Are You Tiffani Caine? Ch. 03

It was when she started to dress that she realized that her very expensive underwear shopping expedition had been at least partially in preparation for a night like this, so much of it matched the dress perfectly. She fiddled with every bra she thought might work with the dress, but it was no good: the dress' plunge was too deep to wear any bra at all, and when she finally admitted that she felt herself sagging inside - somehow the fact was almost as sickening as the whole rest of her situation put together. She almost broke down in tears, but doing so would have ruined her makeup so after a brief struggle she steeled herself and selected a strappy pair of panties and, after two minutes' consideration, a lace garter belt with Cuban heel stockings. There, that was vulgar enough for the night's mission.

It felt odd to put on the dress and know that she would be going out in something that showed so much skin; although the dress was really quite tasteful by any standards less strict than that of a Pentecostal Christian, it actually made her feel a little like the whore she was supposed to be. Still, she had to admit the dress had been a good choice for her body, as the high waist made her stumpy legs look a mile long. It showed her shape without being crass, for which she was grateful.

The whore feeling was accentuated by the choker, which made her look and feel just a little naively slutty, like a teenage girl awkwardly trying to look sexy in clothes she was too young to know how to wear to best effect. She considered leaving it off, but she didn't really own anything she could replace it with - and besides, it did make her neck look longer and more graceful, which could only be a good thing. And apparently guys went nuts for them. In the end she decided to keep it. She finished up her jewelry quickly enough, and finally put on her shoes.

Her full-length mirror showed her what she could only consider a might-have-been version of herself, the self she would see all the time if she hadn't been saved. She looked...good. Very good even, maybe the best she had ever looked in her life. She still preferred her shapeless church lady dresses - obviously she did, she was as good a Christian as she knew how to be! - but the Sara that looked back at her actually looked fairly sexy, if lacking in confidence. She tried a few poses in the mirror but decided not to go too far with it; after all, he wanted unspoiled, so unspoiled is what he would get.

The wrap completed the picture, and she checked the mirror with it on. This was the first impression she would make for him, the first thing he would see her in, and she was pleased to note that it made her look more elegant and classy. She slid it off her shoulders and couldn't help but be pleased with the contrast - still elegant but sexier, maybe a little more self-aware.

And then there was nothing to do but wait, and the waiting proved the hard part. She was ready half an hour early, and she placed herself carefully upright on the edge of her sofa to pass the time. She was starting to get nervous - not doubtful, because there was no point in doubts anymore, but worried about getting to that second date. She was confident she had the look he wanted, but he also wanted someone clever and amusing and a good conversationalist, and she wasn't at all sure she could pull that off. The only subjects she felt qualified to discourse on were Scripture and Christian living, and she was pretty sure they wouldn't get her closer to her goal.

Before she was saved, she'd read about a million articles on how a woman should act to attract a guy, and she wracked her brain to remember what they said. Humor, she recalled, was important, but in a specific way: a man wanted a woman to laugh at his jokes no matter how bad they were. OK, she could do that. If she told her own jokes they should never be at his expense, not that she would ever do that. Easy enough.

He had asked for smart, but she knew that when the average man said he wanted a smart woman, he wanted a very specific kind of smart: intelligent enough to follow whatever dumbed-down version of a subject that he was explaining. He definitely didn't want a woman who was smarter than him on any topic! Basically what men meant by a "smart woman" was one who was smart enough to understand how much smarter he was than her; that was something she had gotten a lot of practice at when dealing with Christian men, who tended to have extremely conservative views of the relationship between the sexes. She of course shared that view, but that didn't mean that she wasn't frequently smarter or more knowledgeable on a topic that a man who was trying to explain it to her.

The rest would be common sense, she figured: feign interest in his topics, pay enough attention to ask questions that allowed him to reveal his ever-so-superior intelligence, act impressed, the typical stroking of the male ego that females learned to do in middle school. She might not be versed in a lot of topics that a non-Christian woman would be knowledgeable about, but she was a very intelligent person and more than smart enough to fake it if all she had to do was make googly eyes and coo.

She could do this. She breathed deep and forced herself to be calm.

