by Alyson Chase
Taking her elbow, he guided her out of the room and to the top of the stairs. “Now, I believe you said there was a problem in one of the rooms that you wanted my opinion on?”
She looked like she wanted to argue further, so Max trotted down the steps. A temporary retreat was in order.
She followed more slowly. “It wasn’t your opinion I needed, but your authorization. I have enough opinions of my own.”
“Indeed.” Max smiled. She wasn’t lying. “Why don’t we go to the site of the problem and you can tell me all about it.”
Squaring her shoulders, Mrs. Bonner marched across the main room, taking a sharp detour when Lord Halliwell spied her. The earl lowered his champagne glass and gazed after the manager, his eyes as sad as a hound dog’s. Max couldn’t fault the man’s taste. But his infatuation was highly irritating.
They turned down the back hallway. At the door to the Plain Room, she hesitated before easing it open and peeking inside. Max followed her in. “Don’t you know which rooms are being used?” All the private rooms in the club were styled differently, with singular needs in mind. This room was bare except for a narrow bed with a thin mattress. Fist-sized iron hooks were spaced evenly along the wall at eye-level. It could have been a monk’s chamber.
“Yes, but you never know if one of the members is going to slip in without requesting a room.” Mrs. Bonner gave him a sidelong glance. “We at The Black Rose are here to cater to the customer’s every need. And spontaneity is always welcome.” She gave him a wide smile, all teeth and no sincerity.
“Christ, is that the pitch you give to potential new customers?” He shook his head. “No wonder we haven’t increased membership these past months. Profits have only increased because you’ve reduced costs.”
“Yes, it’s past time you found a manager with a brighter disposition. I will happily relinquish my position as my promised term has ended.” She paused, looking at him expectantly.
He gave her a small smile but said nothing. She was like a terrier with a bone on that issue.
With a huff, she strode to the corner of the room and the bucket of water on the ground. She hefted it up and staggered.
In two steps Max was at her side, taking the bucket. “Where?”
She pointed to the middle of the room, and he set it down as directed. Colleen dropped to her knees on the wood plank floor. “I’ve noticed that more of our members have small injuries after leaving this room than any other. Mainly cut knees. I’d like your permission to install a carpet.”
“That wouldn’t be wise.”
She plunged her hand into the bucket and pulled out a rag. Frowning, she scrubbed at a mark on the oak floor. “Why ever not? By what we’d save in bandages alone in a year, it will be worth it. And several of the other rooms have carpets.”
A pyramid of tapers lay piled on a shelf built into the wall, and Max picked one up. He lit it from the oil lamp by the door. “Did it never occur to you that the hard floor is one of the attractions of this room?”
She looked up from her scrubbing and drew her eyebrows together. “No. Why would it be?”
He dropped to a squat and lowered the candle, trying to discern what the stain was. “It’s not nearly as much fun making someone crawl on a plush carpet as it is upon a hardwood floor. Or stone. If there wasn’t a little suffering, what would be the point?” He dragged his eyes from the lovely flush traveling from her face down her neck and disappearing behind her high collar. “What is this? And why isn’t the maid cleaning it up?”
“Do you truly need me to explain the different excretions that produced this?” she asked tartly.
Max wrinkled his nose. “Leave it for the maid. This isn’t the manager’s job.”
“Mrs. Hudson’s back is ailing. I told her I’d finish the cleaning.” Mrs. Bonner scrubbed until a foot-wide circle of oak was stained dark from the soapy water. She tossed the rag back in the bucket. “Can we at least sand the floor down? I’m tired of wiping up blood.”
Grasping her hand, he pulled her to her feet. “Yes. But I guarantee we’ll get complaints.”
“I don’t understand you people.” She tightened her mouth, as though tasting spoilt milk. “Why do you do this?”
He stroked her skin with his thumb. Turning her hand over, he ran his fingers up and down her palm. Her hands weren’t the pampered ones of a lady. Small calluses marred the surface, badges of hard work. He traced a line up her palm to the vein in her wrist. Her pulse raced beneath his fingertips.
