being a ninny. He didn't CARE enough about her to lie in wait for her. He'd never cared about her; that's why he was her ex.

It dawned on her that she was actually shaking a bit. Only a very little bit, but… still.

I need a drink.

Jane turned her attention to the bar; started to wend her way toward it. She hadn't taken more than a few steps, however, when she stopped short all over again, the breath nearly knocked from her lungs, stunned to immobility not by the beauty of her environs this time, but by -

Heavens above, could that be HIM?!

The flower that he was twirling restlessly between his fingers said yes… but could that honestly be right? Jane blinked, hard, wondering if this, this vision would vanish like a mirage on the horizon when she looked again, but no, he remained exactly where - and as - he was.

And what he was, was perfect.

She could barely credit her eyes.

She had to literally, if silently, tell herself to start moving again.

Walk. Jane, walk.

More slowly now, she resumed her approach to the bar. He wasn't looking at her, his attention apparently fixed on the rose in his hands - he was scowling at it, in point of fact - so she had ample opportunity to study him as she closed the last of the distance between them.

Still reeling, Jane wondered just exactly what this was going to cost her. She really should have dragged some actual specifics out of Pepper. Was there a… like a … sliding scale, or something? Because she was suddenly unsure whether she could even afford this… service.

Because ...Jesus. The man was sex on a stick.

His suit was dark blue, almost black. It was sharp-looking, and perfectly fitted; Jane knew very little about men's fashions, but her disastrous relationship had taught her enough to know his suit was tailor-made and probably cost more than her first two cars put together. Cut to precision, he could have been poured into the fabric, it fit him so well.

His long legs hooked under his chair - and if she weren't wearing these ridiculous shoes, he would tower over her when he stood. He was muscular but lean, and when he moved she could see his shoulders bunch under the fabric of his coat.

He still hadn't noticed her, so intent was his scrutiny of the flower he held, and for a moment Jane wondered if she was late. The rose was a bit worse for wear, its petals wilted, stem broken. How long had he been waiting?

There was no one feature which made him attractive - not his lightly tanned skin or long, aquiline nose; not the hint of a shadow on his jaw, nor his dark hair that was almost in need of a trim - no, it was the combination that was breathtaking; the way everything came together to form a whole that was more than the sum of his parts.

So… so much more.

Just your type, Pepper had said. Jane sent up a brief, inarticulate prayer of thanksgiving that her friend knew her so well. She was going to have to take her out to dinner upon her return stateside. Or send her flowers or… good gravy. Something.

WALK, Jane.

Sensing her approach he turned his head - a small movement, subtle - just enough to meet her gaze.

Holy hell. Holy hell in a handbasket, because that was where Jane was going.

Directly.

He had the kind of eyes that stopped women in their tracks; intensely grey, brooding, as turbulent as dark waters. They were spellbinding. She supposed he must have been used the reaction he provoked - he didn't say anything as she stared - but instead waited patiently for her to put herself back together again.

"Are, are you -" she had to stop, her voice barely more than a mortifying little squeak. She swallowed hard, rallied, and tried again.

"Are you -" she could do this, she would - she forced a bit more surety into her tone as she murmured, "my prostitute?"

It must have startled him, her directness, because whatever he was expecting her to say, that was apparently not it. His grey eyes first widened, then narrowed as he stared at her, saying nothing for an uncomfortably long moment. Jane felt heat rush to her cheeks, suddenly wondering whether, rose or no rose, she'd actually approached the wrong man.

How abjectly, how terminally embarrassing would that be?

"Excuse me… what?" He asked in a gravelly voice, one eyebrow quirking as he studied her.

"The flower," Jane pointed to the rose, still clutched between his long fingers, "are you my -" her voice dropped to a self-conscious whisper, "prostitute?"

He blinked and then stared mutely at her, then at the rose, then back at her again, and Jane abruptly felt her courage fail her. Not completely, she didn't quite feel the need to run screaming from the venue, but enough that she had to turn away - if only for a minute.

She snagged her lower lip with her teeth - to hell with her lipstick - and signaled to the bartender, grateful for a chance to settle herself, a very little bit at least, before turning back to face her… date.

Now it was his lips, rather than his brows, that were quirked… into a very slight, ridiculously charming, lopsided smile. "I believe the politically correct term is escort."

Jane felt her blush deepen. If she was expected to pay him perfectly good money for his company this evening, the least he could do was smooth this horrendous awkwardness down for her - not exacerbate it further with his… his… mockery.

