Undercover Encounter

by Rebecca York

  As she headed toward the right, she saw him at the end of the hall. He was talking to two women. Girls, actually. They appeared to be very young—and not happy to be in the house. One tried to brush past him, but he grabbed her by the arm and firmly turned her in the other direction. It looked like he was hurting her, or at least intimidating her. Was she here against her will? Had she changed her mind about working for Madam Dupré? Was she of legal age? All Gillian’s training and instincts made her want to go to the kid’s rescue. But she knew that her assignment came first. She’d just won herself a job here, and she had to keep it. So she headed for the back door and stepped out into the shadows of the alley, then circled the building and came out on the sidewalk.

  When she emerged into the sunshine, she automatically looked down the block. Not seeing the white van brought a sudden pang. Had Alex abandoned her, after all?

  Then the vehicle came around a corner and she sighed a breath of relief she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Of course, he couldn’t stay in the same position for hours.

  She could have gone in the other direction. Instead she walked toward the vehicle at a steady pace because she wanted Alex to know for sure that she was okay.

  She didn’t expect to actually see him. But when she was five feet from the van, the door opened and he stepped out. He was dressed in a brown uniform and was carrying a large box, as though he was getting ready to make a delivery. Their gazes locked and she felt as though they were silently exchanging a wealth of information. He looked relieved to see her. She probably looked relieved, too. And glad that he was there, although the embarrassment factor was stronger than she would have liked. She’d had a pretty intense sexual conversation with Madam Dupré, and Alex had been listening to all of it. And the madam had asked her to touch herself. What had he thought about that?

  Well, it wasn’t just Alex who had been listening in. Behind him, she could see another man standing in the doorway of the van, looking at her. She guessed he’d heard the whole thing, too.

  She raised her chin just a bit, but she didn’t stay to hear them critique her performance because she knew that somebody from the McDonough Club could be watching her. Or even getting ready to follow her. So she paused for only a moment before moving on down the block in the direction of the apartment that was supposed to be her home. It wasn’t, of course. It was just a location the madam could check out if she was doing a background investigation of her new recruit. And when she did, she’d find that Gillian Stanwick had been renting the apartment for the past eighteen months. But she’d gotten behind in her rent and the landlord had asked her to leave.

  GILLIAN WAS BACK at the McDonough Club in less than two hours, wheeling two large suitcases. Following directions, she pulled her luggage into the alley, then shifted her makeup case under her arm and knocked at the back door. This time a woman in a maid’s uniform answered.

  “My name is Wilma,” the woman said. “The madam asked me to wait for the new girl.”

  “I’m Gillian Stanwick.”

  “That’s a fancy name.”

  Gillian gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Yes. It’s like a stage name, you know. I wanted something that sounded ritzy.”

  “Well, it does. I hope you think your room lives up to the name. I’ve gotten it all ready for you.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Wilma took one of the suitcases. Gillian took the other up a back staircase to another wide hallway that was papered in blue and cream with oil paintings in gilt frames on the walls, depicting old-time New Orleans and Louisiana scenes. Probably they’d been here when the building had really been a club. Gillian’s room was number eight, halfway down the passage. The door was unlocked, and Wilma ushered her inside, standing back for her to get a good look.

  It was pretty impressive, even by hotel standards. The space was large. And the furniture looked like real Victo rian antiques, with a carved four-poster bed, a desk, a dresser, an armoire and two easy chairs in the bay window. The floorboards were wide and polished and partially covered by an Oriental carpet in tasteful blue and peach to match the spread and draperies.

  Gillian set her makeup case on the dresser, then proceeded to the bathroom where she found a huge soaking tub, a separate shower and a marble sink counter.

  “This is beautiful,” she said to Wilma.

  “Thank you,” the maid answered as though she’d personally arranged the setting. Crossing to one of the bedside tables, she opened the top drawer. “There’s a loose-leaf notebook in here that you’ll want to read. It tells about the rules and services of the house. In case you don’t get a chance to study it right away, you’re supposed to be downstairs in the lounge by seven. Madam Dupré can get a little bent out of shape if you’re late.

  “And one more thing you’d better know. Your room must be neat and ready to receive company at all times. And if you want to have a bite to eat before you start work, you can come down to the kitchen. There is no eating in your room, unless a guest requests a private supper with you.”

  “Thanks for the information,” she said, truly grateful for the quick summary. “What should I wear for the evening?”

  “Something elegant and comfortable. But not too revealing. We have visitors in the bar area who are just using the facilities downstairs. If you don’t have something suitable, there are outfits in the armoire.”

  Unlike Frank or the madam, the maid sounded friendly, but Gillian knew she had to be cautious with her—just like with everyone else here. So she offered the woman a ten-dollar tip, along with her thanks.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Gillian took off her jacket and started to drape it over the dressing table chair. Then she remembered the edict about keeping the room neat and went to the closet to hang it up. She removed her skirt, garter belt and stockings—which she put away neatly. After slipping into an elegant satin robe with a bold blue-and-green pattern, she hung up clothing that needed to go into the closet.

