“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say and started to feel uncomfortable, like I was going to squirm beneath her gaze, but only for a moment.
“Fajitas, right?” Kerrison seemed to understand my need for privacy by going to the stove and paying attention to Donovan’s dinner preparations instead of me and my issues. “Mmmm. Beef, sautéed onions, and sweet peppers. This smells almost as good as my aunt’s cooking.”
She looked at the small bowls to the side and grinned. “Oooh, and sour cream, guacamole, along with a bowl of cheese and a stack of tortillas.” She glanced at Donovan. “I’m impressed. And starving.”
“Those tortillas are homemade, too. Donovan’s are wicked good.” I allowed a little smile as I moved next to Kerrison at the stove. “His cooking is pretty darned close to being as good as my mammy’s.” I glanced up at him, ignoring the twinge in my chest at the mention of my mother. “But not quite.”
Kerrison wasn’t looking. He tugged at the end of my French braid, then leaned close to speak in my ear low enough that Kerrison would have needed supersonic hearing to catch it. Although with her remarkable skills, maybe I shouldn’t have doubted the possibility.
“I can cook up something special just for you, Steele,” Donovan said in a low rumble.
My nipples ached at the sensuality in his sexy voice, the promise of good things to come. Real good.
The ring of my work cell phone jarred me out of my desire for Donovan. I’d taken it off vibrate while I wasn’t on duty in case any important calls came through. I stepped away from Donovan and checked the phone number on the caller screen. I didn’t recognize it, but the area code was one of New York City’s exchanges. Stalder?
I glanced at Donovan. “I think it’s the club,” I said before answering the phone and saying “Hello,” in a throaty, sensual voice.
“Madame Alexis?” Stalder, definitely. “You’re to come in for a second interview with Mr. G.”
I pumped my fist and elbow in a yes! motion as I looked at Kerrison and Donovan. “Of course,” I said in a calm tone. “When?”
“A driver will meet you outside your apartment building in fifteen minutes.”
Christ.
“Fifteen minutes,” I repeated for Kerrison’s benefit. “Chandra and I will be ready for the appointment with Mr. G.”
Kerrison raised her hands and looked down at her jeans and T-shirt before looking at me and mouthing, “What the fuck?”
“We look forward to seeing you soon,” I said before I closed the phone and added, “Shit.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” Kerrison shook her head. “What do they think? That we’re dressed to the nines the whole day, just waiting for their call?”
I rushed straight for my bedroom. “How can I possibly do my makeup and put on the damned wig, not to mention getting dressed, in fifteen friggin’ minutes?” And miss Donovan’s fajitas, damnit.
Kerrison muttered what had to be a curse word beneath her breath by the anger in her tone. “And this means no fajitas.” She sounded madder at that than at having to leave so fast as she echoed my thought.
The silvery-blond wig had to go on first so that I could make sure every strand of my dark hair was tucked in place. Thank goodness I’d put my hair in the French braid this morning in preparation for when I’d be going undercover. I chose the wig with long, loose hair to make it easier to cover any of my natural hair that might stray in the back. Then I performed what must have been the sloppiest makeup job in history.
As soon as I finished making the mascara as thick as possible in that short amount of time, I spritzed on some perfume. I slipped a cell phone the size of a credit card into a pocket built into my bra on the outside of my left breast.
I’d tucked my miniature lock-picking tools into an even smaller pocket on the right side of my bra. I grabbed the black purse that was pre-stashed with my fake driver’s license, a couple of credit cards, another cell phone, and some cash. Despite the fact it was fall, I also had a dark pair of Prada sunglasses that Oxford would probably read me the riot act over buying.
Well, she might not notice that three-hundred-dollar receipt for the sunglasses when she got a look at the bills for the clothing and shoes. Normally I was happy in jeans and T-shirts. But as a classy madame, I had to look the part, didn’t I?
