William rubbed at his goatee. She hated that look. It didn’t fit his round face and it made his freckles somehow stick out even more. While being a pale redhead and one with some curves worked for her (she dated quite a bit in college), her twin had gotten the short end of the stick. He was pudgy, short, and had a look that could best be summed up as a Ron Weasley. The goatee made him look that much weirder, like a used-car salesman for Satan.
Still, he loved her and he’d rushed home to comfort her when she’d called with the news. Hell, he’d even been able to interpret all her cries and mumbled speaking over the phone in the first place to figure out what had happened.
If only he’d use a razor again.
“I’m glad you got fired, sis.”
“What?” she asked, spilling ale on the carpet. “Why? Now we’re out half the rent we were sharing. Now I’m just some awful mooch who lives on your sofa.”
“You have your own room,” he said, winking back at her. “He was awful to you.”
“But I was getting paid, and I was doing okay, and now I don’t know what to do. Mom’s sick and I can’t ask them to help.”
“I’m here. I’m not going to kick you out.”
“But…”
“I have a bit saved up, and if we need to sublet to a third roommate or make this an Airbnb, or whatever, then we will. I’m serious. That McDermott guy was a creep. He was only interested in lording over you. He made you come in at five in the morning on weekends and he made you cry so many times. I’m very glad. That kind of environment isn’t good for you.”
“Then how will I get a new job? I look like a big failure.”
Her brother snorted and drained his beer in three huge gulps. Show off. “I bet there are a ton of people in the Boston Metro area who’ve worked with McDermott Steel or know him from other business dealings. I’m sure everyone knows that guy’s an egocentric dickhead.”
She chuckled. “As opposed to the other kinds of dickheads.”
“Oh, they definitely come in varieties,” he replied. “My point is, some people will probably be amazed you lasted eight months with the ass and will then nominate you for sainthood.”
“If that would pay the bills, then that would be great.”
“I’ll put in a good word at the bank. We could always use another teller.”
“Thanks. I’ll start on the classifieds on Monday, but I feel like such a failure. I mean, I studied art and design, and it wasn’t like my life goal was to fetch coffee every day and guess and hope that the cup I bought was the correct one. That wasn’t my dream, but what kind of idiot just spills coffee on her boss?”
“One who had to wear heels because of the dress code and ran like half the city in them. I can understand how you’d have blisters for days. Jeez, sis. Don’t put all the pressure on yourself,” Will said, setting down his beer can. “I know you’re probably not in the mood for this at all, but maybe you could use something more than moping back here in the apartment. Besides, you’re clearly not having fun with just my ironically delicious beer and the TV on Judge Judy reruns.”
“I could be very into the legal system,” she quipped, rubbing at her stuffy nose. “But what are you suggesting?” Addison asked warily.
She loved her brother, but besides his hipster leanings, he’d actually been a wild man in college and had been to pretty much every big party in Boston for four years due to his frat. He still sometimes dabbled in extreme nightlife living while she was more likely to be at home watching Saturday Night Live until she conked out.
Will regarded her gently. “One of the guys who was a Chi Sigma when I was a freshman pledge…he’s hit it pretty big and has some ties to these guys who run the Club Rouge. They’re having some huge costume party there tonight, and it’s supposed to be the biggest thing going in Boston. I wasn’t feeling it at first, because when you’ve been to one supposedly hot club then you’ve been to them all.”
She snorted. “That does not sound like you at all.”
“Okay, then caught. What I meant to say was that I wasn’t really into costumes and crap. I think I can run down to this one place and grab a crappy mask, but that theme isn’t my idea of a good time. However, you tell me, oh fashion goddess sister, that you can’t just whip up something in a pinch or have a cool costume back there in your room.”
Addison blushed. She’d started getting into fashion as a teen but in an unusual way. She’d been a huge convention goer and gotten into cosplay, creating amazing designs based on comic books and anime. Then she’d taken that interest into design and other things in college. There just wasn’t a huge job market for it. Even while she slaved away for Mr. McDermott, Addison worked at night creating dresses and other fashions under her own style. She actually had something that would be great for a masquerade party, both a dress and a mask.
