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I narrowed my choices down to a final three. There was Marlon, a gorgeous black model with cheekbones that could cut glass, whose photo was from an ad campaign I'd seen in magazines. I turned him down, though; if I recognized him from his modeling work, maybe others would, too. Next came Paul, a dirty-blond surfer type who was a fireman four days a week. Physically, he was more my type than anyone else on the site, but, as higher education was missing from his CV, I'm afraid the snob in me turned him down. The company ball is an event demanding a gentleman who can talk confidently about books, art, and culture. And then there was Olivier, a French-born, Manhattan-living PhD student who, his blurb said, worked as an escort so he could enjoy a good standard of living and still follow his academic pursuit of archeology. His underwear shot showed that he had beauty as well as brains: his body was lean but muscular, and his black hair brushed his collarbone. As I looked at his picture I could just imagine what that hair would look like falling into his eyes. Yes, Olivier, I thought, zooming in to get a close-up of his impressive-looking manhood, you're the one.

I dialed the number on the screen and was put right through to an operator. I told her who had recommended me. "Ah, Jane, one of our best customers!" she said brightly. "Do say hello to her from me, and let her know we've got some great new guys she might want to meet." I heard her fingers click on the keyboard as she checked Olivier's availability for the next Friday night. "You're in luck," she said. "He's free for a booking. Would you like to proceed?"

My fingers were shaking as I retrieved my platinum Amex card from my Prada purse and read out the numbers to her. I was doing this. I was really doing this. The following transaction produced a rush of adrenaline far outstripping any previous shopping high, let me tell you. I get excited buying a new designer bag, but this was in a different league entirely: I was hiring a man, and a very good-looking man, too.

The operator gave me a cell number to call next Friday afternoon and let me know the score: Olivier would pick me up in a cab at the appointed time, accompany me to my function, and I'd be charged by the hour depending on how long I wanted him for. I assured her we'd be done and dusted by midnight, one a.m. at the latest, and she gave a little laugh.

"That's what they all say," she said. "You'd be surprised; a lot of women want the guys to stay on even longer."

Friday rolled around really quickly, and I took the afternoon off for some serious pampering. Although I wasn't hiring Olivier for sex, I had a Brazilian bikini wax and donned new matching underwear-a wine red bra and panties set-so that I felt sensual and romantic, feminine and confident. I had my hair teased into soft waves that framed my face and caressed my shoulders, and my face done by a professional makeup artist. I had to admit when I checked myself out in the mirror that I looked good: glossy and groomed, and rich and successful, every inch the corporate career girl. The final touch was to slither into my dress, a clingy, green silk number with a plunging neckline and a fishtail skirt that made me feel like a mermaid and encouraged me to walk with a sexy wiggle. Just as I was hooking a pair of diamond chandeliers in my ears, the doorbell rang. It was Olivier, right on time.

I buzzed him. "Come on up," I said into the intercom. "I'll be one minute."

I heard him tell the cabdriver to keep the meter running and then the sound of the elevator door slamming shut. I stepped into my heels and was struggling with the clasp on my diamond choker when Olivier rang the bell. Here we go, I thought, taking a deep breath and unlocking the door.

The 3-D reality of Olivier took my breath away. If he'd looked good on a computer screen, in the flesh he was the sexiest man I'd ever seen. The photo hadn't captured that X factor that makes a handsome man sexy. The computer couldn't quite convey the smooth curve of his upper lip or his strong nose, or the smile he flashed showing white, even teeth and a glimpse of pink tongue. I stood there open-mouthed for a second, more guppy fish than mermaid, my eyes traveling all over his lean body. I found a moment to notice that his suit was YSL and registered my silent approval.

"Pleased to meet you, Hannah," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Olivier."

I went to shake his hand and dropped my necklace, which clattered to the floor. I was as giddy as a school-girl on her first date. Olivier's smooth, sophisticated sex appeal had unnerved me.