by Amy Brent
“Miss Rossetti,” he said, approaching with his hand out and a smile on his face. I felt my heart skip a beat when his long fingers closed around my hand. His hand was warm. Funny, because it gave me a chill. “Isaac Hanson, so great to meet you. Thanks for being our keynote speaker today.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hanson,” I said, squeezing his hand, probably a little tighter than was necessary. “And thank you for having me. It’s always a pleasure working with IDS.”
Then something strange happened. Rather than his eyes dipping to my tits and his tongue darting across his lips, he let go of my hand and turned to face the meeting room, which was now nearly full. He put his hands behind his back again and rocked on the balls of his feet.
I was almost… well… sad that he didn’t seem to notice me. Maybe my disguise was working a little too well. Or maybe Isaac Hanson was not like other men. He reportedly had a genius IQ and was not the big-time party boy his partners were. Maybe looks didn’t matter so much to him. Many men of his caliber had married women who were not raving beauties: Gates, Zuckerberg, Jobs, just to name a few. Maybe it was brain power that turned him on. How wonderfully different would that be? To fuck a man because he loved your mind and not your tits?
“This threat of Russian and Chinese hackers has our clients really on edge,” he said seriously without glancing my way. He seemed to be watching the door at the back of the room as if he were expecting someone. His voice was deep. It tickled my ear. “Hopefully what you’re going to share with us today will help IDS guard against that threat. And maybe even cut the bastards off before they can get in.”
“Yes, that is my goal,” I said with an official nod. “I’m sure that together we can—“
“Sorry, gotta run,” he said suddenly. He hurried across the stage and hopped off the front edge and made his way up the aisle toward the back of the room. I thought he might have seen someone important he needed to talk to. I was right. There was a blonde with big tits and a loopy smile waiting for him at the door. I recognized her as a reporter for some magazine.
She had interviewed me a year ago for a “women in tech” article she was writing. Stacey, something or other.
They greeted each other like old pals or new lovers, and he put his hand on her arm and ushered her to the seat next to him in the front row.
I sighed, chastised myself for my momentary lapse of self-control, and waited for Louise to call me on stage.
Chapter 3: Isaac
Holy hot tamales, Batman...
I had heard through the grapevine that Amy Rossetti was not only a freakin’ genius but also a freak of nature; a smoking hot, piece of ass that was at the same time as cold as a chunk of Arctic ice. The grapevine wasn’t wrong. Her hand was like ice when I shook it, her grip as strong as any man’s, but there was something in those blue eyes staring at me from behind the Coke bottle glasses that made me think that the right man might just thaw her out. Might.
She was dressed like a librarian or an FBI agent from some TV show (I always thought Agent Sculley from the X-Files would have been hot as hell if Agent Mulder had ever gotten her clothes off), but I could tell she was naturally drop-dead gorgeous, with a body the black pants suit could not disguise. Pity that I had let Stacey talk me into letting her tag along to the seminar after that award-winning blowjob in my office. Otherwise, I would have been on Amy Rossetti like white on rice.
That said, it was probably a good thing that I had a gorgeous blonde sitting next to me in the front row.
It’s basic physics that one way to thaw out a block of ice is to leave it alone in the heat for a while. Maybe giving Amy Rossetti—who probably had men far better looking than me lined up around the block—the cold shoulder, so to speak, was the best way to warm her up.
Louise introduced Amy, which took several minutes given her credentials and long list of accomplishments. Amy strode onto the stage with the poise and confidence of the smartest person in the room. Not the smartest woman, mind you, but the smartest person, period. I took out my phone and did a quick Google search. According to Wikipedia, her IQ as verified by MENSA was 145. Mine was 147. I was smarter, but not by much.
I glanced over at Stacey. So far, she hadn’t noticed that the Club D card was gone from her bag. My plan was to keep her distracted long enough that she’d forget about it, maybe string her along for a bit of fun back at my place after the seminar.
So far, Stacey proved to be a girl who was easily distracted.
And she was very distracting.
She had the iPad resting on her knee, ready to take notes of Amy’s presentation. I reminded her that this was a private event and what was said here was not for public consumption. She gave me a pouty look, hoping to get her way. She rubbed her knee into mine and licked her lips, but I scolded her with my eyes until she relented.
She tucked the iPad into the computer bag between her feet and settled back in the seat with her shoulder touching mine. I could feel the heat coming off her body, radiating into my arm and across my chest and down to my cock.
Stacey and I would definitely continue our little party at another time. For now, I’d let her hang around until the seminar was done, then gently send her on her way before the boys and I shoved off for Club D for the weekend.
At the moment, however, Stacey would just have to stew in her own juices. I was far more interested in watching Amy Rossetti do her thing on stage.
Chapter 4: Amy
The talk at IDS went off without a hitch, as all my talks usually did. I’d given a dozen TED Talks around the country on the topics of hacking and cybersecurity, not to mention over a hundred keynotes for private organizations and large corporations. These days I almost made more money talking about cybersecurity than actually fighting it, which was just fine with me. It was easy money, no pressure, even when I had someone like Isaac Hanson and the blonde reporter sitting on the front row chit-chatting like high schoolers at an assembly for the first few minutes.