She pulled out her phone and checked tips for dating Romanian men, and basically they were all things she had planned to do anyway. She had the idea to read about Romania so she could ask some questions about it because one of the dating tips said Romanians liked talking about their country; she was still reading the Wikipedia entry on the country when she got the text that the town car was there. The message almost made her throw up in a sudden flash of nerves, but the jitters passed before she made it down to the lobby.

The chauffeur was a well-built black man in a black suit who was very polite as he opened the door to his black Cadillac Escalade to allow her black dress-wearing booty to climb inside. She read the rest of the Romania entry on the way and finished it just as the restaurant came into sight. Well. This was it. The SUV stopped and a moment later the chauffeur opened the door for her.

I can do this. I'm strong and I'm smart. This is just acting, just making a man feel good about himself. The Lord is with me. He wants me here to learn something about myself and His love and commandments, and I will obey. Nothing that happens tonight can touch my soul. I can do this.

With a last deep breath, Sara stepped out of the SUV, careful to make sure her footing was steady on her heels before she put weight on them. She gave the chauffeur a sweet smile and said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome, ma'am," the man said. "Enjoy your dinner."

Daubigny was housed in an older building that had probably been one of St. Paul's original great mansions, restrained and tasteful, with no sign the place was there at all save a small bronze plaque near the door, a red and blue awning, and a young woman standing ready. She was a pretty thing, probably still in college, and dressed in a sharp uniform of dark blue trousers with gold piping, a dark blue short jacket with gold fleurs-di-lis embroidered around button holes, a red vest, and a white shirt buttoned at the collar. The girl wished Sara bon appetit and opened the door.

Inside was like another world. The first thing Sara noticed was the smell of flowers, explained as vases of lilies came into view. There were three staff there, all dressed in the same restaurant livery as the doorwoman, all clustered about a podium. Do they think I'm a whore? Despite all her brave self-talk, she couldn't help feeling nerves as she stepped up to group and said, "Hello, I'm meeting Mr. Randa for dinner."

"Yes, miss," said a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, apparently the maitre d'. "Please, follow me." He led her deeper into the restaurant, past more stands with lilies in vases and tables festooned with rich people eating tiny, amazing-looking food. In her mind were two things: Don't stumble and Make sure he sees you smiling.

She was indeed smiling as the maitre d' brought her to the correct table, with its white tablecloth hanging nearly to the floor and set with crystal water glasses. At the table sat a short-haired, bearded man who looked to be in his mid-40s and who strongly resembled a grizzled Shia Labeouf; the man smiled when he saw her, stood and pulled out her chair for her. "Please, my dear," he said. "Join me."

She thanked him and was quickly seated, and when the maitre d' had hung up her wrap and her date had resumed his seat, she took the brief opportunity to study him more closely. He was wearing a gray silk suit over a blue-gray shirt and a dark blue tie, with gold cuff-links and tie clasp and a chunky Rolex watch. He had light gray eyes and an expressive, mildly handsome face; his expression was pleased, which was encouraging. "So you are Tiffani," he said, giving her hand a gentle pat. "You must call me Marku. I am so glad you could meet me tonight, you are truly as lovely as I expected."

"Thank you, Marku," she replied, smile still on her face. "It's a pleasure to join such a handsome man." And he was good looking enough that she could see where many women would find him quite attractive, even if he wasn't her type. She was surprised at his accent, or rather its lack: she had been warned not to laugh at it, but it was barely detectable anyway. She had expected Dracula, but Marku sounded like an American who had spent a year abroad.

"I have taken the liberty of ordering wine," he told her. "I do hope you like Opus One Napa Valley? They had a 2005, which was a good year."

It might as well have been Mad Dog for all Sara knew, but she was sure that Amy would be just impressed as Marku obviously intended her to be. She fluttered her eyes and said, "That sounds delightful, thank you."

He affected a modest shrug, oh it's a bagatelle my darling, the merest trifle. And maybe it was, she didn't know how rich this guy was...though he certainly looked rich, and didn't look overawed by the surroundings. "Do you know much about wine?"

"I'm afraid I don't," she admitted, and added, "I find the subject fascinating but I haven't had much education in it. Maybe you can teach me the finer points?"

