“I can’t,” she said finally. “We can’t. I mean, we just met.”
“Versus picking up someone there you just met?”
“It’d be a conflict of interest.”
“And demons mating with your team isn’t? We just have to put on an act.” He had no clue. Sex clubs? A comedy club was more his speed.
“What if we have to do more? This place caters to the wealthy. You’re already going to stand out. And how can I mingle when the candy I’m looking for showed up with me? It’d look shady as fuck.”
“Then I’ll go alone and you can pick me up. I’m not one of them, but I’ve worked around them most of my life. I know how to act like a rich prick.” He snapped his mouth shut. He’d just insulted everyone like her, and therefore, her.
She chuckled, a sincere laugh. He almost pumped his fist in victory.
He pushed his case. “I know Master Gaston. I can do my own investigation and look for the host from last night.”
“I doubt the host would be there if he wasn’t a prime, but his employers might be there, lamenting about lost help. I doubt he went back to business as usual. He’s on the run.” She worried her lower lip with a fang.
His gaze stuck on the action. Another display of vulnerability around him. She shouldn’t have to go off and have sex with a stranger for the sake of the job if she didn’t want to. She’d gone through enough with Nadair in the name of her work.
He wanted to reassure her that he’d take care of her, but that’d shut her down faster than anything.
“Fine,” she relented. “I have some clothing here and we can find something of Nadair’s to fit you. You’ll have to take his car, but I’ll flash there and get started working the crowd. But Bastian”—she speared him with a hard look—“I’m going to describe exactly what you’re going to see, hear, and smell. If you can’t handle it, don’t go, because this is our best chance to track down Gaston and the other male.”
He grinned, relieved beyond comprehension. “You’d be surprised how quickly I can adjust to the lifestyles of the rich and infamous.”
Chapter Five
No. There was no way he would ever get used to this.
Bastian adjusted the narrow tie that was now his. You might as well keep it. It’s not like Nadair has a use for it anymore.
Going in search of the bar, he ignored the stares and pretended he was badass, if only for twenty minutes of his life. Throwing his shoulders back, he strutted like he owned the block the bar was on. He stared down his nose, casting a disinterested gaze at the patrons. If he caught the eye of a refined female, he tipped his head and stuffed away the panic that he might recognize someone—or be recognized.
He’d driven Nadair’s car past Sharpe’s Point, but had parked it a block away and flashed. It was too big of a risk to park it at the club when the other male had been such a frequent flyer, and it was best not to risk being seen anywhere near Ophelia before she walked in.
The clothing had nearly presented an obstacle. The slacks hugged his thighs so tightly, he consoled himself that if the seams hadn’t burst in the car, they were probably going to hold the rest of the night. The shirt, a purple with a hint of metallic, stretched across his shoulders. Ophelia swore it wouldn’t give him away because she’d bought it for Nadair and he’d never worn it. But there’d be no crossing his arms the rest of the night.
The wingtips pinched his feet and he let his sport coat hang open to show off the gold plating on his belt—otherwise the buttons would fly off if he took too deep a breath.
The smell of sex clouded the space. He’d rather walk through the perfume department in the mall and get spritzed. It would be less of an assault on his senses.
In the center of the vampire-exclusive club, he’d expected a high-end runway for strippers. Instead, there were small, round tables circled with high-back upholstered chairs. Couples occupied the seats, doing the mating dance of the primes. Boast, demean others, lay on the innuendo, maybe talk some business and mutual back-scratching before progressing to actual touching.
Some couples were actively groping, though such brazenness was confined to the secluded booths lining the far-right wall of the club, each behind a heavy, blood-red velvet curtain that hung floor to ceiling. A couple of the curtains were closed.
Odd. Ophelia had described the place, but he’d anticipated blatant fornication. The parties he’d tended in the private manors could get…uncomfortable. For him and for much of the rest of the staff, though some participated, making the servants’ quarters their own Sharpe’s Point. But here, at a sex club, the atmosphere was unexpectedly sedate.
Was that why it was a perfect place to bargain and negotiate? They saved the grand finale for last?
The pheromones saturating every fabric and fixture launched an attack on his manhood until, trying to keep his erection at bay, he almost missed the bar. He’d tell himself to get over his prudishness and sport it, but his pants were too small for a flaccid penis. A stiff cock might break free of its restraint.
The bartender assessed him, reading the cut of his coat and the quality of the fabric. Bastian had done the same. It served Bastian well to know who was who, and who was faking it. The club, like any prime party, probably had wannabe primes trying to crash it. The bartender’s scrutiny added another level of danger.
He recalled the scotch Master Gaston had preferred. “Highland Park, 25 Year.”
The bartender didn’t rush to fill his drink. “Do you have an account here, Master…”
“Duvall. Two ls.” Totally made up name. “No account. I’m not yet sure this place has what I need.” Truth. He dug a few hundreds out of his pocket—also Nadair’s stash—and dropped them on the bar. “Keep a refill ready.”
“Yes, Master.”
The bartender bought his act. A good sign. He’d know better than anyone in here who was genuine and who wasn’t.