I managed to stare them into silence as I spoke. I caught Isaac’s eye and he shushed the blonde who was whispering in his ear. I was sure it wasn’t the first time he’d told her what to do with her mouth.
That said, I could feel him watching me as I spoke, his eyes following me as I moved across the stage. It was distracting at first, like trying to ignore a sniper rifle’s laser dot dancing on your chest, but after a moment, I found the attention… exciting.
Knowing that his eyes were on me was exhilarating, even sensual in a way. Was he undressing me with his eyes or was that just my hopeful imagination? Should I be offended by his stare or flattered by it? Was his mind on my words or on my body? And more to the point, where did I want his eyes and hands and mind to be? I ignored the heat between my legs and pushed on through.
After my talk, I noticed that Isaac was quick to leave the room with the blonde on his arm. I sighed a little as I watched him escort her up the aisle and out the door. I chastised myself for even thinking Isaac Hanson put more stock in brains that beauty. He was no different than most other men on the planet. He had a cock, which he let alternate control with his brain. He was watching my tits and ass the entire time I was onstage, then he grabbed Stacey what’s her name for a little game of “hide the sausage” in his private elevator or his corner office.
Bastard!
Men were pigs!
Isaac Hanson was just a rich pig…
A really, really, really good looking, rich pig…
And I was… shit… no way…
I was jealous of Stacey what’s her name…
* * *
I spent another hour doing Q&A with the audience, then got the envelope containing my check from Louise and headed back to my office downtown. Isaac Hanson was still on my mind—and I was still oddly furious with him—but I had managed to push him into a dark corner of my brain to keep him out of the way of the important things I had going on. I had the sinking feeling that he would creep his way back into my thoughts, maybe l
ater on tonight.
Amy Rossetti & Associates had offices in a ten-story glass building that housed several dozen tech start-ups and the venture capital firm that funded them all. The only reason my offices were there was because I’d saved the venture firm’s ass more than once after they had been hacked. The CEO tried to hire me as a formal employee, which I declined despite the high six-figure salary, so he opted to put me on retainer, and part of the deal was the free office space, which they could have easily rented out for fifty-grand a month.
Again, it was a prestigious address, but it was all for show. There were four offices with fictitious names and titles on the doors, the reception area where Serena sat behind the desk, and my office, a space twice as large as I actually needed, but it fit the profile of a high-caliber tech consultant such as myself. Smoke and mirrors, baby. Smoke and mirrors.
The suite also came furnished with high-end furniture and fixtures that made my stuff at home seem like yard sale fare. I slid into the two-thousand-dollar Hermann Miller chair behind the six-thousand-dollar glass desk and kicked off my shoes. I sat rubbing my feet as Serena came in to set a fresh cup of coffee on the desk. She plopped down in a chair across the desk and let her perfectly-manicured eyebrows go up and held out her hand and wiggled her fingers at me. I reached inside my jacket and handed over the envelope containing the $50,000 check.
“So, how did it go?” she asked, tucking the envelope into a folder she had sitting on her lap with IDS on the label.
“It went as it always does,” I said with a sigh, sounding completely bored despite the fact that I’d just earned in two hours what it took some people an entire year or more to bring home. “I could give these talks with my eyes closed.”
“Maybe you should try that next week when you speak at the Pentagon,” she said with a smile. She nodded at the steaming mug sitting in front of me. “Drink that. I put in a little honey and lemon for your throat. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Serena, what would I do without you?” I picked up the cup and brought it to my lips. The strong aroma made me smile. Little beads of steam settled beneath my eyes. I took a careful sip and smacked my lips. “Thanks, I needed this. Any messages?”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” she said in her usual mother hen voice. Serena took good care of me. She kept the distractions away and my schedule on track. You’d never suspect that Serena, who resembled a young Sophia Vergara in every way, right down to the gorgeous face, luscious hair and killer body, was a graduate student in physics at USC.
She was just twenty-three, a brilliant girl who worked twenty hours a week as my assistant and the rest of the time on the dissertation that she hoped would cap off her illustrious educational career by getting published in Physics Today, the official journal of the physics world.
“I did meet someone interesting today,” I said as I leaned back in the chair to prop my bare feet on the desk. I wiggled my toes to get the blood pumping again. I wore low-heeled, sensible shoes and my feet still ached after two hours onstage. I could not fathom how a woman could go through an entire day with her feet wedged into a pair of high heels.
“Yeah? Who was that?”
“Isaac Hanson.”
“The founder of IDS?” she asked, eyebrows arched. The way her lips fell open told me she knew of the legend that was Isaac Hanson. I did not, however, expect her eyes to go dreamy and her voice to soften. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”
I blinked at her for a moment. That was not the response I expected. “Have you met him before?” Serena nervously licked her lips and looked as if she regretted her words. I gave her a hard look. “Serena? What are you not telling me?”
