When I saw the levers for the draft beer lined up with Guinness as one of the choices, my mouth watered. I personally could’ve used some of that Guinness on tap right then.
Four mahogany ceiling fans stirred the air, causing the loose strands of my wig to tickle the back of my neck. My hip brushed the back of one mahogany-brown chair as I followed Jacques with Kerrison right behind me. My heels clicked on the floor as my gaze traveled along a darkened stage that had what looked like three crystal dancing poles rather than metal poles.
The inside of the gentleman’s club was large enough that the wall we headed toward seemed at least a mile away. Hey, those four-inch heels pinched my toes—right now everything seemed far away.
Classic, wood-framed, and tastefully erotic Bettie Page prints hung on the forest-green walls, the prints illuminated by individual art lights. The quality of the prints, the size of the club, and the expensive-looking wood tables that gleamed in the low lighting made it clear the place earned some pretty healthy profits. No doubt the trafficked girls and not the beer and admission charge kept this place looking sharp.
At least the men who ran the place didn’t have the gall to try to make it look cheery with holiday decorations on the inside.
After passing through the dozens of tables and high-tops, we reached the opposite end of the club. It wasn’t the basic wall it had given the illusion of being. Instead, part of the wall was a few feet in front of the other part, leaving enough room for a hidden door with a gold placard that read MANAGEMENT.
Jacques pushed open the door, let us in, then closed it behind us before escorting us down a hallway. It was carpeted, unlike the club itself, and the brown Berber cushioned our footsteps.
Even the hallway was classy with more framed, illuminated Bettie Page prints—although these pictures were among her more kinky poses. I winced when I saw a depiction of her in leather, weilding a whip. That picture brought back a few too many better-forgotten memories. The walls were forest green above mahogany molding about halfway down the wall with dark, rich wood paneling below.
Three mahogany wood doors lined the right of the hallway, and a single door was at the end. We passed the first two doors, one of which was open. It was a small private restroom that appeared just as luxurious. Wonder if the toilet seat was real gold.
Jacques rapped on the third door, which was open about six inches.
“Yes.” The word from the man inside the office was said in a matter-of-fact if not bored manner.
My gut tweaked a bit. Showtime.
Jacques opened the door all the way, which caused a small draft and let out the scent of leather and wood. He stood aside as he held it open for Kerrison and me before he introduced us. “Mr. Stalder, this is Alexis Johansen and Chandra Elliot.”
Stalder stood. He was a tall, blond, muscular man who looked like he might be of Norwegian or Swedish descent. He, too, wore an earpiece, although his was hardly noticeable. “Leave us, Jacques.”
The Frenchman looked vaguely irritated at being dismissed but gave a slight bow and shut the door with a solid thunk behind him. By both of their expressions, it was obvious those two weren’t crazy about each other.
With easy masuline grace, Stalder walked around his desk toward us. We stood behind the two chairs in front of the mahogany desk and I forced myself to keep from shifting from one foot to the other.
The room matched the rest of the club with its forest-green and dark-paneled walls, this time with framed, erotic Playboy centerfold portraits. Otherwise, the office was a simple room with only a computer monitor; a beer mug with two pens, a Sharpie, and a pencil in it; and a page-a-day calendar propped next to the holder. A few stacks of paper were organized on the desk. The wood-bladed fan wasn’t on, and the light through the mostly closed wood blinds was faint.
As he came toward us, I noted Stalder’s appearance in a quick scan. Jeez. Did Giger only hire guys with muscles upon muscles?
Or was this actually Giger, posing as a Mr. Stalder?
His dark blue Levi’s looked new and he wore a blue-striped collared shirt. Short blond hair, blue eyes, and smooth fair skin gave away the fact that he wasn’t in the sunlight for long periods of time.
“Ms. Johansen.” He greeted me first by clasping my hand in a firm, decisive grip. His handshake confirmed my first impression as his palm wasn’t callused, but smooth. He took Kerrison’s hand. “Ms. Elliot.” Kerrison and I returned with some kind of inane greeting.