“If you don’t mind, Master Duvall, what are you looking for?” the bartender asked.
Now that was an easy answer. He passed the male a mysterious smile that he’d seen hundreds of primes use. “I don’t know. Something…unique.”
That fit Ophelia perfectly. And the bartender would have an aha moment when he saw Bastian cozying up to her later tonight.
“You’ll find that here. It’s my pleasure to serve you tonight. The name’s Marcus. I’ll keep an eye out for your refill.”
Bastian resisted the urge to thank him or do something foolish like shake hands. Either action would give him away as not being what he seemed. He stood out enough as a stranger to a male who’d know the personal business of all the clientele.
Marcus drifted away as Bastian reclined against the bar and sipped his scotch. Struggling to school his features, he got the first pull down without gagging.
Ugh, he hated the stuff. He didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke, and he supped blood from servants of other houses. Though some had hinted that they’d like more than a shared meal, he rarely carried it further.
Do you think vampires can die of boredom? Antonia would ask him. Because I’m afraid you’ll be the one to do it.
He was never bored. Work waited for him every minute of the day, and that was how he preferred it.
The scotch didn’t grow less disgusting as he sipped, but it gave him a prop to hide behind as he read the club. The skill was one he’d used at parties in the Gaston manor, when it’d been his job to determine the needs of the guests and strive to meet them.
Those mingling were either looking for dirt on someone or planning dirt on someone. Had this place developed to suit the sexual needs of the privileged, or had that been the bait to lure the wheelers and dealers to one inconspicuous spot? Or was it a happy circumstance that the club filled both desires?
The couples who stuck together in hushed conversation eventually filtered toward one of three dark hallways winging off to promised lands of pleasure. His face threatened to heat just from recalling
the conversation with Ophelia as she’d described their use. In detail.
The passage on the far left led to four BDSM rooms, each one themed, though Ophelia had said themed BDSM wasn’t an accurate description. They were divided into soft-core and hard-core rooms. Hard-core rooms included spanking benches—whatever those were—and swings and bindings. One of each was connected to an optional viewing room for the voyeurs.
The middle hall had rooms for “boring old sex” but had scent scrubbers so the suspicious mate wouldn’t catch on. Apparently lavender was a favored scent, and in any of those rooms, the smell could drop a rabid elephant. Its very intensity ought to be an indicator to a suspicious mate, yet it was an accepted way to hide an unwanted smell.
The remaining passage contained fantasy rooms. Think French maids, schoolgirls, and urination. Bastian hadn’t bothered to ask for clarification on the piss.
The entire time Ophelia had been explaining the layout and purpose of each room, he’d had to focus on her words—actual letters, no pictures. His fantasies had begged to take off. An unfamiliar stirring had pestered his groin.
He’d been determined not to get hard. An erection here would be appropriate, but also a hint that he lacked control. An erection when she’d been laying out the mission would have been both disrespectful and humiliating, regardless of the salacious descriptions she’d given him.
When he’d asked her preferences—for work purposes only—she’d said he couldn’t be too familiar with her habits or it’d give them away. Learning what a potential partner needed was part of the dance here.
He kept his features impassive as he watched the others. That’s not my scene, as Antonia would say.
Call him old-fashioned, and anyone who knew him would, but he liked getting to know a female through genuine conversation. Artful looks and body language meant to only lead to sex did not excite him. There was nothing wrong with it, but the thrill of this sort of chase was too short-term.
When he found his true mate, he wanted to woo her into thinking forever with him was the best and most important decision she’d ever make. Vampires mated for life, but it didn’t mean they settled easily once they felt the pull of their true mate.
For others, the fidelity of a mate’s bed and vein sounded horrific. Their species had even developed drugs to circumvent the strength of the bond that hindered a couple from feasting or fornicating with others.
For him, that depth of commitment sounded divine. It was what his parents had had and it was what he’d dreamed of.
A woman sauntered toward him. A glittery beige dress swirled around long bare legs, and her neckline dropped nearly as far as the slit up her skirt went high. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head and she had him in her sights. She was attractive, but not his type. And she’d be horrified to find out he was a mere servant, though he found nothing “mere” about his existence.
“We’ve never met.” Her cultured voice matched Madame Gaston’s. She held her hand out, her head turned slightly to the side.
Just like he’d observed Master Gaston do when greeting equals of the female persuasion, Bastian grasped her cool fingers and planted a light kiss across her knuckles. The restraint he called on to prevent his habitual bow staggered him. Unlearning three decades’ worth of behavior wasn’t easy; he’d have to keep his wits about him tonight.
“No, we haven’t,” he said. She hadn’t given him her name, therefore he withheld his. Part of the game. He was supposed to be wondering, mistress or madam? It was supposed to be titillating.
A little pout marred her face. “I can’t place your accent.”
He lifted the corner of his mouth. “You don’t say.”
The touch of mystery dilated her pupils. Okay, according to Ophelia, he ought to be deducing this female’s fantasies.
She liked intrigue. How the hell was he supposed to figure out her sexual preferences from that?
