The Nightingale Trilogy: An Alpha Billionaire Romantic Suspense

by Cynthia Dane

  It was business, but it was also personal. Monica was a sub. A Masterless sub, but a sub nonetheless. After spending the past ten years of her life living the existence of a full time sub, she knew nothing else. So when her last relationship ended, opening such a house of ill repute was all that mattered.

  The Château was not a brothel. Everything was legal, although legalities were stretched. Police came by often to inspect the goings-on. Monica was ready for them too. So were some of her girls – as it turned out, most of the officers had some Dom in them.

  “Chef says dinner is going as scheduled,” Sylvia said, waltzing in as if she were Monica’s #2. She likes to think she is. The girls were all equal in her eyes, although petty squabbles over who had the best patron and who would retire the richest happened during downtimes and days off. “Anything else I can do?”

  “Prepare for your patron.” Sylvia couldn’t seriously think she was dressed for success that night. Her patron, Mr. Carlisle, was too used to Sylvia’s aesthetic. He probably didn’t know it, but he would soon grow tired if Sylvia didn’t mix it up once in a while. It’s my job to know that for him. Men liked it when women anticipated their needs and wants before they even had an inkling of them. Mind reader, they called her. No, Monica was observant, and many men were the same in lots of ways.

  The hour passed quickly. In the end Monica was almost the one to embarrass them all when she wasn’t immediately there to meet Mr. Carlisle in the foyer. She was busy touching up the last of her makeup in the Ready Room at the top of the stairs. The Château was so large that it was ridiculous to expect any of the girls to run between their rooms and the front of the building. The Ready Room was where they kept backup supplies and could clean up if necessary. When Mr. Carlisle was announced, Monica nearly stabbed herself in the eye with her mascara.

  She hurried to smooth out her dress, fluff her hair, and make sure she was steady in her shoes. When she reached the top of the grand staircase, however, she was the goddess of poise and the kind of grace her last Master expected of her. Don’t think of him here. To conjure that man’s image in her mind was to invite death into her heart.

  “Mr. Carlisle,” she greeted, her hand extending to shake his. “You’re early tonight.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience.” He removed his outer coat and handed it to Sylvia, who took it with a graceful bow and hung it up in the wide closet by the door. “My guest canceled earlier today, so I came when I was ready. Don’t mind me, Madam. Sylvia will take good care of me.” He wrapped his arm around her midsection when she returned, planting a kiss on her cheek. “She always does.”

  Still, Monica could not let them go without making sure Mr. Carlisle’s needs were tended to. Eventually she passed him to Sylvia’s care and escorted them to the Receiving Room adjacent to the dining room. The last thing Monica saw before closing the door was Sylvia pouring her patron a glass of liquor from one of the Château’s many wet bars.

  “Mr. Witherspoon and Mr. Warren.” The doorman’s voice was steady. It helped that he was also the primary bouncer should a client get too rough. “Here to receive their salutations.”

  “Shit,” Monica muttered. This is what she hated about them all showing up the same night. She wouldn’t rest until they left the next morning… if she got to rest at all. She also had no idea who this Mr. Warren was, and meeting new men in the Château could be risky. However, he was apparently the guest of Mr. Witherspoon, the patron of another girl named Chelsea. Sure enough, Chelsea, with her platinum blond hair and red cocktail dress, was there to take the coats of both her patron and his guest.

  Sam Witherspoon was a nondescript man of many, many means. Old money. Stinking rich money that nobody could remember the origins of, but it was probably nefarious, and thus best buried in the annals of history. The man had a balding head but did his best to look presentable in a crisp Italian suit and some of the nicest cologne Monica had the pleasure of smelling.

  His guest, on the other hand, was a stark contrast.

  “This is my old friend Henry Warren,” Mr. Witherspoon said with a flourish to the tall man behind him. “We went to St. Mary’s together. I told you about St. Mary’s, right, Madam?”

  Monica nodded. “Of course. Home of the best lacrosse team this coast has ever seen.”

  “That’s right!” Monica hadn’t remembered jack. Mr. Witherspoon was the type of man who lived for his glory days, even if those days were in a private high school for elite sons. Almost all those boys played lacrosse. And every one of those schools had “the best lacrosse team on that coast.”

  “You were introducing me to Mr. Warren?”

  “Oh, of course, forgive me.” Mr. Witherspoon clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder, which required an upward stretch to grab. “Henry and I are in similar fields of business. He was in town this weekend, so I told him he should come and live like a king for a night.”

  As long as he doesn’t expect anything. With all the other patrons there, the girls were booked for the whole night. Usually guests could be relegated to girls whose patrons hadn’t shown up, assuming they liked each other enough. The girls worked there willingly, and if they didn’t like a prospective client, they were allowed to decline an invitation to rendezvous in her room, a lounge, or the crassly called Dungeon. Of course, a girl who turned down too many clients wasn’t any good to Monica. Yet there was one girl, Yvette, who turned down almost everybody except her rich patron who more than paid for her to stay there. She really should move out. As much as Monica liked the money, she liked having a thriving business more. A thriving business meant girls seeing many clients for spankings and dirty talk.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Warren. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

  “Please. Call me Henry.”

