by Livia Grant
He fixed the black collar around her throat, brushed her lips with a kiss before attaching a short lead to it. Testing it with a tug, he bent and whispered into her ear, “Two paces behind me, sweetheart,” before stepping back and swatting her bottom, hard. Her eyes never left his, and a contented look never left her face.
“Yes, Master,” she said, and smiled.
The End
About the Author
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR LEE SAVINO has fantastic plans to change the world, but most days can't find her keys or her wallet, so she stays home and writes smexy, smexy romance.
If you liked Unmasked, Lee recommends you read her novella Devil Dog, nominated Sexiest Story by Gravetell Reader’s Choice Awards.
Visit www.leesavino.com for a free book. :D
Other Books by Lee Savino
The Berserker Saga
Sold to the Berserkers
Mated to the Berserkers
Taken by the Berserkers
Given to the Berserkers
Claimed by the Berserkers (coming soon)
The Rocky Mountain Bride Series
Rocky Mountain Dawn
Rocky Mountain Bride
Rocky Mountain Rose
Rocky Mountain Romp
Rocky Mountain Rogue
Rocky Mountain Wild
Rocky Mountain Ride
Other Books
Pearl's Possession
Rescuing Regina
Innocence in the Underworld: Mafia romance Trilogy
The American Alpha series
Devil Dog
The Competition (coming soon)
Unraveled by Addison Cain
A Black Light: Valentine Roulette Novella
by
Addison Cain
Chapter 1
Spencer had tolerated a great deal from Maxine Torres in the last week: her lurking—and lurking was a kind way to describe the unwarranted visits downstairs—her cold-eyed assessment of his staff, and her supercilious references to Black Light’s lacking service quality. Twice she’d slipped her concerns into a weekly oversight meeting before their boss. And today she’d dared to slide a piece of paper across the conference table, motioning for him to pick it up.
“You need your own Noah, someone who grasps how to run the team behind the bar. I’ve known Klara Eriksson almost twelve years. She’s a career bartender, fast, and not one for idle chitchat. Believe me when I say, she’d be a good fit for Black Light. You’d be lucky to have her.”
Glancing down at the resume, Spencer infinitesimally lifted an eyebrow. He read over the page, mentally preparing his rebuttal. “If she is so wondrous, why didn’t you hire her yourself?”
Maxine dared to cock a smirk. “I tried. Klara has a good thing going where she is now. Runway was unproven, there was no guarantee it would have drawn a crowd. Which is why I’m going to warn you, you’re going to have to make her a ridiculous offer to tempt talent like that away from Jack Varens’ nightclub.”
The idea that Maxine thought to get her hands in his business deserved a cold response. Spencer deadpanned and gave her the same stare he would have offered any enemy in the field... right before he’d killed them. “Is that so? The last thing I need downstairs is a squeamish woman squinting at our patrons. If she’s not into kink, it won’t work.”
“My only concern is maximizing Black Light’s business. Whether I like it or not, our clubs are symbiotic. Your quality of service reflects badly on us all.” Maxine put her hands on the table and gave Spencer’s dark Armani suit a once over. “Klara’s got ice in her veins. Hire her and you’ll have a professional employee heading the bar who won’t blink an eyelash at the floor show. Your hair’s gone grey enough in the last weeks, Spencer. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
The budding rivalry between his two General Managers, the constant bickering, Jaxson had had enough. Spencer was his friend, his good friend, but the ex-Navy Seal’s personality sometimes leaned towards stubborn in the extreme.
Jaxson cleared his throat, less than pleased with the pair of them. “Spencer, bring Ms. Eriksson in for an interview. If she’s willing to sign the Non-Disclosure Agreement, fresh blood downstairs wouldn’t hurt. There have been complaints.”
Maxine was wise enough to keep her expression even. Spencer, on the other hand, ground his teeth, slicing her a glare that promised retribution.
