by Susan Arden
God, how long had it been since he’d seen Val? He’d gotten past their harsh and hasty break-up, along with her quitting her job at the club, by diving into his work. He was well past wondering what she was up to in Austin. He bit the end of his thumb, tamping down the sting of her laughter when she’d admitted to faking her way through playing the part of a sub, and that their relationship had been a complete farce.
Shit, it was the humiliation he still had trouble dealing with. The same struggle he battled each time he caught sight of the red leather sub dress with metal rivets and chains. She’d sent an email months ago, saying that she’d forgotten the dress and to hold onto it, stating that someone would be by to pick it up. He’d like nothing more than to set a torch gun to it, and to never ever see another red dress again.
Opening his eyes, he gritted his teeth and scratched the side of his face, dragging his fingers over the stubble along his jaw, and shook his head. Christ Almighty. The books weren’t going to do themselves, and that meant he had to get his ass in gear. Buckling down, he opened and organized the bills into stacks and got his head into figuring out if they’d turn a profit this month. It would have been easy to hire a bookkeeper for a routine business. But given that some of their vendors included a retailer of satin sheets, a supplier of erotic lingerie for their club shop, as well an online outlet that stocked the usual sexual paraphernalia required, he wasn’t keen on more loose talk about his club.
Members were heavily screened and signed contracts, including an ironclad confidentiality agreement. Guests were admitted only after completing a temporary admission form. What went down at the S & L didn’t leave, not without threat of a lawsuit. Tight-knit and closemouthed is how he and Pen ran this place. Except if he didn’t get the bills paid, they’d run out of clean sheets and towels.
Hours later, the sound of music and laughter from downstairs reminded him that the club had opened. He’d untangled the club’s finances. A neat stack of checks had been written to cover vendors, and his bank account wasn’t suffering. He might not be rolling in dough, but he was well into the black. He sat back with a satisfied grunt and stretched, unfurling his long legs and letting each boot come down with a loud thud against the floor to the side of the desk. Staring out the window at the sunset skies, he contemplated throwing back a shot of Jack. A knock sounded at his office door, a sure sign that things were heating up.
“Yeah?” he called out, pushing out of the chair and going to open the door.
“Got yourself sorted out?” Sam, the head bartender, leaned against the doorway.
“Finally. What’s up?” Brandon asked. Tonight he felt in a surly mood, and those types of nights never ended well.
“Need your attention downstairs, on the double.” Sundays were never easy around here and Sam, who normally wore a shit-eating grin, stood there and frowned.
“What happened?” he barked.
“Naw. This problem you’d better see for yourself.” Sam uncrossed his arms and made to leave.
Oh, fuck. That wasn’t good. Brandon growled, “Don’t be such a pussy.”
“Dude, say what you will. I have seen you in action and this ain’t one of those ‘go and shoot the messenger’ kinda deals. I did my part by coming and getting you.”
“Holy shit. Then who the hell is at the root of this issue?” He carefully skirted around authenticating an issue as a true problem. Without laying eyes on a situation—any situation—he’d learned early on, defining things had a tendency to make them real and never real in a good way. Cattle were livestock, not pets. Connections were acquaintances, not friends. And absolutely always, lays were women, not girlfriends. On the last one, he’d been burned and would never in the future make the messed up mistake of confusing the two terms, especially when it came to leather-dress-wearing women.
“Marty.” Only now did Sam let a wide grin overtake his face. Jackass. “And no, he’s not working the door or the bar or the floor or security. This is a membership problem.”
“Issue!” Brandon pushed his Stetson back on his head and inhaled. “A membership issue. You got that?”
“Yeah. Issue. I also got to get back to bar. We’re busy tonight.”
“Fine. See you down there.” Brandon sucked in a retort about dusting liquor bottles as payback but that was Pen’s domain. That shot of Jack sounded better and better.
What the hell? After all, this was his TGIF. He walked back to his desk, yanked open his bottom drawer and grabbed the bottle by the neck. He uncapped it and poured a liberal finger or two into his empty coffee mug. He drained the shot of whiskey and replaced the bottle inside his drawer. Setting his hat firmly on his head, at an angle that made it difficult for anyone to see the direction of his eyes, he left his office, slamming the door.
He tramped down the stairs looking for Marty, a thirty-something injured bull-riding-rodeo-king. Marty had recently settled a huge lawsuit against an arena and, needed something to do to fill his time. He wasn’t a loud talker. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, and knew how to size up everything, from large animals down to fast-talking women. The man was dead-on when it came to red flagging potential membership applicants. Marty had been head of membership since the place opened, and Sam was right. He’d never veered away from the regulations and never needed help in revoking membership. Not once had Marty ever needed to see him in a hurry.
There were only a few S & L rules, and each was black and white. No one could pretend forgetting them, they were so goddamn simple to memorize. The membership rule amounted to one: only he or Pen granted membership. Anyone who broke a club rule was shown the door, and his or her membership cancelled. Three other club rules, starting with put your hands on another member without permission and you’re done. No guns, knives, or weapons of any sort on the premises. Keep your mouth shut about member’s names and the activities that occur within the club. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Up ahead he met Marty’s wide eyes. He waved Brandon over, but instead of staying put, Marty limped across the bar to meet him. “Over here,” he said and got his cane tangled up in one of the chairs. “Hold on.”
