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The Dorchester Puzzle


Published by: eXtasy Books

Author : D.V. Roberts

ISBN :978-1-4874-1900-4

Page :27

Word Count :7113

Publication Date :2018-06-10

Series : #

Heat Level :

Available Formats : The Dorchester Puzzle (epub) , The Dorchester Puzzle (pdf) , The Dorchester Puzzle (prc) , The Dorchester Puzzle (mobi)

Category : Contemporary Romance , Erotic Romance , Editor's Choice , Summer Shorts 2018

  • Product Code: 978-1-4874-1900-4


How can a lawyer be mistaken for a hooker?

Clare’s a high-powered London barrister, and beautiful and sexy to boot. She gets stood up by some jerk in a posh London hotel. Happily, a dashing American entrepreneur is on hand to give her the night of hot sex she so desperately craves.

Only later, Clare finds out that there’d been a teeny misunderstanding on his part as to her profession…

It was a warm early evening with plenty of daylight time remaining. Summer was in full bloom. As I walked through Hyde Park, I admired the colours and breathed in the scents around me. The heat of the day was only just beginning to dissipate. The sounds of heavy traffic down Park Lane hardly affected me at all. Like most Londoners, I learned how to tune out the city’s noise.

I walked along the path leading from Hyde Park Corner up to Marble Arch, the London plane trees standing tall on either side, each equidistant from the next one in line. Perhaps walked is the wrong term. Given that I was wearing very expensive three-inch heeled Manolos, toddled along might be the more appropriate term for my reasonably slow progress.

The shoes were, however, quite gorgeous, and helped to show off my long legs to good effect. The top half of my body was encased in a Thai silk bottle-green dress. It too had cost an arm and a leg, but it hugged my body perfectly, showing off my assets exactly as nature intended. It was also perfect for the occasion. And the location.

I was due shortly at the Dorchester Hotel. It was one of London’s finest, and costliest, hotels, frequented by anyone who was someone, by the ultra-rich and by wannabe-rich celebrities. Its annexe, at forty-five Park Lane, immediately across from the main hotel building, was known to rent out rooms at a cost of three thousand pounds per night.

I recalled one of my girlfriends telling me that, every morning, astonishingly wealthy oil sheikhs could be seen in their bathrobes, crossing the road to get to the main hotel where the spa was located.

“Three thousand nicker for a night they’d paid, and yet they still had to go outside to get to the spa,” she said, with a certain contempt.

I’d asked her how she knew all this. She told me that she’d seen them from the window of the bedroom in which she’d been sleeping.

“But you don’t have three grand to spend on a hotel room,” I’d said.

“No,” she replied, winking, “but my date did. Lovely man, very sexy. And very rich.”

As my toddling reached peak efficiency, I turned to cross the road and stood by the traffic lights. Waiting for the lights to turn red, I noticed a group of male joggers approaching, each one of them fit in every sense of the word. As they started to run past me, I took the opportunity to smooth down my silk dress, which had ridden up my thighs slightly as I had walked. The action seemed to attract the attention of the joggers.

It seems that a young woman in a tight, short dress, bare legs, and high heels, pushing her dress down over her buttocks looks good to men on a hot summer evening. No surprise there, then!

I noticed one of the men was apparently taken by my appearance as he was ogling me very obviously. I smiled at him and gave him a small nod of acknowledgement. He smiled back and slowed his run, causing his running companions to bump into him. They almost collapsed in a heap. I felt flattered.

Leaving the athletes behind, I crossed the road and continued on to the Dorchester. I had to work my way through a phalanx of black S-class Mercedes with tinted windows, each one containing a bored-looking uniformed chauffeur.

At the hotel, the doorman opened the door to let me in. His gaze appeared unable to decide if it preferred my cleavage or my legs. I ignored him and made my way to the bar to find my date for the evening.

My date was an estate agent. He mentioned—several times—he worked for one of those international agencies that charge both buyers and sellers for the privilege of dealing with them. His agency specialised in very high-end properties all over the world. Ten million pounds a pop being the minimum price they’d consider, with commissions of at least five percent. He mentioned he’d sold properties in Belgrave Square and in St. Jean Cap Ferrat just that day when we’d chatted on Facetime. He’d earned ten thousand pounds personally just from those two sales.

Despite the boasting, I found him very attractive. He was very handsome, and somehow, he knew how to market himself to a woman. Must be in the genes.

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