Free My Escort by Kia Carrington-Russell Page A

meddler. She had tried this trick a year ago with a journalist who had expressed an interest.
    “Clover, its fine,” Damon said reassuringly.
    “No, I will clean it.” I moved to the kitchen sink, looking for a cloth. I found a clean one in a drawer, and after wetting it slightly, I began wiping over the stain on his salmon shirt, embarrassed. It looked like an expensive shirt and it had a light, silky feel.
    “Clover, really, it’s fine,” Damon repeated kindly, pressing his hand over mine to make me stop. He took the cloth out from my hand with a small smile. “Really, it’s okay.”
    I smiled again in embarrassment, still flustered from our close contact. I could tell he was too by the alert way he looked at me. Luckily Cassidy saved me from thinking of something to say back.
    “Would you like a drink, Damon?” she asked from behind me. I gave her a glare, insinuating that bumping me into Damon was not necessary. She bit her lips, hiding a small smile. “I’ll just grab you one.”
    As Cassidy walked over to where a group of women stood by the champagne, Damon began to laugh. He took a seat at a nearby table, and invited me to do the same.
    “What are you laughing about?” I asked inquisitively, still standing in front of him.
    His hands were now tucked into the pockets of his pants. “Cassidy seems nice, and... determined,” he chuckled. “What did you tell her about my services?” Although he was still smiling, I could hear a hint of curiosity in his tone.
    An awkward smile spread across my face and I took another sip to cover my embarrassment. Perhaps he thought I had been gossiping about him.
    “Ah Damon, you could make it,” Debra interrupted us. She opened her hands, welcoming him as she walked over to us. Her hips were swinging from side to side in an exaggerated motion. Her makeup had been freshly reapplied, I noticed, and her once neat bun had been thrown over in favor of locks that flowed freely down her back. I stopped myself from rolling my eyes at her. Her motives were so obvious it made me feel almost sorry for her. Poor Gary.
    “Good afternoon, Debra,” Damon said politely, welcoming her into our already awkward conversation. But his face had assumed his professional mask of charm once again. There was no indication on his face or in his body language that he had been in any way flustered.
    Cassidy walked over with a joyful beat to her step. She handed Damon the glass of champagne, pointedly eyeing Debra’s proximity to him.
    “You might actually be just the person I need to see,” Debra announced. “You see, only a few days after Issobelle Sherain signed her contract, she has become disgruntled with her first model. She now refuses to use any of the photos—”
    “Are you serious?” I interjected quickly. It was the first I had heard of it. And it was me who had to organize the models’ photography schedule and approve the concepts. Of course everything was watched over by Debra, but any problems usually came under my notice first.
    If Issobelle was already complaining about her first model, I was certain this might become a regular problem. And we have no contingency plan for the cover of the next issue. I could bring forward the approved vision for the following month. But to bring everything forward would then put the staff under a large amount of stress.
    I feared that Issobelle might be just as difficult in other shoots. Although we both agreed the chef was not the greatest model, after Debra firmly decided against changing the model, I was surprised that Issobelle had so readily disregarded her orders. Although it would now be my headache to fix this all, I couldn’t help but respect Issobelle slightly for standing up to Debra in such a way.
    “Yes, Clover, after today’s photo-shoot she wasn’t overly impressed. So I tried to organize something with a few models. We might have an interview with a model, just an everyday man in the big mean city of New York. A piece