  His voice surprised her, mostly because she was expecting something lighter from this man. But Mr. Warren’s – Henry’s – voice was deep and clean, the sort of voice that sounded wonderful to fall asleep to while also giving a vigorous lecture that stirred the hearts of passionate students.

  Melting. That was a good way to describe it, as if the tone of his voice melted on the air and nobody could make it solid again. Why would they? It was perfect the way it was.

  “Henry. Of course.” Monica released his hand and averted her eyes from the blond hair that was so dark it was almost brown, and from the strong jawline that likewise melted in a seamless line to join his face and throat. Truth be told, most of the men who walked through that door weren’t much to look at. They were rich, charming, and sweet outside of the bedroom, but Monica would call few of them handsome. Maybe in their own ways, but… this Henry was the first man she met in her Château who made her heart flutter.

  “Come this way, please.” Monica stepped away and motioned for the guests to follow.

  One by one the other patrons and their guests arrived. The only other surprise that night was a female guest – to make it an even bigger surprise, it was the wife of the patron. Why does this surprise me? Monica knew which patrons were married. It wasn’t her place to judge as long as the men understood the risks, but to have one be open with his wife about a submissive mistress was surprising. To bring her to one of the monthly banquets? Not until they sat the table and she watched this woman of good standing leer into Miss Grace’s cleavage did Monica finally understand. I’ll have to consider couples as patrons. Surely there was even more money in that, if the girl was up for it. Grace was bisexual. She would probably be up for it.

  “Gentlemen… and ladies.” Monica stood at the head of the table, wineglass in hand as she forced herself to look taller. Yet she was a petite woman in a room full of tall vixens and handsome strangers. Even in her five-inch heels she had to stand on the tips of her toes. If only I we were 5’11 instead of 5’1. “My extreme gratitude for everyone who could make it here tonight. As you are probably aware, this is the first time we’ve had all five patrons here for one of our festivities. Please, don
’t be shy. Eat up, drink up, and make plenty of merry.” She raised her glass, and most of the guests and girls did as well.

  Monica couldn’t rest during dinner. Her job was far from over, and she was aware that every time someone turned to her it was to either get her guidance or to ask a question. Of course, few people actually talked to her outside of the maids bringing food in and out. And they only talked to her because she made them tell her everything. They would lean down, whisper into her ear, and then depart again, their pristine uniforms fluttering in the air.

  Most of the patrons and guests didn’t know one another, but Monica partially arranged these meetings to fix that. Inspiration came from the old courtesan houses of Shanghai and beyond, back in the glory days of the early 20th century when Chinese and Western businessmen alike came together to drink liquor, ogle pretty girls, and talk business. How many professional relationships were forged in those dark and perfumed walls? Monica didn’t fancy herself a matchmaker of capitalism, but she did fancy herself a fantastic hostess, and one who could make all her guests feel relaxed, even in the presence of strangers.

  Sure enough, halfway through the first course, Mr. Carlisle introduced himself to Mr. Witherspoon, and the two of them ignored their girls for the majority of dinner to discover how much they had in common. The only time Chelsea got any attention was when she was asked to cut up Mr. Witherspoon’s food and feed it to him. Nobody thought anything of it.

  Well, nobody except for the man sitting between him and Monica.

  By some happenstance Mr. Warren – Henry – sat to her left, politely staring at the spectacle going on while a young woman fed an older man his food. A few other people caught on to his staring, and Monica was prompted to say, “Do you know where you are, Mr. Warren?”

  “To tell you the truth, Sam only said that this was where his girlfriend lived and we were invited to a party thrown by her, well…”

  “Oh, do tell what he’s saying I am.” Monica had been told many things. Madam, Mistress, Pimp. Those words didn’t come from the people one would assume, either. The neighbors called her Madam while the disgruntled clients called her pimp. The police didn’t call her anything but “treading on thin ice.”

  “He said you were like a mother.”

  Monica’s fork clattered on her plate as she held her fingers to her mouth and failed at hiding a chuckle. Haven’t been called that one before. Strange, since most ancient cultures referred to heads of such houses as one form of mother or another. Hearing it in English, however, was something else entirely. “I’m sorry if you were unprepared for my Château, Mr. Warren.”

  “I told you to call me Henry.”

  “Fine. Mr. Henry.” What? Monica was the head of this household and business. She had to keep some standards, no matter what guests wanted. Does he want a girl for the evening? Monica made a mental note to start hiring part-time girls for weekends and these sorts of gatherings. They lived close enough to the city that girls wouldn’t mind coming up the mountain a couple days a week to make nearly a thousand dollars. Monica hadn’t thought they were necessary until now. “The Château is for many things. For many fantasies.”

  He glanced at Mr. Witherspoon talking about stock prices while a pretty young woman fed him bits of steak and vegetables. “I can see that. Apparently my friend has discerning tastes.”