Blindfolds?
Oh. Yes, that was exactly how he was supposed to be doing this.
He took another sip of his foul-tasting liquor and curled his lip. That didn’t mean he was good at this. It didn’t mean he was…them.
He set his glass down to cover the tremor in his hand. His time in service to the upper crust hadn’t immunized him to their ways. The undercurrent of disdain all the hired help harbored flowed through him. Sometimes, he just got sick of their shit.
The female sidled closer. He fought not to slide away. Her cloying scent stank of sex, lavender, and a chemical tang that spoke volumes.
She was mated and on drugs. Whether the drugs were so she could feed outside her bond, or just snatch the limited high that was so hard for those of his kind to attain, Bastian could only guess.
Perhaps it was both.
Again, this was so not his scene.
He worked, found serenity in moving his body through the tasks of the day. It was his exercise, his meditation, his reason for being, and he’d come to accept that long ago.
And wasn’t that the crux of what bothered him about Sharpe’s Point. He was secure with who he was. So many people in here were trying to change, to buck the trends of the outside world and cling to the long-held views of their long-past era. They weren’t satisfied in their daily lives, their personal lives, and probably lacked an income of any kind that wasn’t tied to the interest earned off old money.
They spent their nights looking for a way to feel good, unaware that it came from within.
Pale fingers danced along his collar. She was wasting no time. His reserve had intrigued her.
He wanted nothing to do with her, but he forced an impassive look her way. Her nostrils flared as she tried to read him.
“You smell…” The curve of her lips turned into a frown. “Familiar.”
He was covered in Nadair’s items from head to toe, but he’d been wearing the garments long enough the male’s scent wasn’t identifiable. Shouldn’t be identifiable.
And he didn’t smell like himself, either. Bleeding out, being nourished by Ophelia—his pulse kicked up at the reminder—and spending hours at another’s male’s house, he’d changed in more ways than just scent.
“Do I?” Answering with a question seemed to work. “You smell”—toxic, taken, and desperate—“ripe.”
She preened at his…compliment? Feathering her other hand against her décolletage, she smiled demurely.
How much longer was he going to have to keep up this ruse?
Ophelia had warned him he might have to play along in ways that would make him squirm, but he’d been too determined. He had to find who was after Antonia.
Now his mind was scrambling for other ways to help Antonia.
Contact others in his line of work, and at the same time, spread the word that the threat of demons was real?
No. Just because his fellow vampires were hired help didn’t mean they weren’t also ambitious and bloodthirsty. He could only name a few that he’d trust to question, but they’d also be endangered, both with the threat of unemployment and with their safety.
Work outside of prime homes was hard to find for a common vampire. Night shifts in the human world weren’t plentiful enough for all of them, and because of the secretive way they had lived for centuries, they were behind the curve in technology and online employment.
He flinched when the female whose name he still did not know, or care to know, brushed his hair.
To cover his reaction, he quirked a brow. “I don’t recall giving you permission to touch me.”
Excitement flared in her eyes. “No,” she breathed, her gaze raking him over. “You have not. Yet,” she purred. “I may be interested in knowing what I have to do to touch you.”
She skimmed her fingertips along his jaw, the scruff on his face scraping her skin. He would’ve shaved, but Ophelia had thought it would help prevent him from being recognized.
At the thought of the other female, his heart slammed. The stranger next to
him sensed the change and the corner of her mouth curved. She thought she’d caused the reaction. That was all well and good for the ruse, but the duplicity soured his stomach.
It was getting harder to keep up his placid facade. He’d either need to move away soon and circle the crowd—and look suspicious once Ophelia arrived and he pretended to have eyes only for her—or get physical with someone until he saw his opening.
He couldn’t go around asking if anyone had, or knew of, possessed servants.
“I’m not sure I’m willing to divulge my secrets.” He would play the obtuse game for as long as he could.
“And I would bet you have plenty.” She drifted closer still, her body nearly pressed to his from bosom to toes.
He shot her a smile meant to be mysterious. It must’ve worked. A fresh stench of arousal wafted across his nose.
Damn. He was going to sneeze.
Turning his head, he clenched his jaw, hoping it’d go with his ruse of feigned disinterest when he lacked any in truth.
His stomach clenched, and a deep-seated need uncoiled inside of him.
Ophelia had arrived.
He glanced around, his actions probably too frantic.
A vision strode across the dark room. What little light there was reflected off her luminescent skin as much as her slinky dress.
Not one sequin decorated the floor-length gown with the hip-length slit up the side, but it shimmered in an invitation that contrasted with her “don’t fuck with me” eyes. Her dress was ivory, but as she moved under the dim lights, faint lilac hues shimmered through the fabric.
He was supposed to guess what others wanted in this place and she was a challenge. Her clothing, along with her simple yet elegant chignon, said she belonged in this establishment. Yet her expression said it was the last place she wanted to be.
The bondage rooms. She had said she frequented those plenty of times in the days before Nadair, and she certainly embodied the “spank me, fuck me, bite me, then leave me the hell alone” vibe.
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