“Do you sincerely want to know?” Max asked. “Or are you merely expressing your disdain for what you don’t understand?”
“I …” She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and let it go with a pop. “I’m curious,” she whispered.
Max’s body tightened. It wasn’t smart engaging in bed sport with a business associate, but Max didn’t pretend to great intelligence. Cradling her hand, he lifted her wrist to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the inside. He slid the tip of his tongue between his lips and tasted the salt of her skin. She hissed in a breath. Taking his lips away, he blew gently over the moistened flesh.
“You asked earlier what my personal predilection is.” He stared into her eyes. “May I show you?”
“Show me?” she asked, voice wobbling.
Blood raced to his groin. He’d known she was attracted to him. Seen it in the unconscious way she slightly parted her legs when he sat next to her at her desk. In the delightful flush that would cover the freckles on her face when they stood too close. But every time that attraction was confirmed, he went hard. Every damn time. “All your clothes will remain on,” he assured her. “Just a small taste to show you what I like.”
Hesitantly, she nodded. Her gaze followed his hand as he raised the candle above her wrist. She bit her lower lip, the plump flesh going pink around her white teeth, and Max’s budding erection went full-blown. Fuck, he loved the slight apprehension of a woman when she didn’t know what was coming. Her restless anticipation. He craved the way a woman tensed as she waited for the heat, and her shudder as the nip of pain slid into pleasure.
But apprehension could turn into fear given too much time. And that was an emotion he never wanted Mrs. Bonner to feel. With an efficiency he thought she’d appreciate, Max tipped the candle and dropped a neat splash of white wax on the spot he’d kissed.
Her hand jerked in his hold, and she hissed in a breath. Keeping their gazes locked, Max blew over the area again, soothing away any sting.
“You drip wax on women?”
“Yes.” He traced a line across her wrist. His fingertip slipped across the slick wax to her soft skin. “Wax, and I also play with fire.”
“How do you play with fire?” She tugged her hand free with a wary look at the candle flame.
He licked his thumb and forefinger and snuffed out the flame, enjoying the small hiss. “Don’t worry. The wax demonstration is as far as we go for now.” Wax was a good introduction into fire play. Gave a hint of the heat, the pleasure, that fire could produce. And Mrs. Bonner’s fair skin would look beautiful dripping with wax. He wondered if freckles covered more than just her face. If he could connect the dots of her body with strings of wax. His hips shifted closer to her of their own accord, his aching cock seeking her heat.
He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and let his hand rest at the nape of her neck. “But when we do play in earnest, I want you to know that the flame won’t hurt you. Not if I’m the one holding the torch. But it will make you feel more alive than you ever have in your life.”
Her breasts stilled and her eyes went dark. Max thought it was from desire, until he remembered her dead husband. And how he’d been killed. He cursed. “Forgive me, Mrs. Bonner. I’d forgotten.”
She blinked, and her forehead cleared. “Mr. Bonner. Yes, I dare say the fire didn’t make him feel so alive.” Bending, she grabbed the bucket’s handle. “A good reminder of my place. I’m a widow, and it’s best if we pretend such foolishness neve
r happened.”
Max took the bucket, disappointment that their intimate moment had ended weighing against his chest. He stopped the door before she could open it fully. “You might be a widow, but you’re still a woman. With needs and desires.” He stepped close, and a hint of lavender teased his nose. “I want to be the man to satisfy your every need.” He ached to be that man.
A flicker of self-reproach tried to ignite in his heart but he stamped it out. His past misdeeds were of no consequence to a potential liaison with Mrs. Bonner.
She turned, her breasts brushing his chest, her abdomen achingly close to his need. They were like puzzle pieces, joining together. “Thinking about what can never happen only leads to disappointment,” she said.
“So, you were considering it?” The woman wasn’t as proper as she liked to think she was. What would it be like to peel off her high-necked shirt, strip her of her petticoats, uncover the real woman beneath all her protective layers? Max had a feeling she burned hotter that any fire he’d ever struck.