  “How nice of you to say so.” Monica would take even blanketed compliments about her girls to heart. “All our girls here are trained in various forms of pleasure.”

  “I see.”

  Monica put her utensils down and folded her finger beneath her chin. “Do you not care for these sorts of tastes, Mr. Henry? I would have hoped that Mr. Witherspoon informed you as to what goes on here before inviting you.”

  “Perhaps he did tell me, and I wasn’t paying attention. Regardless, it would be rude of me to say anything alarming.”

  “If you are uncomfortable, I can secure you a ride back to the city.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Henry picked up his knife and stared at his untouched steak – medium rare, as requested. “Also, I can cut my own meat fine.”

  Suited Monica. She was neither Henry’s sub nor his mother. Been a while since I cut a man’s food for him. In her last relationship, that’s all she did some days.

  The both of them ate in silence for a few minutes while men chatted and women refilled wine and water glasses. When Monica spoke again, she directed her words right at Henry, who snapped his eyes away from his plate to look at her. “Are you married, Mr. Henry?”

  “Hm? No. Afraid not.”

  “Afraid?”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to say, right? My family would like to see me married as soon as possible. I’m the only son in my father’s line.”

  “I see. So much pressure.” A common story. For whatever reason, the local bigshot families weren’t into big families. They also tended to be old fashioned, with daughters marrying into other families while sons strived to take over the family business, even if they weren’t suited for it. Monica didn’t know anything more about Henry than what he already shared. Maybe he was perfect for his family in every way but his lack of a wife. “And you aren’t into the lifestyle?”

  “Lifestyle?”

  Monica gestured to the way her girls doted on their patrons, making them happy and ensuring they would keep paying their monthly fees to call these girls their girlfriends. “Maybe not exactly like this… but something like it.”

  “You mean the whole BDSM thing.”

  “Why, yes, I do.”

  Henry neither bristled nor smiled as he ate his last piece of steak. “Question for the ages, isn’t it? What about you, Miss…”

  “Monica. Monica Graham.”

  “Ms. Monica. You into this sort of thing?”

  “Of course I am. Do you think I could run this sort of establishment if I didn’t understand the nuances of such relationships?”

  “I suppose not. Excuse me for asking.”

  Monica wasn’t ashamed of her tastes. She had been involved in the lifestyle for years. It was second nature to her, and her preference. Why not run a place like this if I have to run a business? There are far worse ways to make a living. She gave herself a warm bed, healthy food, and good company most nights. That was more than many women could expect in their whole lives. I’ve been through a lot to get here, but I’m here! She wasn’t ashamed. She refused to be ashamed.

  Dessert and more drinks were served in the nearby salon. More conversation flowed with the liquor, loosening up more than tongues. Monica finally relaxed a little. Things are going well. Soon enough the pairs of lovers would retire to the girls’ rooms, or they would go with their guests into other rooms to continue conversations, games, and whatever else they decided to get into that night. It wasn’t unusual for a patron to share his girl with a guest… sort of like Grace’s patron, who continued to rub his wife’s thigh and make her blush behind her glasses of champagne. It didn’t take long for the three of them to excuse themselves for the evening and head up to Grace’s room for their playtime.

  Soon the only three left in the room were the Witherspoon party. I’m jealous. She had watched everyone but Chelsea exit the room with men – and women – draped on their bodies, whispering sweet promises to be anything but sweet that night. It’s been too long. Monica’s last relationship ended months ago, and she hadn’t touched or been touched since. A woman’s heart began to ache a lot longer before that. Especially when that woman is in love.

  Around ten she got up and excused herself from the party. The trio of revelers bade her goodnight, and Monica finally had time to wash up for the evening and sleep. Or at least that was her plan until she caught a strange look from Henry, who sat on a chaise lounge with an empty glass in his hand. The glimpse he gave her stopped her in her tracks – as if his blue eyes personally bade her farewell.

  “Good night, Mr. Henry,” Monica said with a slow nod of t
he head. “Take care here.” He did not break his gaze as she left the room, latching the salon door behind her. She waited until she was alone by the grand staircase to shiver. Whether pleasurably or in fright from recent memories, Monica did not know.

  Chapter 2

  Lock & Key

  Perhaps Monica’s worst habit was her fixation on current events. No, not politics. No, not the economy – although she had to keep up with that one in order to know what her clients were talking about. No, she liked to read the police reports, the terrible crimes appearing on Page 1, and any sort of atrocity she could get her hands on.

  She picked up the habit late into her previous relationship, when things were dark and she wondered if she would make it another day without hurting herself in some way – or if her ex would kill her. It’s nice to know that other people have it worse than me. What a morbid thought. Monica couldn’t help it, however, as she sat at the table early the next morning, eating her breakfast of eggs and a bagel. Page 1 had a story about a man killed during an attempted robbery in his own home. “Was like my son,” his neighbor said. “Such a kind, charitable man. I don’t understand why something like this happened to him. Who would do such a thing?”