When he stepped away, Stalder gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please.”
Sure wasn’t much of a hello-and-how-are-you. Stalder turned and walked around the desk to the black leather office chair and took his seat, which creaked as he leaned back in it. I settled in front of his desk in one of the comfortable cushioned chairs, also black leather. Kerrison sat to my right.
Stalder looked at me and didn’t waste time getting down to business. My kind of criminal.
“If you’re hired, you will have most of the traditional duties of a madame.” The man didn’t have even a trace of an accent, but he spoke with such clear precision that I was certain English wasn’t his first language. “From my preliminary research I know you have experience with prostitution.”
I intentionally hesitated before I said, “That is correct.”
He eyed me as if taking in the fact that I’d missed a beat. “Then we can skip the games and I will get straight to the point.”
I gave a brief nod. “Of course.”
“We have different ground rules at the Elite, Madame Alexis. This club operates differently than most.” Stalder held my gaze as if judging my reaction. “Our girls have handlers. The madame does not interact with these girls in any way other than to perform her job.”
I raised my eyebrows in feigned surprise. “That’s unusual.”
“It is how we operate.” A touch of irritation crackled in the air, but the irritation didn’t show on his face.
My scalp grew hot beneath my wig. His reply when I asked about the handlers was definitely a sign to back off. “If we hire you, Madame Alexis, you’ll be expected to follow orders without question.”
I made myself speak as formally as he was, laying my Swedish accent on a little thicker. “I—” I glanced at Kerrison before looking at Stalder. “We will perform as expected.”
“Most madames do not arrive with an assistant.” Stalder steepled his fingers. “Why do you think you are qualified for this job?” He focused on me as his chair rocked slightly. “And why do you think I should hire your assistant?”
“We’re an excellent team.” My heart rate picked up a bit now that he was actually letting me talk and I was “on.” I allowed an edge more of the Swedish accent. “Chandra handles booking the girls for their extracurricular activities with the clients, as well as accurately keeping track of the payments. In addition, she assists me in teaching the girls how to be more appealing to the clients.”
“Makeup, hairstyles, and clothing are my specialty,” Kerrison said when I turned my gaze on her, telling her with my eyes that it was time to start selling her own abilities. “I also aid Madame Alexis with instructing the girls in onstage sensuality . . .”
Kerrison glanced at me and I gave a staged nod before she turned back to Stalder with a look brimming with sexuality. “I also assist in instructing the girls in how to pleasure a man . . . in other ways.” The last sentence came out throaty, seductive, and inviting.
With a slight twitch along one jaw, Stalder betrayed the fact that her words had affected him. She’d probably given him a hard-on, but he wore an otherwise unreadable expression.
Ha. Kerrison had gotten to him. Bastard.
“If for any reason I can’t be here,” I added, not giving him a chance to respond, “Chandra is trained to take my place.” I folded my hands with my newly done acrylic nails digging into my palms. “I have extensive experience, including owning a club in Boston.”
“Until you were put out of business
for prostitution in your establishment.” Stalder glanced at the papers spread across his desk. “There was a great deal of press at the time, which makes you more visible than I like.”
“That is true about the publicity.” I cleared my throat. “It is why Chandra and I moved to this area. To get away from the publicity and to lie low for a while until the opportunity arrived for us to return to our chosen occupation. We think this position is the right opportunity.” I kept my words mostly free of slang and formal as many immigrants do when English is not their first language.
Stalder looked down and pushed aside a few pieces of paper from one neat pile with his long, elegant fingers. “I am not sure you would be the right candidate considering your controversial background.”
“My background is extensive and exemplary.” I straightened as if I had just bristled. “It has also been over a year and I am not in the same state.”
He gave me a long look before doing the same to Kerrison. “We will contact you if we decide to extend a second interview.”
Shit. This wasn’t ending well. “With my and Chandra’s experience in educating the young women, your clientele will be extremely satisfied. They will return often for their favorite treat.”