With a last name like Eriksson, of course she’d be Swedish. Hell, she could have been a model. She’d worn a suit with a modest pencil skirt, seamed stockings, and python pumps. Sexy secretary meets stone-cold bitch. Maxine was right. One look at the blonde and anyone could see Klara was not the warm, cuddly type.
Pin straight blonde hair, tan skin, minimal makeup. The sorry state of her fingernails told a story of a hard worker. They were uneven, unmanicured, and short. Those were hands that spent the night washing pints, picking up broken glass. The rest of her though, it was annoyingly perfect.
Even her handshake had been firm.
When he’d brought her through the secret back entrance from Runway to Black Light, she had not stammered out questions or hinted any surprise at the clandestine nature of the club’s entrance. She’d kept her mouth shut, her eyes forward, and willingly waited while he’d led her to a closet, tugging the handle of a mop to reveal a secret door. She’d even walked first down the dimly lit narrow stairs when he’d gestured for her to precede him.
This was a woman who wouldn’t stutter when a senator ordered a scotch. There would be no wide-eyed gawking, or a submissive down turn of the eyes... something unfortunately lacking from his current squad.
With Black Light closed during the day, he’d kept the lights turned down, the sprawling room’s only illumination the pendant glowing above the bar. That’s what had her attention, just as Spencer had intended. When he’d sat her down at one of the club’s lounge tables, she’d held his eye. Even with his size, the quality of his clothing, and his equally unsmiling face, Spencer had not made her nervous in the slightest.
Instead, she was eyeballing the shelves, honey eyes darting from bourbon to scotches, over tequila, to rum. It was difficult to know her thoughts, for that face gave nothing away, but Spencer had a suspicion she found fault with what she’d seen.
Interested in getting this over with, he began the interview. “Mrs. Torres is a personal friend of yours?”
“Maxine? Yes, she is.” Posture straight, one ankle crossed over the other, Klara spoke with an even, resolute manner. “Over the years we’ve grown very close... close enough to share the occasional threesome with her husband. And before your jaw hits the table, she encouraged me to disclose that information with you despite my... reluctance to broadcast my personal life to a stranger. She swore to me that, if I were to trust you, it would never go beyond the two of us or be mentioned again. Like me, Maxine is a private woman. I’d be disappointed to learn she was wrong.”
His jaw had unhinged, barely. With one statement the Swede had placed herself on higher ground. Klara sat there unshakable, no blush to her cheeks, no nervous breaths, but he knew she had been uncomfortable making her stone-faced, completely unprofessional confession.
Unsure what to make of it, Spencer leaned back into the plush leather chair, and looked her over again. He crossed an ankle over his knee, superior and unfortunately intrigued. “You’ve offered a provocative character reference... as Maxine intended.”
“And she refused to tell me why sexually harassing you, Mr. Cook, was imperative to a potential job offer. In fact, her mysteriousness on the subject is the only reason I considered this interview.” Klara offered her first hint of a smile. “She has a way of... hooking my interest.”
The last thing he wanted was a friend of Maxine’s down here, telling tales to the ball-busting wench upstairs.
Ex-Navy Seal, Dungeon Master renowned in the community for his control and attention to detail, Spencer had gone up against far worse than a thirty-something bartender with cool compo
sure and flashy shoes. “Black Light is an ultra-exclusive private club for those whose sexual tastes lay outside the mainstream. Are you familiar with the term BDSM?”
“Who isn’t since Fifty Shades of Grey made masochism the latest buzz word?” Klara did not miss a beat, but her eyes had finally left his face. Peeking over her shoulder, past the size of the bar to take in the layout of the room, her icy façade altered minutely. At her back was a room set up with all the trappings of a medieval dungeon. With the lights down, it was hard to see exactly what was what, but the more she looked the more her brows drew together. “The things that go on here, are they legal?”
Smug, Spencer knew he’d won. He didn’t want her there, and now she would walk out all on her own. “All participants are consenting adults. We have monitors and security in place should a situation arise. I am the Dungeon Master.”
