by Fallon Hart
“You can stop now,” Griff cut him off.
Pete blanched. “Sorry. I haven’t had my coffee and my brain doesn’t function well without the coffee.”
“Well grab a coffee because I’d like you to show Melanie around the club without chasing her off.”
“Of course.” Pete winked at me.
I wished Griff was showing me around the club.
“Have a nice morning, sweetheart,” Griff said, bending his head to brush his lips against my cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
“Don’t work too hard.” As I stepped out of his embrace I let my fingers trail down his chest in an affectionate but sensual gesture. His dark gaze glittered for a second before he banked the reaction.
“Shall we?” Pete gestured for me to walk out the door ahead of him.
My impression of Griff’s club factotum was unclear as we toured The Patrician. It was closed to members this early in the day. It didn’t open until three o’ clock in the afternoon. The first floor was occupied by a number of private rooms at the front of the property—a library with a lit fireplace and comfortable seating, a lounge with armchairs and side tables, a bar with very expensive bottles of alcohol stocked behind it, and a billiard’s room. At the back of the property was a large glittering, high-ceilinged dining room. Adjacent to it was the gleaming kitchen where Pete introduced me to the chef, Olivier Depardieu. Tall, broad-shouldered with a little bit of a gut that said he liked his food, Olivier was not classically handsome but he was magnetically attractive. I knew from Octavius that Griff had offered the French chef a fortune to leave his position at a five star restaurant in New York to run the kitchen at the club. I’d expected him to be intimidating and I imagined he could be, but he was extremely friendly and charming toward me. He offered me samples off the menu for that evening and his chest seemed to puff up every time I exclaimed over a delicious morsel.
As Pete led me back out to the main foyer and toward the staircase that guided guests to the second floor, he placed his hand on my lower back, his fingers touching the upper curve of my ass.
At first I was shocked by his over-familiarity and then I was uncomfortable. He somehow managed to take an ordinary gentlemanly gesture and make it subtly sexual. I didn’t know if I was being paranoid but I knew I was uneasy in Pete’s company, even if I couldn’t exactly explain why. I moved away from his touch, my steps quickening to put distance between us.
When he tried to place his hand back on me at the top of the stairs, I deftly stepped away from him and asked, “So where’s the gambling room?”
The second and third floors both looked down over the central foyer of the club. We followed the balconied gallery of the second floor to double doors on our left. Pete opened them with a massive grin.
“Welcome to the Patrician.”
My lips parted in awe as I took in the massive space. It was like walking into a private gambling house in Las Vegas. The room had it all.
“We call this the Hazard Room. We play more than dice games here, of course, but Griff liked the sound of it. It fits that whole Victorian gentleman’s club vibe we have here.”
I nodded, my heels clicking on the wooden floors and then dulling as I walked over Aubusson carpet. The walls were decorated with gilt-framed paintings, the ceiling was hand-painted with Italian-Renaissance style murals. Rich green velvet curtains hung at the tall windows, pooling luxuriously on the wooden floors. Crystal wall sconces were dotted symmetrically along the walls, but it was the massive, crystal-drop chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling that made me gasp. It was just as impressive as the one that hung down over the foyer.
The whole place had an old-world feel about it and there was no expense spared in the over-the-top opulence of the décor.
“We’ve got blackjack, craps, roulette, baccarat, pai gow tiles, pai gow poker, free bet blackjack, three card poker, and high card flush. Our croupiers are the best you can find.” Pete’s shoulders were thrown back with pride and I could see why. The place was like nothing I’d ever seen before.
Between the membership fees and the money Griff made off the hazard room it was no wonder he was so rich.
Pete let me wander around the empty hazard room, taking it all in, and then gestured for me to follow him back out.
He led me around the gallery to the other side of the second floor. Instead of just double doors on this side, there were a number of single doors. Something lit Pete’s blue eyes, something like mischief, and he took out a keycard and swiped it to open the first door.
The fact that you needed a keycard made me curious about what we’d find behind there.
He opened the door, gesturing for me to go in and I did only to stop abruptly.
