“This once. But some rules must apply.”

“Right. I pay up front.”

“Hmm.”

The sleeves of his jacket were turned inside out when he finally was able to fling the thing to the floor. He dug into his pants pocket for the money clip of cash Wyatt Turner had given him. The tight-ass would have conniptions if he knew his client was spending his food and gas money on a prostitute. Speaking for himself, Griff didn’t begrudge a penny of Marcia’s fee. If he had to, he’d skip a few meals.

“How much?”

“Two thousand. For an hour. Straight sex.”

He gaped at her and swallowed the golf ball now lodged in his throat. “Two thousand? You’ve gone up. A lot.”

“So has the cost of living,” she replied coolly. “And business expenses.”

He expelled a gusty breath of disappointment, then bent down and retrieved his jacket from the floor. “I don’t have it. Maybe tomorrow night,” he said wryly.

“How much have you got?”

He held out the money clip. She took it and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills, then gave the clip back to him. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Griff thought he might weep out of gratitude. “I’ll be eternally in your debt.”

Marcia was the most select prostitute in Dallas, and it was strict business practices that had put her there. She was a businesswoman all the way. Through the grapevine, Griff had heard that she, acting on tips from clients, had invested wisely in real estate. She’d bought up farmland north of Dallas, and when the city expanded in that direction, she had scored huge. It was also said she had a stock portfolio worth millions.

All that could have been rumor, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was true. It was said she’d started “escorting” to help finance dental hygiene school but had soon realized that she was better at polishing knobs than she was at polishing teeth. And she could make a hell of a lot more money at it.

Soon after he’d signed with the Cowboys, Griff had learned of her through a teammate, being told that Marcia was the best if you could afford her, because even then she’d been expensive. He preferred a professional to the team groupies who threw themselves at him and, once he’d slept with them, inevitably caused hassles he didn’t need.

Marcia was discreet. She was clean. She was scrupulous when it came to prequalifying her clients, making sure they were disease free, financially stable, and safe. She never took walk-ins. She’d made an exception for him tonight.

She had the wholesome face of a church choir soloist, paired with a voluptuous body that invited sin. Somehow, despite her occupation, she managed to remain a lady, and if a client didn’t treat her as such, he didn’t remain a client.

Five years hadn’t left any noticeable damage, Griff was pleased to discover as she undressed. She was lush, but firm where she ought to be. He couldn’t get his clothes off fast enough. Knowing him, remembering his preferences, she didn’t assist him but idly touched herself while she watched him peel off garments and toss them aside. When her fingers disappeared between her thighs, he made an involuntary gurgling sound but was too far gone to care how gauche he seemed.

When he was undressed, she went to him and gently pushed him back until he was seated on the edge of the bed. He pressed his face into her deep cleavage, mashed her heavy breasts against his cheeks. She handed him a condom; he rolled it on. “What do you want to do, Griff?”

“At this point…Doesn’t matter.”

She lowered herself to her knees between his thighs and bent her head toward him, whispering, “Enjoy.”

“Griff?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s after eleven. You need to go.”

He’d been sleeping on his stomach, his head buried in the soft, scented pillow, virtually comatose. He turned onto his back. Marcia had showered and was wrapped in a robe. “You went out like a light,” she said. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you sooner, but you have to go now.”

He stretched luxuriantly. “Felt good, sleeping naked, sleeping on sheets that don’t smell like industrial-strength detergent.” He arched his back and stretched again. “Do I gotta?”

“You gotta.”

She said it with a smile, but he knew she meant it. He couldn’t argue after she’d already been so charitable. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. She had his clothes waiting for him, actually hurried him along without seeming to as he pulled them on. She held his jacket for him, then placed her hand on the center of his back and propelled him toward the door.

When they reached it, he turned to her. “Thank you. You made a huge concession, and I appreciate it more than you know.”

“Coming-home present.” She kissed her finger, then pressed it against his lips. “But next time, it has to be by appointment and full fare.”

“My financial situation should improve substantially by tomorrow.” But remembering how uneasy she’d been to be seen with him in the lobby, he added, “If you still want me for a client, that is. I could be bad for your business.”

“Every business requires a little finessing now and then.” She was making light of it, but he knew the thought had crossed her mind. “You might want to try one of the new girls. They’re young and gorgeous, and I trained them personally.”

“Satisfaction guaranteed?”

“Always. Want me to set something up for you?”

A mental image of Laura Speakman flashed through his mind. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing, where I’ll be. Let me call you. But I tried the old number. Got a recording that it had been disconnected.”

She passed him a business card. “I have to change it periodically. To keep the vice cops honest,” she added, smiling.

He kissed her on the cheek, thanked her again, and they exchanged a good-bye. She closed the door, quietly but firmly. Getting into the elevator, Griff met the gay decorator getting out. The man looked him up and down, then closed his eyes and gave a soft, swooning moan. “Too, too cute,” he murmured as he glided past.

The lobby bar was doing less business now than earlier. The girl who had waited on him was chatting with one of the idle bellmen. The pianist had been replaced with canned music.

The doorman was greeting an arriving guest when Griff pushed through the revolving doors. Outside, the air had softened, but it was still hot enough to steal his breath until he acclimated. He stood there, sweating, for a full sixty seconds, waiting for the parking attendant to show. When he didn’t, Griff went looking for him. He walked the length of the porte cochere and rounded the corner into the parking garage.

Where he ran into a fist.

It connected with his cheekbone like a jackhammer. One jab. Two. Then another.

He staggered back, swearing loudly, swinging wildly in uncoordinated self-defense, trying to bring his assailant into focus.

Rodarte.