“I do, but I’m tired and drunk already.”
“So what? It’s only two o’clock. Crash for a bit then get prepped to go and have a party.”
“I should probably be restructuring and fluffing up my resume,” Addison admitted.
Her brother grinned and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Nah, sis, you should party and make a huge thing of it. After a day like this, the drinks should never stop flowing.”
She rolled her eyes but nodded. Drinking wasn’t her style, but it had been the worst day of her life. If she just let go a little bit tonight at Club Rouge, then what was the worst that could happen?
Chapter Three
Zahir had no idea why he’d bothered to go out to Club Rouge that night. He was still rip-roaringly pissed off from what had happened earlier that day with Clayton, and now his brain was twisting with ways to lure former employees from McDermott’s group to his own company. He should be at home with some of his best executives over Skype—damn the time difference—and figuring out exactly what needed to be done in order to finally stick it to one Clayton McDermott.
And yet…
He was frustrated and angry. In the past, the sheikh had found that the best way to relieve his stress and to get himself back into a focused mood was to find a more effective way to spend that pent-up energy. What he wanted was a good hard fuck, a woman to spend the night with, and to make the trials of the day fade away. Associated with Clayton McDermott’s friends or not, Club Rouge had a reputation all its own. He’d Googled it after the meeting that imploded and been intrigued by both the beauty and design of the club, as well as the stories about its debauched reputation.
Perhaps he’d find something here, especially under masquerade.
His wasn’t that extravagant. He hadn’t put much effort into his look. He had chosen to wear the ceremonial robes of his people. He always traveled with them should he be called on to perform official state duties for Dubai. However, the small domino mask was something he’d been able to secure at a local costume shop, a simple piece of white velvet that fit snuggly over his eyes and brow.
He was impressed with the overall look of the club, something that screamed vintage 1880s French dancehall aesthetic (and the designer had a clear love for certain Baz Luhrmann films), but he hadn’t found any women to attract his attention. It wasn’t that there was a lack of them, but he wasn’t feeling in the mood for all the bubbly blondes with the brassy, peroxided hair who kept coming up (and on) to him.
Sipping on his Scotch, Zahir looked down at his watch and realized that, as pathetic as it was, he might have to call it a night before the clock had even struck midnight. Nothing had appealed. As he took another swig, he groaned inwardly as a far too familiar person showed up beside him at the bar.
Clayton McDermott was obvious even behind his own masquerade mask. That bouffant of blond hair and that ridiculous dimple—maybe even a canyon—in his chin couldn’t be mistaken.
How lucky I am, indeed.
“Well, Zahir, you did come out after all. I thought after you stormed out of the meeting, you’d already be back to the la
nd of camels and sand.”
“That could describe many places, and we happen to have skyscrapers now. It was hard, but we came into the twenty-first century just fine,” Zahir replied drolly even as he finished his drink.
“Too true,” Clayton responded. “However, you were in such a sour mood that I didn’t expect you to come out to Club Rouge to have a good time. I guess I was half right on this. I’ve been with my frat brothers in the VIP section.”
“Of course you have.”
“But I can see you nursing drink after drink here and rebuffing all the girls. What, are they not your style? Is there something deficient?” Clayton prodded, pulling out the words on that last question in such a way that it took everything Zahir had to keep from slugging the other man.
Oh, I’ll show you deficient, idiot.
Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. There was no point in playing into Clayton’s games now. He had his strategy, and in a month or so, he’d find the dirt he needed to blackmail the other CEO into doing exactly what Zahir needed him to do. Let the ass be smug and condescending now. This victory lap wouldn’t last for long, not at all.
“I just haven’t seen a woman worthy of my attention,” he said, looking over his shoulder where a trio of at least three of those vapid so-called beauties were preening and waving toward Clayton. Well, that didn’t bother at least one man here.