  After unpacking, she began walking around the room. Studying her surroundings as though she wanted to acquaint herself with the living space, she was really looking for the hidden camera that Alex had warned her might be in the room. She found it in the elaborate molding of a picture frame. Turning away, she had to suppress a shiver as she imagined Madam Dupré and Frank watching her on a monitor and commenting on her figure and her reaction to the room.

  It was almost certain that somebody was watching her now, because she was the new girl and they wanted to keep tabs on her.

  Fighting the impulse to quickly use the equipment Alex had provided to disable the camera, she picked up her makeup case and took it into the bathroom.

  “So here I am in this opulent room,” she said out loud. “Number eight. It’s very grand. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

  She was speaking for Alex’s benefit, letting him know that she was all right. But she didn’t want to overdo it. And she obviously couldn’t tell him about the camera. She searched for other electronic equipment in the bathroom. Luckily, it appeared that she’d have privacy in here.

  Now that she’d established one-way contact with him, she imagined him picturing her getting ready for her bath as she ran water in the large tub. Trying to ignore the sen sation of being observed, she filled the tub, then added scented salts and treated herself to a luxurious soak before dressing in a comfortable outfit that wasn’t too flashy.

  She was too nervous to eat much, but she figured she’d better get something into her stomach, so she headed for the kitchen.

  It was large and well equipped, because it also provided meals for the club. Two uniformed cooks were preparing food and several women were sitting around a banquet-size table along one wall. The cooks glanced up briefly and went back to work. The women studied her with interest, and she wondered how she came across in their eyes. Did they welcome her because she represented another warm body to take part of the workload, or did they see her as a rival?

  Un
til now, she hadn’t thought too much about the other residents of the house—probably because she had never liked being plunked down into a group of people new to her.

  However, she made her voice sound chipper as she said, “Hello, I’m Gillian.”

  Cindy, Pam, Babs and Dolly all bid her welcome. They all seemed to be in their twenties. All good-looking. Cindy and Dolly were blondes. Pam had brown hair and Babs was a redhead—although she suspected that all of them were playing around with hair coloring products. Babs and Pam were heavily made up. Cindy and Dolly seemed to go for a natural look.

  They were eating a meal of chicken salad, cottage cheese and fruit compote, and Gillian took small portions of each, picking at the food while she answered questions about her background, using the script that Alex had given her. For the most part, the women seemed friendly. Like gals she might have met at a health club or some reading group. Yeah, sure. She couldn’t stop herself from picturing them going over to Bourbon Street Libations to pick up drugged patrons.

  How did that work, exactly? Did Jack drug a mark, then give the madam a call? Or did some of the women hang around there? Certainly that wouldn’t be the new girl’s job. They’d want to be sure of her before she got that kind of assignment. Or would that be part of her initiation, like stripping for the madam.

  Before they could get very far into the introductions, Madam Dupré herself stepped into the room. There was an immediate drop in the conversation, which picked up again as Dolly asked a faltering question about Gillian’s favorite television shows.

  She scrambled for an answer, drawing a blank at first—then thinking to say that she liked most anything on the style channel—which drew agreement from around the table. And some comments about the gay male decorators and their stylists who were on some of the shows. Pam told her that the TV room was in the basement, along with the gym.

  The chatter became less frantic when the madam left the vicinity, leading Gillian to the conclusion that their employer made everyone nervous.

  Around quarter to six, most of the women stood up. Gillian did, too. They’d be getting to work soon, she thought with a burst of panic.

  “Do you want me to show you around?” Pam offered.

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  The brunette led her to the doorway of the dining room where some members of the club were already eating dinner and then into the parlor where they would meet customers. As they stepped back into the hall, she gave Gillian an appraising look, then murmured, “I can tell you’re nervous. Just go with the flow.”

  “Um,” Gillian answered, then added, “Thanks for the reassurance, but I don’t want to mess up on this job.”

  “You’ll do fine,” the other woman assured her. “You’ve got the looks and the figure for it. And the experience, I gather. Just be willing to accommodate the customers the way you’ve learned to do, and you’ll be a big success,” Pam answered.

  Oh great, Gillian thought. The last part was going to be a real problem.

  “Do you ever have any trouble?” she whispered. “I mean, with the johns.”

  “This is an expensive place. So most of the guys here are very refined, you know. Once in a while, somebody gets drunk. But Frank takes care of him.”

  Gillian thought about that for a moment. “How does he know there’s a problem?”

  “There’s a panic button to the right of your headboard. Didn’t anyone show it to you?”

  “No. Thanks for the tip,” Gillian answered with sincerity.

  Back in her room she checked out the call device and was relieved to find it where Pam had said it would be. Then she filled some of the time by taking her special vitamin, almost dropping the caplet in the sink as she fumbled with the bottle.

  “Smooth, Seymour,” she muttered, then remembered that Seymour wasn’t supposed to be her name. Probably Alex had registered the slip. Damn him. It was bad enough trying to keep up this charade without knowing he was listening to every sound she made.