Kerrison and I almost ran into each other as we came out of our rooms at the same time. She gave me a critical look. “Steele, you have mascara tracks under your eyes.”
“Damn.” I rubbed my fingers over the skin beneath my eyes.
“Better.” Kerrison held her brown handbag in one hand while she brushed her long red hair over one of her shoulders with her other hand.
The motion revealed the spaghetti strap of her cocoa-brown half top, and the light caught the glimmer and sparkles from the bead fringes along the hem of her top and around the hem of her miniskirt. That skirt showed off her perfect figure and her toned, fit thighs and calves.
“You’re supposed to be my assistant, not one of the girls,” I said with mock-seriousness as I glanced down at my elegant black sheath dress.
Kerrison grinned. “Can’t hurt with the big boss man to look like I’d be happy to do him.”
We reached the living room. “Uh, what if he comes on to you and does want you to do him?”
She shrugged, and her RED-issued gold bracelet winked in the brighter living room light. “I’ll think of something.”
“Damn, damn. Ten seconds.” I whirled and ran back to my bedroom. “Forgot my jewelry.”
I scooped the rings off the vanity dresser and slipped them on as I hurried as fast as I could while wearing my black strappy four-inch sandals. Kerrison’s heels were only two inches high, so I was only two inches shorter, rather than the usual four.
Donovan appeared from out of the kitchen, grabbed my upper arm, and dragged me two steps behind the door before I could follow Kerrison out of the apartment. “Be careful,” he said as he brushed his lips over mine.
I grinned as he pulled away, some of my thickly applied red lipstick smeared across his lips. “Give it up, Donovan. I’m always careful.”
Sort of.
He closed the door behind me as I ran the six or so steps to the elevator Kerrison was in. An annoying buzzing sound started when the elevator doors couldn’t close because she was standing between them.
When I stepped inside it, the elevator smelled of brass polish that made the brass handrails gleam in the elegant lighting. The closed-in space also smelled like an orchid hothouse where the orchids had been fed massive amounts of steroids.
“What did you do?” I wrinkled my nose. “Pour perfume on every inch of your body?”
“Too much, huh?”
I nodded and she shrugged.
As the elevator started down, Kerrison pulled a tube out of her purse, unscrewed the wand, and drew it out. Lip gloss. “Stand still. Your lipstick doesn’t look right,” she said before running the spongy part of the wand over my lips. “There.”
“Everything else on straight?” I pointed at my wig. “Looks fine, Goldilocks.”
I made a face. “ ‘Silverlocks.’ I don’t think there’s a strand of gold in this wig.”
She smiled. It was a casual smile of camaraderie and it was easy to smile back at her.
We walked out of the elevator at a sedate pace, the beads on Kerrison’s skirt and top making soft clinking sounds as we walked. An average-looking guy—who dressed like he was trying to look not so average—was in the small lobby. He wore a black suit, black polished shoes, and black sunglasses. His dark skin was smooth, unblemished, and unlined, and I’d have bet he was barely in his twenties.
“Ms. Johansen and Ms. Elliot.” He said it in a way that was a statement as opposed to a question. Like he already knew what we looked like. He’d probably been shown a still of us made from vids from the cameras located around the club floor.
I gave him a nod before I slipped on the pair of sunglasses from my purs
e. After a slight bow, he turned and held open the door for Kerrison and me to pass through.
The blast of New York’s November chill instantly caused goose bumps to rise on my skin.
“Our coats,” Kerrison said with a groan. “We were in such a rush.”
“No time to go back.” I paused a moment so that the man in the suit could open the door to the waiting black Lincoln Town Car. I swear, everyone in New York drove black cars.
Kerrison followed me as we slid across the black leather and settled into the posh seats. We looked at each other when the man shut the car door behind us. “You’re stinking up the car with that perfume,” I said before the driver got in his seat on the other side of the car. “You smell like orchids gone rogue.”
She gave an evil grin. “At least I didn’t just leave half my lipstick on a man’s face.”