Her eyes went right back to his. “I walk with five-hundred dollars, cash, on a typical Friday and Saturday night. If this place is exclusive, I cannot imagine your clientele would have the numbers to meet my quota.”
Spencer frowned to see she had not risen to her feet with a hasty goodbye, that she spoke as if the venue was in question, not her qualifications. “Strangers will be fucking in front of you. Scenes will play out on these stages. Just last night, a woman was tied to the chair you are sitting in and tormented with orgasm denial.”
He’d seen it with his own keen eyes—Klara had pressed her legs together, and it wasn’t out of unanticipated sexual excitement. She was a prude, the story about Maxine most likely a lie.
Sorely tempted to laugh right in her face, he decided that if she were unwilling to bow out gracefully he’d bring her onboard and watch her implode. He’d make an example out of Klara. More importantly, Jaxson would learn a lesson about allowing Maxine to meddle in Black Light business. “As head bartender of Black Light, what benefit would you bring?”
Klara turned again to the bar, blonde hair slipping over her shoulder, stick straight and shiny. She was in no rush to answer, cataloguing the booze on the shelves, the layout of the glassware. “Let me guess, when you ordered this selection of liquor you only invested in what you like to drink—which would be Scotch. You’re unfamiliar with alcohol trends; you’d have to be to serve that brand of vodka to high-end clientele.”
He could hardly believe her nerve.
“Is there only one kind of white wine by the glass?” She had hit the nail on the head, stretching up just enough off her seat to see what was chilling in the fridge. “There it is. Pinot Grigio, off brand, and nothing else. Your liquor reps are taking you for a ride if they convinced you to carry this stuff.” Klara scooped up a cocktail list bound in leather with a beautifully rendered Black Light logo branded right in the center. One look and she smirked, but not at Spencer, her smile was for the expensive creamy paper printed with a terrible drink list. “Do the men order drinks for the women? Do the women pretend to like them as part of the game? I bet they complain when they get home and the leather comes off.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Excuse me?”
“I can renegotiate your deals with the liquor reps, and if we order some inventory in tandem with Noah upstairs, I have a strong feeling it will cut costs. Furthermore,” she turned the menu so it faced Spencer, tapping a finger at one of the listed libations, “appletinis are out of fashion. Half of these drinks will have to go. This is the age of the craft cocktail.”
Oh, he was going to enjoy picking her apart. Klara wouldn’t last longer than three weeks, less if she dared to speak to Jaxson with such presumption. Maxine’s little stunt was going to blow up in her face and Spencer’s point would be made without lifting a finger. “You’re hired, Miss Eriksson. I’ll pay you ten dollars an hour. If you do not meet your tip quota on Friday and Saturday nights, I will supplement your cash to the amount of five-hundred, but you have to sign our Non-Disclosure Agreement immediately and start tonight.”
Klara cocked a smirk, a spark shining in her honey eyes. “What’s the uniform? A mesh thong?”
An instant image of the long-legged Swede dressed only in red scraps of lace flickered between Spencer’s forming plan. She’d be as pretty under those clothes as she was in them, but what did that matter? Every last woman he’d invited to work in Black Light was attractive. More importantly, every last one of them had manners this woman lacked. “This is a professional establishment, not a strip club. Dress accordingly.” The last thing he wanted was to see her show up, tan skin swathed in something sexy and red. Spencer narrowed his eyes as he added, “All black.”
Chapter 2
She’d returned a few hours after signing the final page of the NDA, dressed in skintight black from head to toe. The fabric of her slacks was something stretchy that would be easy to move in. The swell of her ass, the line of her thigh, her calves, everything was there to be seen, ending in an ugly pair of black non-slip athletic shoes. One look at those shoes and he almost sent her home, choosing to glare at her feet to avoid her low cut top, and the generous display of ripe tits.
“Are you going to introduce me to the staff, or would you rather I do it?”
