Her focus must remain on the IT needs of the operation. Knox’s job is to get her into the office; once there, the real challenge begins. Will there be a computer in the office? Wireless or Ethernet? Physical files to copy? A landline telephone?
She carries listening devices, line taps and cameras to install—all in a purse slung over her shoulder. The items are hidden in the bottom of her bag beneath a camisole, a cordless vibrator and a riding crop. She is a one-woman wrecking ball.
She mentally choreographs each phase of the operation. Her mathematical mind serves her well. Without any knowledge of what the room will look like, she nonetheless visualizes each stage of the job, rehearsing it. Knox has given her a limit of twenty minutes, promising to occupy their willing partner at least this long. It is barely enough, given so many unknowns. An hour would have been more comfortable—an hour with a team of two or three, better yet. She enters the job knowing they will not get everything they are after, that they will have to settle for less. She hates such compromise.
Knox pays the fifty euros to a fabulous beauty in a Pulp Fiction platinum wig and an elegant evening dress that shows off an abundance of smooth cleavage and nut-hard nipples that could be pasties. She has the body of a lingerie model, and the smile of a quiz-show hostess. Knox’s gaze lingers a little too long on the cleavage; Grace is unsure if it’s intentional or not.
The interior of the house is more contemporary than clubby. Dance music plays in the parlor to the right where a half dozen extremely young women show off their wares by dancing together. The smell of pot and tobacco commingle. Nonsmoking is the room to the left, where love seats, couches and coffee tables break the room up into more intimate spaces. The lighting is low and warm. A self-serve liquor bar and small buffet table divide the room. The management is smart: the couches are not crowded with girls. Instead, there are three or four in the room at a time, rotating constantly from a pool of girls at the back of the house. The exchange is done naturally. It doesn’t come off as a parade, nor a runway, but feels more like a cocktail party that is moving between rooms.
The girls are young and very pretty, well groomed and fashionably dressed. Grace feels old by comparison. For everything it tries not to be, it is nonetheless a meat market: blondes, redheads, brunettes; skinny, plump, plus-sized; flat, busty, leggy, tough, cuddly. Grace has always admired the artistry of women’s bodies. God was having a good day when he created woman. Regardless of taste, a man—or woman—could find the look of choice here. Everything is engineered to seduction. She is excited, aroused even. She can only imagine the conflict in Knox—rage versus desire. Repugnance mixed with hormones. Hell for him. Only now does she realize how difficult it must be for him to participate.
Grace clutches his arm. He guides her to a couch. She holds the short skirt as she sits, the hem rides up to where the slightest movement of her legs will flash her red lace panties.
Knox brings her a vodka on the rocks with a twist, three fingers deep. He has poured himself a single malt. She has to watch herself with the vodka; it can go down too easily.
They make small talk with a very well put-together brunette who goes by the name Usha. They begin in Dutch, but her Slavic accent makes her incomprehensible. Grace attempts Russian, but they soon settle on English so Knox can participate.
“You are together,” the woman says, as if in surprise.
“We like adventure,” Knox says.
“Don’t we all?” the woman returns.
“Do you like adventure, Usha?” Knox asks. He takes hold of Grace’s free hand to make the request more obvious.
“Yes, of course.”
Grace doesn’t approve of the look in Usha’s eyes: the woman clearly favors Knox; Grace is an afterthought, which could complicate the job.
The woman never loses her bright-eyed expression. “You want Jin-Jin,” she says, indicating an Asian hardbody who has a preference for dog collars.
Grace will not work with an Asian. “Perhaps not,” she says.
“Veronique,” Usha says.
The French African wears a rainbow of thin metal bands around her long neck. She has sharp collarbones and wide, square shoulders. Her overly large eyes are haunting; her body belongs to a marathoner. Her skin is so black it looks purple. She wears a side-split skirt open to her hip.
“Magnifique!” Knox pulls Grace to the front of the couch. “You will introduce us, please?”
“Pleasure.”
Usha leads them. Two loud men enter and proclaim themselves partiers. Grace feels Knox tense, and squeezes his hand to bring him back. Had he come alone, a fight would have already broken out.
Veronique grins at Knox across blinding teeth. But it’s the heated look she gives Grace, her eyes first aimed at Grace’s small skirt; she then makes eye contact and loses the smile to a pursing of her large lips. Not quite a kiss, but far from disapproving. She is curious. She is thinking.
She speaks with a British accent. Grace makes small talk. Knox works his way around to the reference of voyeurism. It’s like asking a mechanic for an oil change.
“I can arrange a companion for you as you watch, if you like. For either of you, if desired.” She checks out Grace.
“No, thank you,” Knox says. “I prefer . . . to fly solo.”
Grace says, “We’ll see.”
It’s four hundred euros an hour and any portion thereof. Knox makes a cash down payment to a madam in her thirties. Knox and Grace are left to continue drinking while Veronique prepares the room.
“So far, so good,” Knox says.
“I will need the full twenty minutes. Make sure you give me proper directions.”
Knox says nothing.
“I know this is difficult for you,” she says. “I remember Chongming.”
Silence.
“We both are going to keep her busy, John.”
A younger woman shows them upstairs. The decor is warmer. Knox nudges Grace and eye-checks the floor. Hand-tied rugs. A string of hallway runners. The Dutch oils on the walls look surprisingly authentic. The golden glow from the leaded-glass wall sconces. The sultry, deep-throated voice singing a jazz standard through unseen speakers.
As Grace takes in the rugs, she sees Knox surreptitiously look for the location of the webcams they assume are in constant operation. At these prices, with this clientele, it’s doubtful the cameras cover the bedrooms. But if a girl runs, or a john tries a door other than the one he’s paying for, someone needs to be watching.
“Anything?” she asks.
“No,” he whispers.
She spots a staircase leading higher. An exit sign suggests the window at the end of the hall leads to a fire escape. It has Knox written all over it.
As Grace expected, the bedroom is small but well appointed. It’s cozy, done in warm colors and soft lighting. A place one wants to spend time in. The girl’s job is to push the companionship into a second hour, requiring another four hundred. The corner sink is a welcome sight. “Toilet?” Grace asks.
“Into the hall,” says Veronique. “A second, up the stairs.”
This will help Knox.
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Knox tells Veronique, laying out the rules. “Constance,” he says, referring to Grace, “and you will get to know one another. You will show me . . .”
“It is the next door. This side.” She points to the mirror on the near wall.
“Very good. I will join you later, at which time Constance will watch. You will arouse me but not allow me to climax. I am counting on your professionalism. Constance will rejoin us after that.”