“Maybe you just have too high standards. Everyone here is great, the beauties of Boston. Zahir, get that stick out of your ass and see what you can really do,” he finished, slipping back off of the stool and extending his arms, gladly accepting the tri into them.
Shaking his head, Zahir ordered and waited for one more Scotch to be delivered to him before ascending the stairs. The club was three stories with a garden rooftop. That was the part that he’d found even more interesting than all the Victorian antiques scattered throughout the dance floor and upper-bar levels. This garden was the least populated place, most of the guests seeming to want to be closer to the dancing and liquor. But up here, there were tendrils of wisteria, gardenias, roses, and gorgeous carnations, all of them swirling into a rainbow of riotous patterns. When he’d first spied it a couple of hours ago, it had maybe been home to two or three couples, staring out toward the moon and the Boston skyline. Currently, there was only one other person out here.
The door shut behind him with a clang and the woman turned to him. Her dress was amazing, something she’d clearly made herself because he could imagine no place that would sell a gown with a medieval patterned corset that led to silk skirts with slits up both sides. The mask she wore was just as exquisite and clearly no cheap costume-store afterthought. It was comprised of a silvery metal that glinted in the moonlight and decorated with rhinestones and intricate etchings in the metal. It even had cat ears at the corners, making the woman before him an engaging catwoman, to say the least. The highlight to all of this were her soft red curls, hanging in long tendrils down her back.
“I’m sorry, miss. I thought I was the only one who’d be here,” he said. “I can leave if you need a minute.”
This place was so desolate that Zahir figured only people who needed to think or, well, brood would be the ones using it. It was such a quiet space, a contrast to the raucous pounding of the rest of the building beneath them as the party blasted into full force downstairs.
She surprised him by shaking her head and leaning carefully against the high balustrade around the roof. “I don’t own the roof, and I’m alright.” She frowned back at him, the lines around her face pulling low in her confusion. “Seriously, if you want to be out here, my sheikh, then you can be.”
He chuckled, remembering the robes he wore, and then gave her a courteous bow. “Then I appreciate that completely, kitten.”
“Meow,” she replied, winking at him as he came to stand next to her. “You smell like half a Scotch bottle.”
Zahir shrugged and offered her a bit of honesty. “I probably smell like a bit more than that. I haven’t had the best of days, to be honest. I thought the party may lift my spirits, but it hasn’t done at all for me what I thought it would. What about you, miss?” he asked, trying to see if she’d give him a name. To be fair, he hadn’t given the redhead his name either, but he answered to “sheikh” often enough in real life that the difference was negligible.
She shook her head and smiled back at him, her cheeks dimpling beautifully as she did. “I think that ‘kitten’ works well enough for right now. So, my sheikh, what brings you up here besides a bit too much of ye olde ale?”
“Well, I don’t feel I’m the only one. Was there a bit of Vodka in your cream?” he queried.
“I’ve had a few cosmos, I can admit that,” she said. “Alright, I can admit that I’ve had more than a few,” she added, sighing. “Maybe I did have one of those days, but do you want to tell me about yours?”
He shrugged. “I had a business deal fall to hell. I guess I should have known better than to trust a snake like the one I lost out to, but that’s the way it goes.”
Zahir surprised himself by being that honest with this stranger, but there was something about this delicate kitten that drew him in. Maybe it was her obvious vulnerability and her own wounded nature calling to him, or maybe it was her beauty—that pale skin and auburn hair under the moon and city lights.
“Then I’m sorry for you. That sucks, but at least you’re still a titan of industry or whatever,” she added thoughtfully, scratching a bit under her mask. “I don’t even have a job anymore.”
“Is that a new thing?”
She nodded. “It’s my own fault, too. I spilled coffee all over my boss like a complete idiot, and now I’m back to the job hunt but with the scarlet letter of ‘I’ over my chest for ‘idiot.’”