His eyes skipped right over her breasts and straight to her mouth. He’d told her to wear black but her lips had been painted bright crimson.
As if she knew what he’d noticed, Klara attempted a joke. “It’s a trick of the trade. Grown men are terrified of a woman wearing red lipstick. It makes cocky guests easier to manage.”
This woman was so far out of her scope that Spencer could not help but scoff. “You are not here to manage our guests.”
“What exactly is it that you think bartenders do?” A blonde eyebrow cocked, Klara made light of the exchange. “When someone’s butt is in my chair, I am running their show... whether they know it or not. I tell them what they are going to drink, how much they are going to enjoy it, and make each and every last patron think they are happier for it. But you are right, boss. I’m here to manage your bar.”
“Girls,” Spencer called to the women prepping for the night. “This is Klara Eriksson, Black Light’s new head bartender.”
And that was all the introduction Klara was given. One last glare at her shoes, and Spencer gave her his back.
Watching her from the security footage in his office, Spencer observed her exchanges with the collection of scantily clad women wiping tables and cutting fruit. For the next two hours before opening, he watched her criticize almost every last thing his staff was doing.
They weren’t cutting the fruit properly.
Constrictive corsets were not acceptable work clothing.
Every last bar tool had to be set up differently. The arrangement of the well was altered.
Klara had overwhelmed every last girl, his staff frazzled by the time the night’s first guests arrived.
By then Spencer was back on the floor, a crisp white dress shirt on, a blood red Turnbull & Asser tie hanging in a double Windsor knot at this throat. His fresh suit was impeccably pressed, and his tapered hair had been combed, not that even a strand of salt and pepper had been previously out of place.
He’d monitored scene after scene, glancing repeatedly to the bar where Klara was rushing back and forth to serve the swell of thirsty patrons. The rest of the staff stood back, deer in the headlights as one woman ran the whole fucking show.
As much as he’d hated it, Spencer had smiled and shook the hand of Senator Kane while the man commented on how much he’d enjoyed the new bartender’s suggestion of bourbon. Who knew Utah could produce something so smooth?
It wasn’t a bottle Spencer had ordered. But there it was on the shelf... and it could not have been there unless Klara had brought it downstairs.
At the end of the night he’d cornered her and made her explain herself.
Without pause, she’d said, “I shopped from the better inventory upstairs. Maxine was fine with it. I’ll restock what I borrowed when I place Black Light’s next order.” And then the woman who had
smiled at every last guest at her bar dared to keep her expression stony, handing him a sheet of paper with pencil notes scribbled across it. “This is the early list of all the things wrong with your bar.”
After hours of work with no break, Klara’s red lipstick had worn off, her nose and forehead had a slight sheen, but her hair was still pin straight and smooth. It was so smooth it hung over her breasts when she put a casual elbow on the bar between them to walk him through her bullet points.
When Klara had gone home after his gruff silences, Spencer found that damn paper in his hand and read over it point by point, having no recollection what on earth she’d said. All he could remember was that there were exactly three freckles on various parts of her face, one on her neck, and a small scar above her left breast.
She’d smelled of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle.
Hearing not one but two unwelcome women in his club, Spencer stood back in the shadows, eavesdropping with no shame.
“Maxine, you know I’m taking a huge risk for you here. Giving up my place with Jack Varens—which pissed him off, I might add—coming to a bar where my regulars can’t follow me. I can lose a lot of ground if this gig flops. And its crystal fucking clear Spencer Cook does not want me on his staff. The man hates me.”
Maxine was ready to make the hard sell. “He needs you. He just doesn’t know it. Without you, Spencer doesn’t have any actual service talent down here. The guests might come to play, but if their other needs aren’t met, Black Light might not remain as elite as Jaxson desires. If this place goes south it will ricochet to Runway. Get their shit straightened out, train the staff. You don’t have to like him, Klara. I get it. He’s an asshole. Worst case scenario, you get them set up for success and then I’ll bring you in upstairs.”
