Not For Sale by Sandra Marton

along with everyone else at his soaked condition, took a taxi to the airport and got the hell out of Dodge.
    Monday morning, things looked better.
    He woke up feeling more like himself. His P.A. was back at her desk. His coffee tasted the way it was supposed to. Jack Gordon was history. Six months severance pay, no letter of recommendation.
    Goodbye to the old, hello to the new. No question about it. Caroline Hamilton had become a meaningless memory.
    He had meetings until noon, then a quick lunch at his desk. At one o’clock, in the middle of a complex telephone conversation with his attorney to tie up the final legalities of the Rostov deal, it all fell apart.
    Nothing had changed. Why tell himself it had? That he’d filled the day with enough crap to keep six men busy was the sole reason he hadn’t spent it staring out the window.
    Gordon was a sneaky, ingratiating little worm. He’d deserved to be fired, but what penalty had Caroline paid? She had lied to him. The scene at Dani Sinclair’s apartment, hisshow of anger, tossing that check at her, hadn’t even come close to settling things.
    And he had to do that. Settle things. Erase the memory of her lies. The only question was, how?
    “Lucas?” his attorney was saying, “Lucas? Man, are you still there?”
    Lucas took a breath. “Sorry. Yes, I’m here but something’s come up.” He paused. “Ted. If I needed an investigator…”
    “I can recommend one.” The lawyer rattled off a name and phone number, and then it was he who paused. “Can I help in any way? ”
    Lucas forced a chuckle. “No, no, it’s nothing special.”
    The hell it wasn’t.
    He hung up the phone and got to his feet. The only way to put this behind him was to confront Caroline, tell her what he thought of her, tell her.
    How should he know what he’d tell her? The right words would come when he saw her.
    A couple of hours later, he had more information than he needed. All he’d wanted was Caroline’s address. Now, he had her age: twenty-four. Her place of birth: some little town in upstate New York. Her education: an undergraduate degree in French. Now she was working toward a Master’s degree in Russian and Slavic Studies.
    The P.I. didn’t come up with the rest of it, that she had an income on the side, but Lucas hadn’t expected that he would. Caroline was clever. Her occupation, if you could call it that, would be carefully hidden.
    Her address was no surprise at all.
    She lived in one of those Manhattan neighborhoods that had gone from providing shelter for those who sweated to make enough to live on to providing it to those who had more money than they could ever need. It was home to hotshotyoung Wall Street traders who thought selling overvalued stocks entitled them to seven figure bonuses, and spoiled little rich girls whose parents funded their extravagant lifestyles while they played at working in the fashion business.
    He’d been to a couple of dinner parties in Hell’s Kitchen, so he knew what Caroline’s place would be like.
    An airy duplex in what had once been a tenement. A converted loft in what had once been a factory. Lots of pale wood, exposed brick, uncomfortable furniture and indecipherable art.
    Expensive, but not a problem for a woman who was a student by day but had a source of income from an old but infinitely profitable profession.
    Lucas almost laughed as he left his office.
    Student by Day.
    It sounded like the title of a bad movie. Only problem? It was real. And he, who had never paid for sex in his life, who had never been with a woman for any reason but mutual desire…
    He had bought her services.
    His laughter died.
    “Goddamnit,” he muttered, and a guy walking by on the street, even here in Manhattan where people never looked at each other, never showed a reaction, even here, the guy glanced at his face and detoured around him.
    Traffic was a mess. Forget hailing a taxi. Walking was faster. And it kept him moving, which was what he needed