“We’ll never know.” Mrs. Bonner strode down the hall to the edge of the main room. She bent her head to speak to Lucy, a woman he’d painted with wax many times before. He should turn to her. She was a professional who enjoyed her work and had no inhibitions. His prick was throbbing behind his smallclothes, needing relief. Lucy was the easy choice. Anything between him and his manager would be too complicated. Yes, he would go to Lucy and see if she was available. The chit nodded at something Mrs. Bonner said and wandered off.
Resolved, he squared his shoulders and turned in the lady-bird’s direction. His feet had other ideas and padded after Mrs. Bonner, like a dog looking for a scrap from his master. Easy was overrated. And so were brains, apparently.
Mrs. Bonner drew up short and held up her hand. “You can’t take a bucket of dirty water into a room with our guests.” She pointed towards the end of the hallway, back the way he’d come. “Leave it around the bend. Lucy has gone for a footman to come collect it.”
He complied and returned to her side. This business with Zed needed to come to a quick conclusion. If he was to be near Mrs. Bonner so often and not be able to touch her, he—
“Are you listening?” She placed her hands on her hips. “Do you agree to give me that authority?”
“Uh …” He scratched his beard. His finger got tangled in a knot, and he tried to comb it out. Blasted beard was becoming more trouble than it was worth.
She sighed. “May I have the authority to rid The Black Rose of some people in our employ? If I’m to remain here as manager, it will be necessary.”
“Necessary?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Well, helpful.”
Max glanced through the throng of people in the main room. The men were in full-dress, the women somewhere between full-dress and scandalous. He couldn’t pick out the woman she’d just spoken to among the swirl of colorful gowns. “What’s the matter with Lucy? She always seems most pleasant to me.”
Mrs. Bonner snorted, the unladylike gesture somehow made charming. “I’m sure you find all the women here ‘most pleasant.’ They are paid to ensure that members feel that way.” Turning on her heel, she strode across the main room. “But Lucy is fine. Some other workers like to push their boundaries with me. Show me disrespect. It’s almost too bad Molly brings in so much blunt. If I got rid of her, the others would fall in line. But I may have to remove some who aren’t as valuable.” As they walked, she surveyed the room with a critical eye. Max could see her counting the wineglasses, how many girls were on the floor, looking for any signs of trouble. Her face was as open and easy to read as a book.
If only the rest of the world were so apparent. There would be no need for spies.
“What’s wrong with Molly?” And which one was Molly? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t think she was one of the girls he played with.
“It’s not surprising you can’t tell them apart. Why all the girls here decided on names that end with ‘Y’, I don’t understand. Lucy, Molly, Felicity, Suzy, Daisy …” Mrs. Bonner sniffed. “Is that common of prostitutes? Do they think they’ll earn more money with such a name?”
Max shrugged. He couldn’t imagine any man giving a shit about the name of a doxy.
“Anyhow, Molly’s the one fondling that poor man’s nether region.” Mrs. Bonner shook her head, her shoulders drooping. “It’s sad what no longer shocks me. My husband would have been most ashamed.”
“You do what you have to survive,” Max said gruffly. “You have nothing to be ashamed over.”
“No, men like you feel no shame. If someone found out you were here, nothing would happen to your status in society.” She fingered the delicate chain that disappeared into her waistcoat pocket. “But every one of these girls would be publicly shunned if their occupation came to light. And if my acquaintances learned what sort of establishment I managed, I would be disgraced. It’s fortunate for me none of my sort ever come down this street, much less have the means to enter the club.” She turned reproachful eyes on him. “But don’t try to teach me about shame.”
Lord Halliwell slunk over. “My dear Mrs. Bonner.” The earl swept a dramatic leg, and Max rolled his eyes. “Can I say how ravishing you look tonight. Truly incandescent.”
