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Chapter 1

 

               The sky was black and the temperature bitterly cold, but the fashionable Louisville house was alive with tinkling piano music and rowdy laughter when two young men in sleek gray military uniforms came to the door and asked to see Polly’s best girl, Lily. The statuesque madam with the upswept honey-blonde hair had barely opened the door when Lily entered the foyer and stopped dead in her tracks. Standing on tiptoe, she peered over one of her mentor’s regal shoulders then whispered, “Oh my.” 

  

               The usually confident woman curiously studied her favorite and most valued employee, opened her mouth to speak, then shut it and blinked rapidly as she shook her head. A keen businesswoman, Polly had a good eye for people—taking in Lily proved it. Who else would have seen the potential in the thirteen-year-old who had appeared from out of nowhere dressed as a filthy and ragged boy and obviously hiding from someone?  And she was certainly accustomed to young cadets as customers, but still she hesitated.

 

               And Lily couldn’t understand why. She’d never seen Polly waver about any decision, large or small, and everything about these two reeked of money . . . Lily looked into the older woman’s eyes and mouthed, “Please. . . .”

 

               Again the woman started to speak but instead thrust out her hand and let one of the youths fill her palm. With pursed lips, she stared at Lily as she made a fist around the coins and walked away.   

 

               The three young people stood silent, suddenly shy and embarrassed about the reason that brought them together.  But the moment of innocence quickly passed and the cadet who had done all the talking winked at Lily and she nodded in silent appreciation. Handsome. Impeccably attired. Slender build. Wavy blond hair. Exquisite profile. Sparkling blue eyes. Very nice.

 

               They smiled at each other.  

 

               But even as Lily aimed her winning smile in his direction, her attention was captured—as it had been the moment she’d peered out the front door—by his companion, the one who hadn’t uttered a sound and was so inebriated that he could barely stand. Mussed brown hair. Jacket buttons in the wrong holes. Droopy collar and tie. Glassy brown eyes that stared aimlessly around the room. Lily found it impossible to take her eyes off of him. 

 

               She also found it hard to breathe.

 

               “I’m sure glad she decided to let us in.” The blond rubbed his arms. “It was getting a little chilly standing out there.”

 

               Lily laughed. “Yes, I was about to find a shawl myself.” 

 

               He smiled intimately as he made an elaborate gesture of kissing her hand, purposely letting his lips linger. “I’m sure you remember me, don’t you?  Saul. Remember?” 

 

               How many times had she heard that question?  But it was the easiest of the two to satisfy, easier than the more common, “Why are you in such a business?”  And she could laugh at this  question. In fact the ladies spent many an hour laughing about it. “Nothing about you to remember” was often their favorite quip—the response they wished they could give to these pompous men who thought themselves a stand-out in a sea of men. But because men were their business, the women always smiled demurely and responded . . .

 

               “Of course I do.” Lily patted his arm even as her attention returned to his friend.  

 

               “I thought you would. We had a good time, didn’t we?” He winked again.

 

               “You bet.” Lily was starting to remember him, how he’d bragged during sex, boasted of bedding so many women and being told he was their best. Well, he hadn’t been her best but she’d made sure he left thinking he was. It was the trademark of a good prostitute. It was Lily’s trademark. Every man felt confident when he left Lily.

 

               “I’m sorry I’ll have to forego the pleasure tonight. I brought the general here to celebrate his graduation. He needs to be initiated—if you know what I mean.” He winked again then patted his friend on the back. “David, ole’ man, this is Lily, the lovely little flower I told you about, the Lily of the West. You know, like the song?”

 

               David hiccuped and swayed and almost fell down.

 

               Lily laughed. “A general, huh?” She looked up at him, but he continued to stare blindly around the room. 

    

               Saul spoke again and Lily began to wonder if David was mute. “Yes, ma’am. I told him about you and he was curious but too much of a momma’s boy to come here by himself. Even had to get him drunk first and he doesn’t drink—never touched a drop before tonight—so I had to spike his punch.” He laughed. “Yeh, he’ll probably be sick as a dog before the night’s over and should have one hell of a hangover in the morning.”

 

               The look Saul gave his friend chilled her, and she quickly returned her attention to the boy/man beside her, the pup who had no idea where he was. She laughed at his innocence and knew that Saul was telling the truth:  She had a teetotalling virgin on her hands.

 

               But he wouldn’t look at her and being ignored was something Lily wasn’t used to and couldn’t stand. Oh, she knew she wasn’t the prettiest girl at Polly’s, but she knew she was the most popular and the most attractive in all the ways that counted. She’d once been described by a customer as having “hair the color of  a setting sun, a mouth made for lovemaking, and a voice that hardened a man’s tool.” Not a romantic description, perhaps, but then Lily wasn’t in the romance business, she was in the man-pleasing business. And she knew how to make the most of her assets—she’d certainly spent enough time thinking about them.

 

               And why not?  Her appearance and ability to please were her tickets to the independent future she had planned—running her own house. She’d learned early in life not to depend on anyone or allow herself to become involved in complicated emotions—people desert you and love doesn’t last—so Lily was learning the business, honing her skills, and exploiting her youth.   