Zahir couldn’t quite help himself when she spoke like that, mentioning her assets. His eyes roamed lower and he spied the curves of her cleavage, lifted up high by the corset she wore. If she really did have a scarlet letter there, then no man would be able to look away. She had curves in all the right places, and maybe that was also what had drawn him to her over the parade of stick-thin blondes. So many men in America seemed to revile a real womanly body, but it had always turned Zahir on. This kitten was no exception.
“I doubt you’re an idiot. Sometimes accidents happen, and there are other jobs out there.”
“Not always in this economy,” she said, her voice high and reedy. Her shoulders heaved a bit, and Zahir rushed forward to wrap his arms around her shoulders.
This woman was clearly falling apart and she needed contact, anything to help keep her going.
“Well this is a huge city. I’m sure there’s something out there.”
“You sound like my brother,” she said, her breath still hitching, even as she buried her face deeper into his shoulder. “He’s trying to be optimistic but it took me so long to get this one crappy job. I mean, my boss sounds a little like the guy who backstabbed you. He was an arrogant jerk and I was getting ulcers from working for him, but at least I had a paycheck and such. I have so many classmates in my design program who can’t get a job outside of doing custodial work. I mean, being a verbally abused personal assistant isn’t much, but it is still better in some ways than being a janitor. I just….I know Mom and Dad will give me an ‘I told you so’ about studying art and such. Right now? I can’t say I’d think they’re wrong.”
He shushed her a bit, reaching one hand higher to stroke her soft, red curls. “So you’re an artist? Do you paint or is it graphic arts?”
“Clothing,” she said. “I know, how dumb is that? I should be in New York or something for fashion.”
“Did you make your dress?” he asked, and he found his hand straying over the soft velvet of her corset, then the smooth silk of her skirt. He let it rest there on her left side, just inches from the slit by her thigh. “It’s exquisite.”
She nodded and suddenly she seemed breathy for completely differe
nt reasons. “This and the mask. I have so many sketches and pieces I’ve made. When I get really stressed, my automatic reaction is to sew.”
“Again,” he said, letting his hands caress the soft skin of her white, creamy thigh, “it’s amazing, just like you.”
“I…” she hesitated for just a moment. “What are we doing here?”
He grinned back at her before squeezing her thigh and then running his fingers higher to trace under her skirts and at the edge of her panties. “We’re doing anything we want.”
***
This is nuts.
She’d come to the party with Will and watched him disappear through the crowd to hang out with old college friends. Then she’d found her way to the roof after about four cosmopolitans and become lost in her thoughts. Addison didn’t even know what time it was, and yet, here she was kissing this amazing man—one with eyes that seemed to shine gold under the moonlight and dark hair like coal. Even as their kiss deepened, she could feel his fingers playing with the waistband of her panties. Fingers that felt a bit calloused, and even that intrigued her, were stroking her skin.
She was usually such a good girl, but look at where that had gotten her. Addison was twenty-three, unemployed, and had debt choking her. The only reason she wasn’t back home was because her brother was letting her stay as his roommate. Maybe tonight she could give in to what passion dictated. They didn’t even know each other’s names or what they truly looked like. If it were just for an hour on this roof and in this sumptuous garden, couldn’t she be happy?
The sheikh stopped for just a moment and reached up with both hands to remove her mask. Addison shook her head and backed away just a bit.
“No,” she said. “I think it’s better with the masks on.”
“And no names?” he asked, his tone amused and not angry. Maybe he was as interested in the stolen moment and in the game as well.
“You’re the sheikh and I’m your kitten for the night,” she said, her voice taking on a husky edge that she didn’t recognize, that she’d rarely heard from her own throat before. Maybe the cosmos had given her more than liquid courage. For the night, part of her seemed like the vixen she’d never been before and could never be under the full light of day. “Isn’t that enough?” she said, stroking his chin and then kissing him again, her tongue plundering his mouth, twisting with his tongue in a rhythmic dance.
Sheikh's Revenge Page 2