She saw the pleasure in his face at her acknowledging him as her superior. "Of course! The only thing more delightful than a good wine is a lovely woman, and fortunately tonight I have both."

Her blush and smile were both real enough - she was being hit with some suave old-world manners here, which she definitely wasn't used to. Well, maybe she could keep the good times rolling. "Forgive me, but the way you sound - are you Romanian, by any chance?"

He looked surprised. "You have an excellent ear, my dear! I do hope my accent is not too thick."

"Oh, not at all." Crud, why would I know what a Romanian accent sounds like? A quick lie formed in her mind even as she was speaking it: "I've just always found it such an attractive accent that I've listened to a lot of Romanian speakers online. I've heard it enough that I can pick up little suggestions of it."

"And have you visited my country?" The question was innocent, but the way he was looking at her tits was definitely not, and it made the awkwardness of not wearing a bra come back full force. She couldn't help a blush, but there was no point in dwelling on it. Marku was going to be seeing a lot more of her than cleavage before the night was over.

She had been to Europe twice: once in high school on a French club trip, and once in her third year of college when she had been tilting at the windmill of a Classical history minor for some reason. "I haven't, unfortunately. All my travels to the Continent have been to Western Europe - France, Italy, Germany, you know, the usual."

He smiled. "It's so rare to find a well-traveled American girl. I think you'd enjoy Romania very much. For one thing, so many Romanian accents!"

She laughed in the carefree way of an unspoiled born-again virgin. "I'm sure I'd have a wonderful time. What are some of the places I should see that aren't too touristy?" She knew she had struck a chord in Marku when he immediately launched into an enthusiastic discussion of a couple of castles off the beaten path, Bigar waterfall, Râpa Roșie, the delights of the Danube and the Black Sea coast, all things that a "beautiful and adventurous young woman would enjoy."

He was only cut off by the arrival of the wine, which was uncorked by the sommelier and sniffed by Marku with all due ceremony; Sara watched with what she hoped was an enthralled expression. Glasses were poured and he coached her through the nosing ("Smell the notes of coffee and dried fruit") and the tasting ("Notice how the chalkiness of the beginning fades into cocoa, vanilla, strawberry, and a hint of cedar") and the aftertaste ("The long, smooth, cedar and vanilla finish"); Sara made impressed noises and faces at the appropriate time and complimented him profusely on his excellent discernment, but honestly it just tasted like wine to her. Where was he getting all this stuff?

Menus were brought with blue and red colors, the restaurant name in white, and below that in gold the legend Hoc Vernant Lilia Corde, and it was with entirely false modesty that he translated the Latin: "'This heart makes lilies flourish.' That's the motto of the city of Orleans - the restaurant colors are the colors of the city's coat of arms, of course."

Of course, everyone knows the colors of Orleans' coat of arms, you can't graduate second grade if you can't recite them. Marku was plainly a smart man, but his need to show off to a woman he believed to be a prostitute was odd, or maybe Old World manners demanded that he treat any woman he was with this way? Maybe too it was his Old-World manners that caused him to order for her - parsnips with grated black truffle for starters and some kind of chicken dish with morels and asparagus for the main - and without checking her preferences. None of it was what she would have ordered, but then she would have preferred not to be here in the first place; so much for what she wanted. And anyway, they were at the best French restaurant this side of Chicago so undoubtedly it would all be delicious, and she wasn't paying for any of it. Well, she was paying for it with her body and her dignity, but what was that to a man like Marku? No more important than the fancy wine he ordered, undoubtedly.

The conversation swept on with him doing the vast majority of the talking and her chiming in only as necessary to shore up his ego or to keep the conversation moving. As the bread was served and then the appetizer, she began to realize that he was a rather interesting man, well traveled and erudite with a cosmopolitan outlook that she found compelling in spite of herself; at times he was plainly being boastful or saying things to make himself seem like even more the man of the world than he probably was, but she forced herself to hang on his every word like they were apples of gold and to hit him with compliments at every pause of the conversation. Maybe that that was why he wanted an "unspoiled" girl, or at least one of the reasons: he wanted someone he could impress with his bragging. She oohed and aahed and gave admiring looks, and as she did the whole thing started to seem far less intimidating. Was this what the life of an escort was like? It was much less tawdry than she expected.