My cheeks burned, and I forced myself to meet her gaze with my best what the hell are you talking about expression. “You’re delusional.”
Kerrison snorted. I looked away as the driver settled himself in his seat and shut the door. We were all silent as we drove from Brooklyn to Manhattan.
During the drive, my thoughts wandered from Kerrison’s keen observation, to Donovan, to the op, and to Mama. She never left my thoughts, but like any part of life, no matter how much we want things to go our way, we have to continue on with what we’re given.
Daddy and Mama had drilled that into the seven of us from the time we were young, when we didn’t have a lot of money. Those were the years we lived on cabbage and whatever else Mama grew in the garden in the back of the house, including potatoes. Like the original settlers did, we had potato bread instead of bread made from white flour.
Mama’s cooking was every bit as wonderful then as it came to be once they’d saved and built up a good living for all of us. As far as growing up not having much money—my brothers, sister, and I never knew the difference. It was a part of our lives, and for the most part we were a happy bunch.
Well, when we weren’t getting into trouble in one way or another or fighting like brothers and sisters do. Yeah, we were a bit of a challenge to Mama and Daddy. Putting it mildly.
My focus returned to the op as the car pulled up to the Elite Gentleman’s Club and of course the driver aided us in getting out of the car. Again we were under the club’s red awning decorated with white holiday lights. And again we were facing the same large, tall, muscled bouncer who’d been there yesterday.
This time he held the door open as soon as we approached him, apparently expecting us. Still, he said something over his wireless communication device, no doubt informing someone we’d arrived.
I slipped my sunglasses into my purse as we met up with another muscled guy who waited at the second door, a different one this time. This behemoth was bald and had a small diamond earring high up in the cartilage of his right ear.
Mr. Frenchy wasn’t waiting for us once we passed through that door, either.
Stalder was. He had that no-expression look down pat. “If you meet Mr. G’s approval, you’ll begin working today,” he said.
The fact he’d just stated we’d be put to work immediately, without the option of choosing when we would start, set me on edge. It was what our team wanted, but I’ve never liked not having a choice.
But in undercover work, I wasn’t always given much choice.
We followed Stalder to the back of the club and into the hallway. This time we headed for the closed doorway at the end of that long hallway. Stalder rapped on the dark wood twice then opened the door without waiting for an answer. Probably because he was expected.
“Mr. G.” Stalder motioned for Kerrison and me to go in before him. When we stood before a man seated behind a huge desk made of dark wood, Stalder gestured to the two of us. “Madame Alexis Johansen on the left and her assistant, Ms. Chandra Elliot.”
The barrel-chested, fifty-something man behind the desk didn’t stand. He pointed to the chairs with his thick index finger as if we were a pair of truants there to see the principal. “Sit down.”
I resisted the urge to look at Kerrison and instead made myself walk with confidence. I sat with as much grace as I could and relaxed my grip on my purse as I settled into the green and maroon-striped high-backed chair in front of his desk.
Stalder stood to the side of us with an almost military stance, but with his hands folded in front of him. Perhaps he had been in the military at one time.
The man behind the desk didn’t waste time with any niceties. He said in Swedish to me, “I read in the report you’re from Sweden.”
“Stockholm is where I was raised,” I replied, also in Swedish. “Although it has been many years since I moved to America.”
“I’ve taken a look at your records.” He switched to English and thumped a folder on his desk. “Paper doesn’t mean a fucking thing. Give it to me in your own goddamned words.”
No problem. I launched into our cover story, sticking tight to what we’d established. Kerrison and I had it down so well that it came easily to both of us. When it was her turn, Kerrison’s additions to my story were as smooth as what I had told “Mr. G.”
After we’d finished, he observed us for a long time. “Hopefully the dickheads who work for me didn’t screw this up,” he said. “I’ll hire you with a thirty-day probation to make sure you’re not a couple of fuckups.”