“What’s got you going?” Brandon scanned the bar area. Nothing looked unusual. The tables were filled, the bar was busier than a hornet’s nest, and the staff along the halls were taking reservations and handing out keys. Regular Sunday night buzz, plus Marty, sweating.
They entered the membership office and Brandon stopped short. “Excuse me. May I help you?” His eyes widened when the two blond heads turned around to face him. Mirror images. Identical. Esme and Selma. A bad dream come to life.
“We’re back,” one of the girls said, smiling.
He turned to look at Marty and grimaced. “What are they doing here?” he asked in a voice deadly low.
Marty flapped his hands. “Not my doing. Pen’s idea.”
“Brandon! We need your help,” one twin exclaimed while the other poked Marty in the ribs.
“Stop that.” His manager swung his arms. “Keep your hands to yourself. Do you understand me?”
“We didn’t mean anything by it,” one girl said, and pouted.
Shit, this better not have anything to do with Pen’s previous texts. Brandon exhaled and said, “What can I do you girls for?” He meant nothing by it, but Marty choked.
“See? We told you he was okay with us being here. Tell him, Brandon.” The twins took two hurried steps toward him.
“No. That’s not what I said.” He pushed his hands out in front of him as though he was stopping a charging bull.
“I knew it,” Marty said. “You both lied, wasting my time, and now Brandon’s.”
“What?” The twins shrieked and Brandon clenched his jaw.
“Stop screaming,” Marty said. “Or I’ll throw you out myself.”
“Why would you do that, Mr. Keller?” Both girls’ eyes were wide and their chins quivered. “We haven’t done a thing.”
Brandon almost felt sorry for the girls—for a secon
d. “Let’s all calm down. This is getting out of control.” He’d broken untamed horses during the week and they weren’t near as much trouble as these spoiled girls.
“Really? So we’re on for tonight. Take a picture of us, Mr. Keller.” One of them tossed her cell phone across to Marty, and then they both came at him. A cloud of floral perfume assaulted Brandon’s nostrils as he was flanked by the twins.
“Girls,” Marty snapped and then tripped, landing in one of the office chairs. He sputtered, “Let Mr. McLemore go.”
“Oh,” one of them uttered. Even this close, he still didn’t know them well enough to tell them apart. The same twin said, “Can’t take pictures. Right?”
“We forgot about the confidence promise,” the other twin said with an all-knowing wink.
Brandon’s neck tightened. “That’s confidentiality, and I don’t think we’ve gotten that far yet,” he replied, catching his manager’s expression of alarm. “You’re not members here.”
Marty silently got up and took one step, then another, to stand behind the girls. Furiously, he swung his head then stopped when one of the girls glanced over her shoulder.
That same girl announced, “We’re here for our night.”
“Night?” Brandon echoed, his brain unwilling to attach that lone word to any sort of information he might imagine about his club in relation to these two. His manager’s cutting motion across his throat had him backtracking. Universal hand signal for shut the fuck up. “You’re not spending the night here.”
The thought tore at him that these two girls, who were friends with his sister, could be standing in his club. He’d taken precautions to foil ever having friends, family, and acquaintances show up unexpectedly. What happened to the rule that no one got in except by his permission, or Pen’s?
“How’d you get in here?” Brandon sharply barked the question he should have asked when he first saw them standing down here. He pressed his fingers against the surface of the desk.
“Right here. Two club passes. Signed by Mr. Penrose.”
Brandon was certain his head was going to split open at the sight of Pen’s chicken scratch handwriting. He picked up the cards and knew he was about to hear some serious screaming. “The two of you need to leave. This isn’t the place for you.”
“What do you mean? Our money ain’t good enough for you?” Both girls stood shoulder to shoulder directly in front of him, hands on hips, their eyes narrowed in disbelief.
As Brandon’s mind spun, he heard the front door open and the sound of guests entering drew his attention. A man and woman passed by the open doorway and he nodded to them.
“Marty— ” He was about tell his manager to drive the twins home when a red dress snared his attention.
The dress clung to the lush curves of a woman with hair so black it was blue, and flashing dark almond eyes, set in an enticing face that turned toward him as though sensing his captivation. The woman was familiar and he wracked his memory as to where… fuck, when?
She regarded him with a defiantly fixed stare, as though it were some challenge to see who would look away first. Well, it sure wasn’t going to be him. Their gazes locked and he felt a mixture of lust and excitement rocket up his spine. She arched a brow, right before she turned her face away, and continued past the doorway, presumably into the bar. His pulse jumped at the brief connection and his eyes widened, wondering who she was and why the hell she was wearing red, of all colors.
Brandon rubbed the back of his neck and returned his attention to the headache in front of the desk. “Don’t be ridiculous. But there’s an application, even for passes, and as far as I recall neither of you filled one out. This isn’t personal, it’s the rules.” He’d throttle Pen the next time he saw his partner. Meanwhile, he stared at twins, assuming the look of a serious prick, and went on, “Marty will drive you home if you need a ride. Esme. Selma. No rule gets bent around here. Anyone who tries is shown the door. No. Exceptions.”
