As Zandra headed from the room, Colin went from admiring her decor to blatantly checking out her ass. That, too, was nothing new to her.
Inside the chef’s kitchen, she returned her unopened bottle of merlot to the wine cellar, then uncorked the rosé and filled two glasses.
When she reentered the living room, Colin was standing at the row of windows that boasted spectacular lakefront views. He turned and smiled warmly as Zandra handed him a glass.
“To beautiful new neighbors,” he toasted her.
She smiled. “And neighbors who come bearing gifts.”
They chuckled softly and clinked glasses.
Colin watched as Zandra nosed the aromatic wine, then took an experimental sip. It was delicious, bathing her palate with flavorful notes of strawberry and raspberry with a hint of citrus. “Mmm.”
“Good?”
She sipped again, sighed. “Very good.”
Colin looked as pleased as if he’d fermented and distilled the wine himself.
As he drank from his glass, Zandra noticed that he had the smooth, manicured hands of a man who made a living pushing paper. She couldn’t help comparing them to Remy’s much larger hands, dusted with black hair and callused from years of combat. At the memory of those hands masterfully stroking her body, she flushed all over.
Stop it, she ordered herself. Don’t think about Remy. What happened in St. Lucia was a huge mistake, one that shouldn’t—won’t—be repeated.
As she and Colin moved to the sofa and sat down, she asked conversationally, “So are you new to Chicago, or just this building?”
“New to Chicago,” he answered. “I’m from Phoenix, but I was recently transferred here to head my company’s research and development division.”
“What kind of company do you work for?”
“Software.”
Zandra nodded, crossing her legs. She didn’t miss the way his gaze roamed from the curve of her thighs down to her French-pedicured feet.
His eyes glinted with appreciation. “I’m starting to think this job transfer was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.”
She smiled, sipping more wine.
“So what about you, Zandra? What do you do for a living?”
You’re nothing but a high-priced whore masquerading as an entrepreneur.
She met Colin’s gaze, her chin lifted a defiant notch. “I own an escort agency.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “An escort agency?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a mad—” He caught himself, stopping just short of calling her a madam.
After an awkward pause, he eyed her curiously. “What made you decide to open an escort agency?”
Zandra didn’t feel like getting into the multilayered reasons, so she merely responded, “Escorting is one of the most profitable businesses in the world. Wealthy men will always seek the company of beautiful women, so I’m more than happy to bring them together.”
She’d spoken with such cool, clinical detachment that Colin raised his brows. “But don’t you ever worry about...you know, getting in trouble with the law?”
Zandra gave him a look of amused indulgence. “You’re assuming that all escorts are prostitutes and all escort agencies are in the business of prostitution. I won’t deny that many are, but contrary to what moralizing politicians and overzealous cops would have you believe, there are exceptions. A business that books clients and sends them to a woman’s home or hotel room isn’t an escort agency. My escorts accompany clients to social and business functions. They’re paid for their time and companionship, not sexual favors. Just because the public has been trained to believe that every professional escort is a hooker doesn’t make it so.”
When she’d finished speaking, Colin held up his hands, looking thoroughly abashed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend—”
“You didn’t offend,” Zandra said mildly. “You asked a question based on a common misconception, so I took the opportunity to enlighten you.”