Yes, I thought, but I kept my expression composed, doing my best to look like I’d never even questioned the possibility of not being taken on as madame at the Elite.
“I’ll hire both of you, Alexis and Chandra.” He used our first names as a way to make it clear we were his underlings while he remained Mr. G. No doubt about that.
His features became almost dark as he looked directly at me and continued. “Your salary will be smaller because I’m paying more for your assistant. You’re fucking lucky I’m taking her on, too.” He named a figure that was ridiculously low for a madame and one even lower for Kerrison. “Depending on how the girls do onstage and how much they bring in upstairs, you might earn bonuses. I expect you to work your asses off.”
The way he looked at me made me feel like I’d better keep my mouth shut and not even pretend to haggle over salary with him. “I understand, Mr. G.” I added the Mr. G to make him feel important, so that he would think we knew our places just as clear as those dancing poles were. Gag. “We’ll teach these girls so well that the club will be busier than ever.”
His eyes looked like they contained jagged shards of gray flint as his gaze roved over Kerrison and me. “Anyone you have ties to is in our records now. If you think you want to leave, think twice and discuss it with me first.”
He spoke in a way that sent a chill down my spine even though I’d expected it.
What few contacts were listed in my history were cooperatives paid to say they knew me in whatever fashion we needed them to. They were carefully chosen and didn’t know who the hell who Kerrison or I really was. But they liked the cash, and RED paid them well. Very, very well.
The cooperatives weren’t in danger. This Beeff Giger would be roadkill before he had a chance to hurt anyone else. We had no doubt we’d be bringing him down before he could touch any of our “friends” from our fictitious pasts. Not to mention we kept an eye on our cooperatives in case they did need our protection.
As for his veiled threat—which pissed me off even though I knew our cooperatives were safe—I acted the part of a madame who didn’t know how to respond. So I sat without moving and waited for him to speak.
Giger took his time letting his gaze rove over my body, especially my Victoria’s-enhanced breasts. Then he took in Kerrison’s appearance. Of course her choice of attire made her look a lot more like eye candy than mine did. Plus she was a complete knockout to begin with, and she was playing it full-tilt.
He moved his gaze back to mine, his eyes somehow darker and dangerous enough that I almost sucked in my breath. “Get to work. Now.”
Yes, I thought again, only this time with a feeling of triumph. We’re in.
I’d expected Giger’s tone and his demand that we start tonight thanks to Stalder’s earlier comment, so I handled my expression with no problem. Kerrison sat next to me with an equally calm look on her face.
“What would you like us to start doing first?” I asked.
“The handlers will bring the girls to you on the floor.” Giger gestured toward Stalder. I’d almost forgotten the big blond guy was there. “Work on having the whores damned near fuck the poles. Make them look like they’re fucking the clients just by looking at them.”
“We’re very good at that,” I said, trying on a seductive smile when what I really wanted was to shove that titty pencil holder on his desk right up his ass.
“You fucking damned well better be.” Giger’s expression told me he’d have no compunction about taking out our “friends” if we didn’t come through.
All right. We were ready to play his game. And we’d beat him at it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bachmann, alias Hagstedt
The view of Lake Geneva from his home not far from Château d’Oex pleased Karl Bachmann. Cool satisfaction settled in his chest as he smiled.
As he’d built his empire, he had purchased this seventeenth-century mansion with its extensive and prosperous summer vineyard. In the winter, when the ground was covered with snow as it was now, his ski chalet thrived. Downhill skiing on the Alpine glaciers of the canton of Vaud brought tourists from all over the world.
After touching a call button, he put his hands behind his back, his stance wide, and surveyed the Alps. He imagined that he could see the passengers being transported in the ski lifts operating from his extensive and luxurious ski chalet. He insisted on only the best for his guests at his lodge, which catered to and allowed only the most exclusive clientele.
Cheyenne McCray - [Lexi Steele 02] Page 10