Stalder got to his feet, and Kerrison and I did the same. He extended his hand again. “As I said, we may be in touch with you.”
“Of course.” I returned his grip with a firm one of my own. “I hope to hear from you.”
He escorted us to the door, where he paused. “We can reach you on your cell?”
“I keep it with me at all times,” I said.
“That will change if you are hired.” His tone was authoritative, matter-of-fact.
I gave him a surprised look. “Why?”
“Cell phones are not allowed anywhere in our establishment.” He tapped his earpiece. “We use wireless radios instead.”
I shrugged. “As long as we have a way to communicate, that is fine with me.”
“Good.” Stalder kept his poker face in place, but I had a feeling that we had passed several tests, after all. “I will be in touch if we would like to call you in for a second interview. You would meet with Mr. G if that is the case.”
Excellent. “I am looking forward to it,” I said before Stalder closed the office door behind us.
CHAPTER TEN
He’s lucky I didn’t shove that pencil holder up his . . .
“How are you feeling, Mama?” Hard plastic dug into my palm as I clenched my personal cell phone to my ear. I paced the floor of the Brooklyn apartment, no doubt wearing a groove in the fine wood. It was the morning following my and Kerrison’s afternoon interview with Stalder.
“The doctors are taking care of me.” Then my mother added with a touch of amusement and exasperation, “Your daddy and all your pesky brothers and Rori won’t let me be for five minutes.” I could imagine her shaking her head. “Ryan insists he’s leaving the Marines to stay close to home. He should be off serving his country instead of worrying about me, but Zane found him a job with one of those three-letter initials. FBI, CIA, NSA. He’s being evasive and I don’t like it.” Mammy sounded miffed as she spoke. “He’s probably going to be doing something more dangerous than the Marines. If that’s possible.”
That last bit caused me to blink. Had Zane gotten Ryan a position at RED? I’d have to find out. Of course he wouldn’t have given out RED’s three-letter acronym.
But that didn’t matter and I let the thought slip away. My chest ached like it constantly did when I thought of Mama. As if a wrecking ball had slammed into my ribs. “I wish I was there, too.”
“Go on with you, child.” Her tone was strong and certain. “I’m fine, and if you don’t stop worrying I’m going to take a switch to your backside.”
Mama almost made me smile despite the fact that she was facing the worst trial of her life. She and Daddy had never laid a hand or anything else on my brothers, sister, or me.
Although sometimes I wondered if they’d ever been tempted to with the stunts the seven of us kids pulled over the years. Our mama’s tight lips and disapproving stare and the red flush to our daddy’s face were enough to set us straight—until the next time we got into trouble.
But right now I was going to damage the floor with all of my pacing. Like I cared. In the kitchen Nick knocked something around while he started dinner.
Kerrison was glued to a University of Tennessee football game. UT was playing Vanderbilt. I think. I didn’t get into college football. Now, the Boston Red Sox and baseball season—that was a different story altogether.
During the commercials, I heard Kerrison talking in French to someone on her cell phone, and what little I heard was surprisingly mushy. I’d never have guessed Kerrison would have a guy she’d talk lovey-dovey with. It didn’t seem her style. So much for my right-on instincts when it came to certain people.
When she had seen me press the speed-dial number on my cell phone to call Mama, Kerrison had lowered the volume on the TV and talked in a quieter voice to the guy on the other end of the line.
“How are you feeling?” I bit the inside of my cheek and focused fully on my mother. “The chemo—is it working?”
“I’m perfectly okay, pet.” It was obvious, to me at least, that she was working hard to make herself sound positive while she was on the phone with me. “You stop yourself from worrying and concentrate on being an interpreter—where did you say you are?”
“Sweden.” I put one hand on my hip. “Mama, tell me the truth or I’ll be flying back from Stockholm on the next plane out so I can see for myself.”