  Biting back a groan, she grabbed her makeup case and painted some color onto her pale face, working slowly and carefully. Next, she turned on the special piece of equipment that would jam the signal from the camera in her room. At least it was supposed to work that way. She couldn’t be sure. All she could do was hope that the surveillance was disabled. If not, she was in deep kimchi.

  Trying to keep her mind in neutral, she dressed carefully in underwear that she’d purchased just for this assignment. It looked sexy, but you really couldn’t see through it, she told herself as she turned first one way and then the other, watching the grim-faced woman in the mirror. Next, she selected a silky green wrap dress with a ruffled, low-cut neckline. At seven she slipped on her shoes and murmured, “Time to go down to the parlor and meet our guests.”

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Frank was just opening the front door for two men in business suits. And in the parlor, several of the girls were already chatting with more guests as though they were at an elegant cocktail party. On the surface, it made a very pretty picture, Gillian thought, struggling to view the scene like a disinterested observer.

  Madam Dupré was standing by the mantelpiece, talking to a distinguished-looking white-haired man in a navy-blue blazer and gray slacks. With his subtle pin-striped tie and crisp white shirt, he looked as though he was going to attend a business meeting as soon as he concluded his business at this whorehouse.

  When the madam gestured for her to join the conversation, she crossed the room, glad that she could stay on her feet without swaying.

  “I was telling Jimmy about you. And he expressed an interest in meeting you.”

  Jimmy No Last Name. Well, what had she expected? That on her first night she’d be handed evidence of exactly which prominent men were patronizing this establishment? And who was interested in drugs along with sexual favors.

  “How nice.” Gillian gave the man a brilliant smile, making the assumption that he was an important customer. He looked like he was in his fifties, with a ruddy complexion and clear blue eyes. And his blazer and slacks appeared to be custom-tailored.

  “I understand you’re new here,” he said, inspecting her face and figure with frank interest, making her heart start to pound.

  “Yes. I’m so lucky to have been offered a place with Madam Dupré,” she answered.

  The madam acknowledged the comment with a nod.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Jimmy asked, and she was thankful that he wasn’t going to rush her right upstairs.

  “I’d love some white wine.”

  She walked with him to the bar and waited while another tuxedoed servant fixed the drinks. Hers was weak, she noted. But she wasn’t surprised. They chatted for a few minutes, but her brain was so paralyzed that she could only answer automatically. Then Jimmy was asking if she’d like to go upstairs and she managed not to choke on the swallow of wine in her mouth.

  Dredging up a smile, she answered, “Yes.” As she turned and led him across the room again, her heart was banging so hard inside her chest, she hoped it wasn’t making the front of her dress flutter.

  She had the feeling that all conversation in the room had stopped, that all eyes were turned on her. That was nonsense, she told herself. Yet she knew that some of the women and Madam Dupré were noting her exit.

  Conscious of the man who walked close behind her, she led the way to the room she’d vacated only minutes earlier.

  The last time she’d looked, it had seemed spacious. When she closed the door now, it felt like a prison cell. Only, the appointments were a lot more luxurious.

  The man who had been introduced as Jimmy took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, then started loosening his tie.

  Gillian cleared her throat. “Are you visiting the city?” she asked, hearing the breathy quality of her own voice.

  “I’m here frequently. I like to relax at the McDonough Club.”

  “Oh,” she answered, wondering what he’d say if she inf
ormed him that this posh club was the center of a drug distribution ring. Of course, for all she knew, he was one of the men who had financed the latest shipment.

  “I like your aftershave,” she said, instantly thinking how stupid that must sound.

  “Thank you.” He gave her a direct look. “Why don’t you get comfortable? I’d like to see you without that dress.”

  Well, that was pretty direct, she thought as she fumbled with the tie that held the front panels together, glad that she didn’t have to contend with buttons.

  Striving for a calm she didn’t feel, she laid the dress over the arm of a chair, then turned back to face her customer. She was as covered up as she’d be in a bikini swimsuit, she told herself, yet the way his eyes roved over her body made goose bumps rise on her arms.

  He was unbuttoning his shirt, which he tossed on top of her dress. For an old guy, he didn’t look half bad, she thought with a kind of strange detachment. Probably he worked out at some athletic club. Or maybe he had a personal trainer.

  “You do keep yourself in good shape,” she said.

  “I try.”

  She turned to pull back the coverlet, then stared in fas cination at the expanse of white sheet she’d exposed. Finding her voice again, she said, “I like to start with a sensuous massage, to get you nice and relaxed.”

  “That’s an interesting touch.”

  “I hope you’ll like it. I’m very skilled with my fingers.”

  When he chuckled appreciatively, she reached for the jar of cream she’d left on the dresser.

  IN THE VAN around the corner, Alex sat with every muscle in his body rigid as he listened to the conversation in Gillian’s room. She’d been gone for about twenty minutes. Now she was back—with a guy obviously primed for action. A guy who must have zeroed in on her with the speed of a hawk diving at a rabbit.

  It took every ounce of discipline he possessed not to jump out of the van and head for the McDonough Club.