Jack and Clara in Escort Fever

Chapter 1The Wife

The Last Coin

Jack stole a quick glance at the cool face of his wristwatch. Eight o'clock. His appointment with the delinquent marketing firm wasn't scheduled until nine. The morning traffic had been unusually light, and since Jack absolutely despised being late, he always built in a generous buffer.

He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his tailored overcoat and paced the damp sidewalk in front of the massive office building. The night's icy drizzle had only just stopped. The clammy morning air smelled sharply of wet asphalt and exhaust fumes.

His calculating gaze fell on a battered coffee vending machine at the far edge of the forecourt—and on the woman standing motionless in front of it.

Her coat was already threadbare at the hems; one glance at the thin fabric was enough to tell that it had seen many merciless winters. But it had been meticulously brushed. No lint, no stains. With stiff fingers she rummaged through her pockets, pulled out a single tarnished coin, and pushed it into the machine's rusted slot.

A dull, metallic clack. Then nothing. No familiar whir, no paper cup dropping mercifully into the holder.

The woman's shoulders sagged instantly. She leaned her forehead heavily against the machine's cold, scratched plexiglass. A deep, shaky breath escaped her, forming a small white cloud at once in the biting air. Slowly, as if someone had silently cut her inner strings, she slid down the machine until her knees touched the damp, dirty ground. The worn leather bag on her shoulder slapped, unprotected, into a small puddle. She made no move to pick it up. The cold seemed to have crawled deep into her bones already.

Jack stopped. Something about this silent picture of absolute, utter resignation held him fast. He analyzed the scene with the same cool precision he brought to reading balance sheets.

His appraising gaze traveled over her hands, which now lay limp in her lap. Her fingernails were short but impeccably clean. On her ring finger, a pale, narrow stripe stood out against the skin—the ghost of a piece of jewelry long gone. Apparently she was alone, and apparently she had long since sold whatever could be sold. The wind toyed roughly with the strands that had escaped her makeshift bun. Dark at the roots, they faded into a light, sun-bleached blond at the tips. Jack registered the tiny piercing holes in her earlobes, but she wore no studs. Everything of value had already been turned into cash.

Suddenly the woman stiffened. She seemed to feel his calculating gaze physically on her skin.

When she lifted her head, Jack's breath caught for a fraction of a second. Her eyes were such a light, piercing blue that they looked almost like solid ice. And that ice was now aimed at him, directly and unmistakably.

Clara dug her clammy fingers into the rough fabric of her coat. Her jaw worked with pent-up fury. Is he looking at the dirt on my bag? Does that amuse him? she thought venomously. The fine gentleman in his expensive bespoke suit, watching the pathetic spectacle of me losing my very last coin to a tin machine.

"Enjoying the show?" she snapped. Her voice was rough from the cold, but sharp as a blade.

Jack blinked, seemingly caught out, but his mind was already working at full speed. He immediately looked away and turned his upper body slightly to the side—a deliberate, instinctive gesture to take the edge off the situation and avoid provoking any unnecessary escalation. It had been rude to stare. But he didn't walk on.

He half turned back to her, his face a mask of politeness.

"I was wondering..." he began, his voice perfectly calm, controlled, and free of any trace of pity, "whether you might allow me to invite you to the café over there." He nodded discreetly toward the burgundy awning on the other side of the street. Before she could open her mouth to turn him down on reflex, he added, quick and carefully judged: "Not as charity. As a favor. I have an hour before my appointment, and I deeply despise having to drink my coffee alone."

Clara's white fingers loosened their cramped grip on the fabric. She studied him with extreme suspicion. No condescending look of pity. No cheap, sleazy come-on. As a favor. She liked the sound of those words, even as her mind was sounding the alarm.

The Scent of Melted Butter

Café Le Petit was the polar opposite of the cold, wet sidewalk. Inside, fine, delicate porcelain clinked, and the muffled laughter of people floated through the elegant room—people whose coats undoubtedly cost more than Clara's entire annual rent.

They had ended up at a table on the covered terrace. The powerful heat lamps along the awning glowed a warm orange, driving the clammy chill from Clara's limbs without her having to expose herself to the disdainful, appraising stares of the well-heeled crowd in the brightly lit interior.

She kept the large white ceramic cup clasped firmly in both hands. The heat of the cappuccino radiated soothingly through the thick porcelain, slowly easing the uncontrollable trembling of her fingers. She kept her gaze stubbornly lowered to the perfect milk foam, breathed in the rich scent of freshly roasted beans, and strictly avoided any direct eye contact with the wealthy man across from her.

Jack sat completely relaxed, almost lying in wait, in the woven rattan chair and raised his tiny espresso cup. He watched her unobtrusively over the rim. A faint, barely perceptible smile played on his lips. This woman's absolute discretion fascinated him in a supremely practical way. No curious questions about his wealth, no artificial, ingratiating smile. She knew when to keep quiet. A rare, valuable quality.