“Yes, I’ve met him,” she said, rolling her dark eyes like a kid who had been caught telling a fib. “I kind of know him, actually.”
I frowned behind the coffee cup. “You kind of know him… Exactly what does that mean?”
She looked toward the open doorway as if making sure we were alone. She leaned into the desk and lowered her voice. “I kind of work for him, well, for a company that he owns. But I really can’t say anything more. I signed an NDA.”
“A nondisclosure agreement?” I let my feet drop to the floor and turned to face her with my elbows on the desk. “Okay, you cannot leave me hanging with that one. What the heck are you talking about?”
She quickly looked down and shook her head. “I really can’t say.”
“Serena.” She glanced up and I nodded at the IDS folder on her lap. “Would a thousand-dollar bonus loosen your lips?”
She smiled. “No, but a five-thousand-dollar one might.”
“Well played,” I said, smiling back. “Done. Now, spill the beans. And they better be damned good beans.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then asked, “Have you ever heard of Votre Désire?”
“It’s French,” I said, shrugging. “Your desires… Wait... you mean… you’re talking about…”
“Yep, the infamous Club Desire,” she said, head bobbing. She took her voice down to a whisper. “Isaac Hanson is one of the owners.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “And you know this how?”
“Well, I sort of work there.”
* * *
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Votre Désire—Club D or Club Desire, as it was more commonly called— was one of those places you heard people whisper about, but had never seen proof that it actually existed, like Shangri-La or Atlantis or Heaven or Hell.
I’d heard the rumors of the private estate somewhere north of the city where rich men romped with beautiful women, fulfilling their every desire for a hefty price. The legend was heightened by the rumor that members included billionaires, entrepreneurs, famous actors, senators, congressmen, former presidents, dictators, sheiks, all who had put up a ten-million-dollar bond that would be cashed and given to charity if they ever broke the code of silence. And the women who worked there were supposedly paid enormous salaries and sworn to secrecy, obviously going so far as to sign NDAs, and would never reveal the secrets of Club D because it would mean cutting off the goose that laid the golden egg.
“What do you mean, exactly,” I asked cautiously, wondering if perhaps I did not know Serena nearly as well as I thought I did. “You sort of work there?”
She shrugged. “I mean I work there. As a waitress, not as a… well… you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I said, huffing at her. “Why on earth would you work at such a place?” I knew that I sounded pompous and condescending, but it couldn’t be helped. Being judgmental was in my Italian DNA. The truth was, I was more stunned than anything.
Stunned that the place really existed.
Stunned that Serena worked there.
And stunned that the rumors were apparently true: Isaac Hanson, Denny Chambers, and Sammy Branniff, the billionaire founders of IDS, were really the men behind the mystery. They were the founders of Club Desire.
Serena gave me a deserving frown. “Well, no offense, Amy, but you barely pay me enough to afford an apartment in Silicon Valley.” She spread out her fingers and ticked them off as she spoke. “Plus, I have a car payment, credit cards, a mountain of student loan debt, I like nice clothes, I like to eat…”
“Serena, I would give you a raise in a heartbeat,” I said. “Or a loan that you could pay back whenever.” My voice took on a hurt tone. “I had no idea you were hurting for money.”
“Oh, I’m not hurting for money,” she said with a smile. “Honestly, Amy, I work for you because I like you, not for the money. Plus, I learn something from you every day. You’re a super strong, professional woman. You’re more of a role model and mentor than a boss, I mean, in a good way.”
“Well, that’s good, I suppose…”
“Plus, my net last year was around two-hundred-grand. I just have a way of spending every penny I make.”
My mouth literally dropped open. “You netted two-hundred-thousand? Dollars?”
&
nbsp; “Not including what you pay me, yes, I took home around two-hundred grand,” she said proudly. “All of it tips from working at Club D.”
“Wow,” I said, falling back in my chair. “I had no idea waitresses could make that kind of money.”
“Ordinarily, they can’t,” she said. “The ones who make the real money are the girls who… well… you know.”
“No,” I said, a little dumbfounded, head swiveling on my neck like a frisbee. “I don’t know.”
She put her elbows on the desk and rested her cheeks between her hands. “They’re called Escorts and Specialists,” she said, eyes dancing as if she were telling ghost stories in front of a campfire. “They’re the girls who take the men upstairs for whatever it is the man is willing to pay for.”
“Oh my god,” I whispered, covering my mouth with my fingertips. “You mean… for sex?” Duh, of course, she meant for sex. What was wrong with that? And why was I playing the part of the prude all of a sudden? I liked sex. Hell, I loved sex. I’d never been paid to have it, but back in the day when I was a struggling college student, the thought had crossed my mind a time or two. It was a good thing I never started “hooking” I think it was called. I might have liked it a little too much, especially if the John was a handsome billionaire like Isaac Hanson.