She sounded tired but also like she was trying not to let it show. “The doctors believe the chemotherapy is doing what it’s supposed to and is shrinking the cancer. I’ve only been taking the treatments a short time, so it may be a little longer before they can perform the surgery.”
I shut my eyes tight and asked a question I didn’t want to. “Is the cancer only in your breasts?”
“They think so.” Then she gave the first sign of weakness I’d seen from her since I’d learned she had breast cancer. The first sign of weakness I’d ever seen from her in my thirty-one years. “I need to lie down, pet. I’ll talk with you longer the next time you call from wherever you end up.”
Mama taking a nap? Never.
“I’ll be home after this assignment.” My stomach twisted and I pressed my free hand to my belly as I opened my eyes. “If you feel any worse, you call me, Mama.” I put a stern note in my tone. “I’m going to check with Daddy and the rest of our family, too.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” she repeated just as sternly.
As if she could see me, I raised my chin at a stubborn angle. “I will if I want to.”
Her voice held a smile as she said, “I love you, child.”
“I love you, Mama,” I whispered before she said good bye and I heard a click in my ear.
I stopped pacing and for a moment held my flip phone open without pressing the off button. On the screen I saw that Mama had disconnected the call, and I felt as if the invisible cord connecting us had frayed. As if she was slipping away from me.
Christ, I was being melodramatic. She was going to be okay. Mama was too tough to let anything take her away from us.
It would only be a couple of weeks at the most. I would finish this goddamned op—bring down this New York prostitution circle and, most importantly, get Hagstedt. And I would go home and be there for Mama.
“Steele.” Donovan jerked me out of my thoughts as he called to me from the kitchen. “Could use a hand here.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Since when did Donovan need the slightest bit of help from me when it came to anything relating to the kitchen? Delicious smells were coming my way now. Something sautéed like beef and vegetables.
When I reached the kitchen, he grabbed me by my shoulders and pulled me aside, out of view of the living room. He wrapped me in his arms and held me tight. How did he know I needed this so much? He
was the most alpha male I knew, and I knew a lot of alphas in my line of work. But he was also one of the most intuitive people I’d ever met.
I hugged Donovan back, needing to feel his arms around me and the comfort of his body against mine as long as possible. He felt and smelled so good. So warm. Male. Spicy. I drank in that incredible scent, and it comforted me almost as much as his embrace did.
He pressed his lips to the top of my head and I felt his warm breath. “Is your mom doing any better?”
“I don’t think so.” I placed my forehead against his chest, his navy-blue T-shirt soft against my skin.
“Do you want to go home?” he said, his voice low, concerned.
“Yes, but I’m the only one who can pull this job off, especially the part of being a madame.” I gave a sigh. “Months of preparation trying to find this bastard—if we don’t get Hagstedt on this op, who knows how long it will take. We’ve got to get him now.”
“We will.” The determination in Donovan’s words and in his voice matched my own. “We’re going to get you home as soon as possible.” He gave me another long comforting squeeze.
“What smells so—” Kerrison said from behind me, then added, “Oops. Sorry to butt in.”
If I had jerked away from Donovan, it would have made both of us look guiltier than hell. Instead, I slowly stepped back and tried to smile at Kerrison as Donovan’s arms slipped away from me. “Not at all. Donovan was being a good friend and comforting me.”
Kerrison frowned. She’d scrubbed her face clean of makeup, revealing a smattering of light freckles that weren’t normally visible. She’d put her long red hair into a ponytail and pulled it through the rear opening of her UT ball cap, allowing the thick ponytail to fall down her back.
“Is everything all right?” She had a genuine, concerned expression. “Is something wrong?”
“To be honest? Things aren’t fine.” I pushed my hair out of my face, the strands suddenly irritating me. “It’s a family issue.”
“Okay.” Kerrison shoved her hands into the front pockets of her faded Levi’s, and I was glad she didn’t try to pry about the subject. “I can’t offer a big shoulder to cry on like Donovan can, but if you need help with something, name it.”
Cheyenne McCray - [Lexi Steele 02] Page 9