It was a bedroom.
Decorated in decadent luxury, the cobalt blue room made no sense here on the second floor of the club.
And then I remembered Octavius mentioned something about rooms for the members’ private use.
I felt Pete step up beside me, his arm pressed against mine. “We don’t advertise these rooms. Yes, rooms, plural. Our members can book a room for their private pleasure. We don’t allow prostitution under our roof and the whole club is members-only—members can’t bring guests into the club. But if they wish to fuck each other’s husbands and wives they can come here. On more than one occasion I’ve seen a woman disappear into this room with two men.” He smiled suggestively.
I couldn’t figure out if he was trying to deliberately disconcert me or if he was coming on to me.
“Why are you showing her the rooms?” A curt voice snapped behind us.
Relief moved through me as I turned to find Griff in the doorway to the bedroom.
He did not look amused.
“You didn’t say not to.” Pete shrugged.
Griff studied him a moment but then just jerked his chin. “You can return to work. I’ll finish the tour with Melanie.”
“I don’t mind.”
Griff didn’t respond. His stony expression said it all. Pete just chuckled and flicked the key card out toward Griff as he approached him. Griff took it but waited until Pete was gone to look at me.
“Come.”
I nodded and walked out of the bedroom, waiting as Griff closed the door. “This isn’t a brothel but we do advertise pleasure. The rooms are there if the guests need them. I’m not ashamed of them. You just don’t need to see them and misconstrue what they mean.”
“I wouldn’t judge anyway, remember.”
He nodded, relaxing, “Of course. So… where to next?”
“I haven’t seen the third floor,” I told him.
“Then I’ll show you the third floor.” When he put his hand on my lower back to guide me, I let him.
To my surprise the third floor was a spa. There were treatment rooms, a sauna, a jacuzzi and a large pool with greenhouse style floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the back of Commonwealth Avenue. Griff introduced me to Trish, a well put-together woman in her early fifties, who ran the spa. The rest of her staff didn’t come into work until later since it was only open from three o clock in the afternoon.
“A nocturnal spa. How novel.” I stole his phrase.
His lips twitched. “I’m not paying you to mock me.”
“No, that you’ll get for free.”
Griff shook his head but I saw humor lighten his expression.
“I had no idea this was here. It’s a fantastic surprise. Makes you realize how huge this building is,” I said, peering into the pool area. I had on high heels, which wasn’t a good idea on pool tiles.
“You can use the pool whenever you want,” Griff said. “Perks of the job.”
“The spa, too?”
“Are you already so stressed you need a massage?” he teased.
I laughed lightly as we walked back out. “Actually, yes.”
“I’m not that bad, am I?”
Shaking my head, I grinned. “Oh no, you’re worse.”
I liked the s
ound of his chuckle as we strolled back out of the spa.
“Anything you want to see again before I head back to work?”
“The library.”
We walked down to the first floor and Griff tapped the wall with his knuckles. “Behind here is a private staircase to the penthouse. Like the elevator you need a keycard to access the door to the penthouse. I’ll have Xavier show you it, in case you ever need to use it.”
“Okay.”
Griff guided me back to the library. I immediately walked over to one of the shelves, my heart thumping at the leather bound classics I found there. It was quite a collection.
“Your sister is a librarian in Charlottesville, yes?” his voice was closer than I expected and I looked over my shoulder to find him right at my back.
I gazed up at him, realizing I’d made a huge faux pas by showing my enthusiasm for the library. Attempting to sound nonchalant, I looked back at the books. “Yes, but we both share a love of books.”
Not true. Mel only ever cracked open a book when forced.
“You have a copy of The Awakening.” I tugged the book free, noting the leather binding was encased in a plastic protective cover, and flicked it open to reveal the yellowed pages. My eyes fell to the bottom of the second page and I gasped. “You have a first edition copy of The Awakening. Should this really be in here for anyone to touch?” I looked back at him, now gingerly holding the well preserved book.
“You’re a fan of Kate Chopin?” he asked instead.