Meanwhile, Clara's stomach was cramping into knots. Her last hot meal had been half a can of something the Tuesday before. The cappuccino was heavy and sweet, but liquid alone could not possibly fill the deep, aching hole at her center.

A waiter in a starched white apron swept past their table balancing a large silver tray. A thick, tantalizing cloud of melted butter, fresh herbs, and fried egg drifted lazily through the air.

Clara's eyes followed the steaming omelet as if it were magnetic, her gaze almost feverish. Her nostrils quivered slightly, and she swallowed inaudibly against the rising saliva.

Jack set his espresso cup down on the saucer with deliberate, almost soundless care. Even so, the faint clink pulled Clara abruptly back to hard reality. She tore her eyes away from the stranger's plate and stared, ashamed, into her cappuccino again.

"Now I do feel a little embarrassed," Jack said suddenly, and his voice cut through the silence like a gentle scalpel.

Clara raised her eyebrows in surprise and looked at him directly, steadily, for the first time. "I'm sorry? What for?"

"I hope you'll forgive my appalling manners." He leaned forward a little, shrinking the distance between them. "The smell from the kitchen has only just informed me that I haven't had breakfast myself. I've developed a sudden, ravenous appetite." He held her gaze, his tone soft but carrying that unyielding certainty businessmen use to close a deal. "It would mean a great deal to me if I could persuade you to have a little something as well. I promise it's the last favor I'll ask of you today."

Clara sat frozen. The sheer manipulative elegance with which he took away her shame—by making plain, ordinary hunger his personal problem—caught her completely off guard. And at that exact moment, her empty stomach let out a soft but mercilessly treacherous growl.

She looked into Jack Thornton's flawless, unreadable face, then down at the snow-white tablecloth. Slowly, very slowly, as if she were signing a pact, she nodded.

"I'd like that."

The Taste of Figs and Butter

When the waitress set the heavy plates down on the small table, a hot cloud of browned butter, fresh eggs, and sweet fruit rose into the cool morning air. Clara's throat tightened painfully. She swallowed hard, fighting the animal urge.

Jack leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and made a small, inviting motion with his hand. A silent, magnanimous invitation.

Clara reached for the heavy silver cutlery. It cost her an almost inhuman physical effort not to fall upon the plate like a starving woman. She forced herself with iron discipline to chew slowly, but her bites were simply too big—her empty stomach was ruthlessly demanding its due. The soft, perfectly seasoned omelet, the oven-warm croissant with its thick layer of butter and gloriously sweet fig jam disappeared at breakneck speed. She washed it all down with a long swallow of ice-cold, freshly squeezed orange juice.

Only when her plate was scraped completely clean did she lean back with a soft, unconscious sigh of relief. The warmth she so desperately needed finally spread through her chest.

But then her gaze fell on the other side of the table, and her heart gave an uneasy stutter. Jack's omelet lay untouched on the white porcelain. His croissant hadn't even been cut.

"It seems you didn't have an appetite after all," she observed, and a hint of guilty conscience, mixed with sudden suspicion, crept into her voice.

Jack smiled. It was a calm, relaxed smile that never reached his eyes. "Apparently the mere smell deceived my senses earlier. My appetite lived in my eyes rather than my stomach." He slid his full plate slowly, deliberately across the white tablecloth, straight toward her. "But please. I haven't touched any of it. Take my portion. It would be an absolute shame for this excellent food to be carelessly thrown away in the kitchen."

Clara froze inside. Clean the plate of a complete stranger? Her last scrap of pride forbade it. It was improper, deeply embarrassing, downright greedy.

But then her watchful gaze slid discreetly across the terrace. The tables in their immediate vicinity were completely empty. No one was paying them any attention. Who exactly am I holding back for? she thought bitterly. Her starved stomach had soaked up the first portion like a dry sponge in the desert. And after this humiliating morning, she would never see this generous stranger in the expensive coat again anyway.

"All right," Clara murmured softly, more to herself. "It really would be a shame."

This time she ate much more slowly. The worst of the raging, painful hunger had passed. Jack pressed his fingertips together and watched her with quiet fascination. He watched her carefully split the second croissant down the middle, smooth the butter over it, and spread a generous spoonful of fig jam on top. When she bit into it, she closed her eyes for a brief, blissful moment. A picture of pure, unfiltered gratitude. For Jack, whose life consisted primarily of cool transactions, the sight held something rare: a woman who kept her composure and her dignity even at rock bottom. He found that quiet, tenacious discipline remarkable in an entirely practical, almost professional way.

Neither of them spoke. Clara was far too busy eating, and Jack simply enjoyed the still, contented moment he had created.