Mrs. Bonner inclined her head. No feminine curtsies for her. “Thank you, my Lord. Now, if you will excuse me.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned for the door that led to her private chambers.
Lord Halliwell shot his hand out, grabbing her arm.
Little spots danced in Max’s vision, and he blinked.
“Not so hasty, my dear.” With two fingers, the earl beckoned a serving girl. “How about a glass of wine?”
“I don’t drink spirits with customers.”
“Nonsense. It’s only wine.” Halliwell pressed a glass into her hand. He slid his own hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and down her back.
Max dug his fingers into his palm until he couldn’t feel his knuckles. Is this what the women here had to deal with? He’d thought the members had more self-control, that they only pursued amenable women. The women and men who worked for the club made their money entertaining the customers, but it was well established that no one had to participate in an activity he or she didn’t wish to. Ever.
And Lord Halliwell should damn well know that.
Max stepped forward, his gaze locked on the man’s roving hand.
He didn’t see Mrs. Bonner’s hand moving until it was too late.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She swiped at the hem of the earl’s coat. “So clumsy of me. And I do believe I got some of the wine on my skirts, as well. I must go and change.” She side-stepped out of his range. “If you gentlemen will excuse me.” With shoulders thrown back, she strode away.
Max smiled grimly. The woman could take care of herself, no doubt. He turned to the earl. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t teach the sot a lesson. “Let’s go get you cleaned up. I know just where a bucket of some water is.” Clapping his hand on Halliwell’s back, he shoved the man towards the back hall.
He almost wished Mrs. Bonner hadn’t left. She would enjoy the sight of the earl cleaning himself with the filthy water.
Max looked over his shoulder, seeking out her sturdy figure. The door to her staircase was easing closed. His view of the person behind the door narrowed until it disappeared completely.
Max froze, Lord Halliwell purged from his mind.
The person closing the door to Mrs. Bonner’s private rooms hadn’t been Mrs. Bonner. Nor anyone who worked at the club.
A man Max didn’t recognize had followed his manager into her inner sanctum. And Max saw red.
Chapter Five
Colleen strode past her sitting room and stopped dead. Leaning backwards, she peered inside. The jungle of gowns and mountains of slippers had disappeared, leaving the room as tidy as her office desk. She ran to her bedchambers and pulled open the door of the first wardrobe she came to. Neat rows of gowns, organized by color,
hung inside, matching footwear lined up beneath. She opened all the wardrobes, all crammed full of impractical nonsense.
She pressed her lips together. The baron was absurd, thinking she would ever wear one of these concoctions let alone thirty of them. And if he thought a roomful of clothes made up for his oath-breaking, the man was sorely mistaken.
She traced a finger down the bodice of a silk evening gown, the fabric as soft as a rose’s petal and about the same color. What would such a gown feel like against her skin? Would she look pretty in it, or like a fool playing dress-up? She glanced one last time at the dress and closed the wardrobe door. The wife of a clock repair- and salesman didn’t wear silk. She couldn’t think of anything more absurd.
Trudging to her office, she flopped onto her chair and kicked off her threadbare slippers. She couldn’t let the daft man throw away all those clothes. The wastefulness of that would be a sin. She sniffed. There must be some way for her to fashion something practical from that abundance of fabric. And all those lovely shoes …
She shook herself. Attractive footwear was no substitute for hard work. If she wanted to ensure a way to support herself for the rest of her life, she needed to convince Mr. Ridley to wait to sell his business until she had the blunt to buy it. Pulling out a crisp sheet of paper from a drawer, she started a new budget.
A scuffing sound made her look up. A man with a cap of dark curls stood at her door. His mouth was pressed into a hard line, and his right hand disappeared into his coat pocket.
A trickle of unease rolled down her spine. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“You’re Mrs. Bonner? The proprietress of The Black Rose?”
The man’s accent was twangy, crashing over her like a brass instrument. She couldn’t place it.
“Yes. And you are?” Pushing to her feet, Colleen rested her palms on the desk. “Are you here as a guest of one of our members?”