 

               She didn’t blame Mama Rose, the madam in Lexington who’d raised her. She knew it wasn’t the old lady’s fault that her death had set the self-righteous townspeople on a clean-up campaign that closed down the house and sent the ladies to jail. It wasn’t Mama Rose’s fault that little Flora lost her virginity through rape by two policemen then had to change her name and appearance to escape. No, Mama Rose hadn’t purposely deserted her.

 

               But she couldn’t say the same for her parents.

 

               After all these years, her curiosity about them was as strong as ever. Had they loved each other?  Had they loved her?  No, they must not have. Would you desert a child you loved?  And who did she look like? Was the dimple in her chin from her father? What about the gray eyes?  And the deep throaty voice? And where had that bump on the bridge of her nose come from? And those damned freckles that covered it?  

 

               Well, they may not have given her love but they’d given her what she needed to attract men, and she hadn’t found a man who could resist her—until now.  She put herself in David’s line of vision. “So, you don’t drink?”

 

               “No ma’am.” He hiccuped again. “Not a drop.”

 

               At least he wasn’t mute.

 

               Lily smiled at the liquor-coated mumble then laughed nervously. “Well, general, it looks like you could do with some rest. Want to go upstairs?” She put his arm around her shoulders then shivered at how he felt against her.  

   

               But his size and condition made it a struggle to get up each step, and just as they got to her room, he halted and almost fell on her when he poked her nose with his finger and slurred, “Who hit you?”

 

               Lily gritted her teeth and pushed him onto the bed. “Damn rich boy.” 

 

               He was asleep as soon as he landed.

 

               She tugged off his boots and dropped them on the floor then yanked his arms out of the gray coat and tossed the heavy garment on a chair. Standing back, she folded her arms across her chest and stared at him—then realized she was smiling. How different he was. Most men were down to their drawers before the door was even shut.

 

               Again she removed articles of his clothing—vest, tie, collar, sash—but this time she did so gently and placed them, carefully, on the chair—after she brushed off the coat and positioned it on the chair's back and after she stood the boots side by side between the chair's legs. With considerable effort, she maneuvered his six-foot frame to a more comfortable position on top of the covers then walked to her dressing table, shaking her head in amazement at how soundly he slept, how oblivious he was to everything she’d just done.   

 

               But she also shook her head to get rid of the warnings that ran rampant there.  Warnings that ran wildly inside her stomach and her rapidly beating heart.  Warnings that screamed out to her from the mirror’s reflection even as she took the silky white gown out of the bottom drawer and let it flow down her arms and over her head.

 

               As she admired the delicate lace gown that covered her breasts, she smiled at the memory of the night she’d received it—one of the last nights of her innocence, the day she’d had her first menses. Was it really just a year ago? 

How the ladies had teased her as they’d showered her with soaps, combs, powders and perfumes!  And the seductive gown . . . It had been her favorite gift and she’d been so anxious to wear it on the night she learned what it was like to make love. . . .

 

               Well, she’d had sex many times since that night—but she’d never worn the gown.   

         

               She brushed her hair and finally looked into the eyes in the mirror, the admonishing eyes that filled with tears, the lovesick eyes of a vulnerable girl. 

 

               No!  She jumped to her feet and ran away from the mirror and toward the bed. She was Lily, the Lily of the West, a well-known purveyor of pleasure, and there was nothing special about this man in her bed.  No, tonight was no different than any other night. 

 

               But just as she started to blow out the light, she stopped.

 

               And was, again, hypnotized by the sight of him.

 

               Snoring. Brown lashes against tanned cheeks. Thick dark eyebrows that furrowed even as he slept. What was he dreaming about?  Unruly dark brown waves that fell onto his forehead and onto the top of his shirt at the back of his neck.  

 

               Lily lowered the suspenders from his shoulders, covered him with a blanket, then got under the covers, all the while watching him, finding it impossible not to. When he snorted in his sleep, she laughed.

 

               Then burst into tears.    

 

               There had been so many men but never one like this, never one whose face so captivated her, whose features she felt compelled to touch. “Who are you?” She whispered. “What are you doing to me?” She restrained her fingers from touching him then scolded herself. Why not?  It was her job after all. She’d never been shy before—well, not since her first time—but that had been a year and countless men ago.

 

               Surely this desire to touch him was because she had a weakness for men in uniform, a trait she’d inherited from her two favorite ladies at Mama Rose’s, Stella and Gladys. Or perhaps it was simply because he hadn’t touched her and her pride was hurt. Surely these were the reasons for this fascination. Surely after they had sex she’d feel differently.

 

               But the warnings wouldn’t go away and she was afraid, more afraid of the sleeping form on her bed than of anything else in her life. More than the rape. More than the slave auction she’d witnessed in Frankfort.

 

               Afraid because every hair on her body and every drop of her blood needed to be a part of him, needed him inside her. How foolish, she thought, that a body that had known so many men could yearn for one so desperately. 

 

               “Wake up, soldier,” she whispered. “Let’s get this over with so this yearning will leave me. Let’s get this over with so you can leave me.” 

 

               But leaving was the last thing she wanted him to do and she fell asleep watching him. 

 

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