Both girls clamped their mouths shut. They exchanged glances, frowning, and he jerked his chin to Marty. “Take over here. Girls, don’t push your luck.”
“But—” one of them said.
Marty smiled. “You arguing?”
“No, sir.” The girls swung their heads as their shoulders slumped, and he half-watched them being escorted to the front door.
Brandon turned and followed the corridor leading to the main lounge, scanning the room for an hourglass figure in red leather. There she was, walking up to the bar, then carefully she slid onto a bar stool with catlike grace. Her formfitting dress hugged her shapely ass, resembling a curvaceous upside-down heart just waiting to be explored.
Damn, staring at her ass was like some sort of warped déjà vu, and his cock twitched at the thought of wickedly bending her over and pinkening her ass cheeks, then withholding from her as he made her suck on him. He watched her swivel around and their gazes clashed across the room. The skin over his body tightened and his blood heated. Christ, this definitely wasn’t the first time he’d traded scorching stares with her. He had not been this turned on in a long time…except earlier.
Wait, was she the mystery woman?
If so, she’d hidden her lustrous hair under a cap when they’d first met. Jesus, he was sure she was that girl, the one that got away. Only now, she was made-up and wearing tight, killer clothing.
If Miss Red Dress only knew the temptation she presented to a man with his type of appetite. First teasing him and running, and now returning…to do what? The services he could offer her were innumerable, considering she was sitting in a sex club. All of sudden, he couldn’t imagine her with anyone other than himself. Especially when she stared back at him like she was ready to draw a line in the sand. He clenched his jaw, imagining all sorts of erotic pleasures he might find with her—if she was as much action as her sizzling gazes.
The couple she’d followed had taken a table off to the side. So, Miss Red Dress wasn’t here as part of a ménage. Brandon crossed his arms over his chest. She didn’t look like the average Paris submissive. She sat upright, alert as though she sensed his furtive craving—a tigress on a hunt, but somehow he kept getting mixed messages.
Obviously, she was here for action, yet more and more she gave him the impression she was inexperienced in this type of setting. If anything, she appeared ready to flee again, and the thought had him flexing his muscles as though preparing for a chase. Crossing her long, tanned legs, his little temptress demurely pulled the hem of her tiny dress down. A damn shame she was trying to stop the slide of red leather up her legs.
His gaze traced a scalding path up and down her body. Mother Mary, the wild things that infiltrated his mind. Maybe all she needed was a man to command her, telling her when to move and how far. A razor-sharp rush buzzed over the surface of his body. His muscles contracted and he felt himself come alive.
He was hungry, and tonight the menu called for an expanse of golden thighs—parted and trembling, waiting on his instruction.
Chapter Two
Mia fought to appear calm, perched on the bar stool in a dress the size of a rubber band and her muscles strung tight. She slid the glass of water closer to the edge of the bar, rather than risk picking it up, and dumping it into her lap.
“Thanks so much,” she said to the bartender.
“No problem. I’ll be back with your drink,” he replied in turn.
Sure enough, her hand trembled as she lifted the glass to take a sip of water. She sucked in a piece of ice and almost choked, but she couldn’t just spit the cube back into the glass. That would be rich, and what a great impression to make on the people on either side of her. Mia, get it together!
If only she could ignore her heart kicking against her ribs. Suddenly, the idea of pulling off this farce felt like a hundred different kinds of crazy. She set her glass down, careful not to tip the darn thing, and really cause a scene.
Concentrate on observing others, she ordered herself, attempting to focus on something
other than mentally revisiting the kerfuffle of when she’d walked by the outer office and glanced in. Never in a million years had she expected to meet the blistering stare of a man who’d undressed her with a single glance. That man should come with a warning label: seriously hot stuff. He was the epitome of tall, dark, and devilish.
And of course, she’d refused to be the first one to look away. Oh, no…she just had to go and stare right back at the handsome hunk. That smart move had knocked the breath out of her and demolished all her self-talk about being able to handle whatever a sex club had to offer. One face-off with a sexy man, and she was ready to chuck her project.
Her head snapped up. Oh. Hell. No! Except, well…clearly, she had not envisioned that Spurs and Leather included the devil wearing jeans, a Stetson, and cowboy boots.
Mia’s stomach twisted into a slew of knots. He’d better not be the man who Phil Penrose, one of the owners of the club, said would give her a tour of the place—she'd never last two minutes. She should have known this would happen. She’d already seen him earlier in the parking lot, wearing a sheepskin coat and Ray-Bans, when he’d caught her snooping around outside. In that brief exchange, she’d already gotten a whiff of his incredible animal magnetism, piercing her to the core with the promise of something darkly delicious...dangerous. And not going to happen!
Only narrowly, she’d escaped being scared out of her mind by a lucky break, departing before he could approach her and demand to know her business. Mr. Penrose had assured her that no one would know she was here conducting research, except his partner. People had a tendency to clam up or posture when informed they were being watched…or studied. She needed her subjects to be relaxed. Otherwise, what would be the point?