And that smirk.

"You can call it whatever you want," she snapped in a sudden rush of irritation, "but it still comes down to you sell your," she flapped her hand in the direction of his crotch, "...sword."

His eyes went wide with mock outrage, "I don't know that I've ever heard it described… quite so, but you needn't make it seem so cheap and tawdry."

Jane gave him a very deliberate once-over. She looked for any fault, any defect, anything, anything at all that she could focus on. A loose thread, a scuffed shoe; whatever it took for her to regain her footing. There was nothing. "Somehow," she allowed, "I doubt you are anything close to cheap."

His smirk was back. "That I am not."

"So are you?" she asked, as one hand absently smoothed the scales on her hip, over and over.

Now he was outright grinning at her. "Am I what?"

"Good fucking God," she nearly spat, "are you going to make me say it AGAIN?"

He leaned so close his breath tickled her ear. "Are you always this rude to your prostitutes?"

"Jesus, don't call it that. And no- I've never had one before."

"So you're just rude to me, then?" His eyes were positively glinting with suppressed mirth.

Ugh. He was laughing at her. The insufferable jerk.

"I -uh - oh, hell, I told Pepper this was a bad idea."

The bartender returned with her drink. She had no idea what she'd ordered - how did women function around him?! - but she knocked it back in one shot.

His eyes widened ever so slightly, but he didn't comment. He probably thought her a lush or crazy or both, but god damn it, this was difficult enough and she needed the liquid courage.

He must have understood, realized he had maybe pushed her a little too far, because he raised his hand and both of their drinks were refreshed - with astonishing speed and efficiency, given that the bar was becoming increasingly crowded as more guests arrived to the gala.

Jane reached for her clutch - she'd yet to start a tab - but he waved her off. She even saw him catch the bartender's eye, angle his jaw toward her and give his head a very slight shake, as if indicating that she was not to be charged - at all. Of all the presumptuousness, acting as if he were the one footing the bill when really, she had no doubt, a full accounting of both their alcohol consumption would appear, meticulously itemized, on his invoice.

But oh, he wanted to play the gallant now, she fumed. It took her a few seconds to tune back in to the fact that he was talking again.

"Just what, exactly," he asked, leveling the full weight of that slate-colored gaze on her, "was a bad idea? Paying a complete stranger to provide services of the, ah, bedroom variety when - if you don't mind my saying - you could walk up to any man anywhere and he'd beg to go home with you? It seems like an idiotic waste of money to me."

There was a beat of silence as Jane processed what he'd said. he'd essentially just called her irresistible - and stupid. "Well there was a backhanded compliment if I've ever heard one," she managed at length. "Aren't you supposed to be charming?"

"I think the point is for me to be whatever you want me to be."

"That sounds like it would be fun for all of one night."

He didn't reply, just spread his hands as if to say, yes - and?

Ah… right. Would any part of this evening not be awkward or embarrassing?

"Point taken," she said. "I am hoping you are my date for the evening - It used up what small amount of courage I had to even walk into this party -"

"And approach a random man to ask if he was your prostitute?" He almost sounded - almost looked - impressed. "I'd say you had courage in spades."

Jane glanced away. "I was well-motivated by fear and even then Pepper had to threaten me with murder." She raised her glass, intending to exhibit a little more restraint. "Besides, you had the rose."

He nodded in agreement. "Yes, I did. And this Pepper is my pimp?"

Jane choked on her drink, "Well I don't know about that - I was really just in need of moral support - but I bet she thinks she's mine."

"I like her already. So what is your name?"

Jane gave him a long look, debating the wisdom, under the circumstances, of employing a pseudonym. But then, she was supposed to be mingling, making connections. She could hardly network under a false name.

Well, she could, but -

Oh, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound.

She held her hand out for the flower. "Jane."

"Liar."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, you're a liar - give me at least some credit for being more than a -" he paused and winked, actually winked at her - "pretty face. There is no way a woman as clearly... uncommon… as yourself has such an ordinary name as Jane. You just don't think I rate the real deal, being merely the help, and all."

"No. Honestly. It's Jane. Just Jane."

"Well then, Just Jane," he placed the wilted flower in her hand, taking the opportunity to trace his fingers along the delicate veins of her wrist. "My name is Gunther."

Laree A/N: We hope you've enjoyed the first two chapters of this story. There are seven more chapters to go - uploaded weekly - so drop us a fav, follow, or a review, they make our day!