He finally asked about her when they were eating their amusingly minuscule entrees; at least it was with apparently genuine interest that he said, "So tell me about yourself, my dear Tiffani. Have you been in this line of work long?"

This was one of the questions that she thought he might ask, and she was ready for it almost as much as she could never be ready for it at all. Her blush was unfeigned as she said, "Well...you're my first date..."

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow, and skepticism was obvious in his voice as he said, "My darling girl..."

"It's true," she said, bolstered by the fact that it was in fact, well, true. "I honestly don't have much experience with men at all. I had one boyfriend when I was a teenager and...it didn't work out, in a really bad way. I haven't been with a man since...until you."

Marku was obviously trying to decide whether to believe her or not. "So how does a young woman with one boyfriend many years ago come to do this?"

"Life...puts us in strange places. We do what we have to do." Isn't that the sad, sorry truth, but now it's time for a little lie. "But please don't think I'm complaining - I sought this line of work out, and I'm having a wonderful time tonight. I've wanted to come here since it opened."

He looked at her for a long moment and then something seemed to give in his eyes. He reached across the table and put his hand on hers in a gentle, comforting, almost fatherly way. "Don't worry, my dear Tiffani. Tonight I will take care of you. I promise."

It was foolish to put too much faith in a man who patronized prostitutes, but he did actually seem sincere. Maybe that meant something, maybe not. She tried to make her little smile thankful. "I really appreciate that, Marku. It means a lot to me."

Marku smiled benevolently and flagged down the waiter to order a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal 2006, which Sara assumed was another fine wine; she acted duly impressed. Again she wondered if he was doing all this to dazzle her, but now that she knew him a little it occurred to her that he would likely have dined and drank like this even if he were by himself; she was just another hedonistic pleasure for the night. It was dehumanizing, but in a peculiar way that made her feel better about the situation: it was much more in line with what she would expect from someone like him and a situation like this.

The wine ordered, he continued to ask about her: where she was born, what she studied in college and why. She answered as honestly as she could without discussing her faith or her involvement in the Church - she figured those would be turnoffs for such a worldly man; Isaac was left out for more personal reasons. At least Marku seemed interested in her answers, but that might have been more Old World manners.

The second bottle of wine proved to be champagne, which put a shiver of worry down Sara's spine: she'd only had champagne twice, both times before her salvation, but when she did it had gone straight to her head. Her experience at the bar with Rachel loomed large, and she knew she couldn't afford to get sloppy drunk like she had that night - she needed her wits about her if she was going to get to Saturday with Marku. He poured her a glass and toasted to her dreams, and she sipped at it politely and told him it was wonderful.

For dessert they had a sort of cake that alternated layers of buttery cookie, chocolate ganache, and hazelnut ganache, all drizzled in a caramel sauce so sweet it made her teeth hurt wonderfully. It was amazing and beyond delicious and it filled her up more than the meal did. Over the cake Marku finally mentioned a little about what he did - something about importing and exporting medical devices, which, if true, left her confused about why the Caller wanted her with him so badly. Plainly she wasn't being told everything but there was no way a good escort would ask, so she contented herself with buttering him up by telling him how fascinating it all sounded (it didn't).

After dessert came espresso, and while she knew she shouldn't have so much caffeine so late on a work night, she also knew that she was going to need the energy and the alertness to power through the effects of the wine and champagne; besides, he ordered it for her so she didn't have a say in the matter, and if she was drinking coffee she wouldn't need to keep drinking alcohol. He asked her about what music she listened to, which took her by surprise - she had only listened to Christian music for the past seven years, and she didn't want to tell him that. She made a quick calculation that he probably didn't listen to music aimed at teenage American girls, so she rattled off a list that had been popular back when she did listen to secular music - Selena Gomez, Ariana Grande, Taylor Swift, Meghan Trainor, Maroon 5 - and breathed a sigh of relief when he cheerfully admitted he didn't listen to any of them. He then listed a series of European acts that she had never heard of, but her reply of "I don't know them, so maybe you can show me some of their best stuff?" pleased him.