I carefully put the book back. “Not particularly. I know it’s held up and praised as one of the first books to look at women’s issues without condescension, considered the first literary contribution to feminism etcetera, but I never could get behind a heroine who kills herself over a man.”
“You don’t believe people can love that passionately?”
“Oh I know they can.” I glided along the bookcases, drinking in the many classic titles. “But there are far stronger heroines in literature to admire.”
“Like?”
I glanced back at him to see if he was really interested. “Scarlett O’ Hara. Flawed. Yes. Spoiled, selfish. Yes. But she had true grit.”
“Your sister’s name is Scarlett. Yours is Melanie.”
“Our mother was a Gone with the Wind fan.” I smiled but my gaze dropped to the floor when I realized how horrified she’d be by the position Mel had put me in. “She couldn’t have known she should have named her Mel and me Scarlett.”
“Scarlett isn’t much like you I gather.”
“No, she’s not,” I said curtly, turning back to the shelves and returned us to a safer subject. “There’s Jo March, Elizabeth Bennett, Jane Eyre, Hermione Granger, Eowyn, Daenarys Targaryen and Katniss Everdeen to name but a few.”
“I confess I only recognize a handful of those.”
I grinned at him and tapped his bookshelf. “Some of them are not literary enough for your library.”
He shrugged, looking around the room. “People like the classics.”
“They also like Stephen King and Gillian Flynn,” I teased as I sauntered back over to him. “Even rich people like popular fiction.”
Griff’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
But as our eyes locked that amusement faded, darkening to something else. Something that reminded me of our kiss the night before and of my dream as I’d writhed alone in bed.
He made a motion, as if to reach for me, but then abruptly pulled his hand back and looked away. “I need to get back to work. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Wait.”
“What?” he asked, suddenly impatient.
“I just wondered what you want me to do with my time?”
“You’re playing a socialite, so whatever the hell you want. Within good taste and reason.”
On that pompous note, he strode out.
And suddenly I was alone.
Again.
CHAPTER SIX
What I really wanted to do was head back to my room at Mrs. Donovan’s, unpack my stuff, and then head out to work at the library. Instead, not in the mood to read any of the classics in Griffin’s library, I grabbed my purse, my new diamond credit card, the e-reader I’d brought with me, the light trench coat Anna and I had selected, and I headed outside. Xavier caught me on the way out of the door.
“May I call a town car for you, Miss Jennings?”
I had to stifle a smile. It was weird going from a tiny room in an old Southie house to a mansion with a butler. “No, thank you, Xavier. I’m just going for a walk. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Very good, Miss Jennings.”
In any other circumstances I would have told Xavier to call me Melanie but at least when he was calling me Miss Jennings it wasn’t a lie.
I turned left outside the club and from there it was a fifteen minute walk to the Public Garden. It was a clear, sunny, spring day with a light breeze that made me thankful I’d put on the trench coat. My heels weren’t the most practical shoe for a walk but Octavius wouldn’t let me take any of my practical shoes with me because he said it didn’t fit the image of a socialite. I didn’t agree. My opinion was that men preferred women in heels all the time while women preferred to choose when they wanted to be uncomfortable and when they didn’t.
The Gucci pumps I wore were the lowest heel in my current closet. Unfortunately, Anna discounted all of the Gucci shoes with the comfortable thick heel and went straight for the Stiletto. Still, it was only a three inch heel. They were actually super cute and added a little something to my somewhat conservative pencil skirt and silk T-shirt. They were black leather with an oversize leather bow and a cute enamel, stone, and pearl encrusted bee centered in the middle of the bow.
Even at only three inches and made from supple leather, the new shoes still needed to be broken in and by the time I got to the Public Garden my heel was blistering. I stopped to buy a coffee from a coffee cart outside the park and while I waited for the few people in front of me to be served, I felt a familiar prickle on my neck. Like I was being watched. I glanced around, mostly looking for a black Escalade, but there wasn’t one. And I couldn’t see anyone watching me.
Huh.
Trying to shrug off the feeling, I got my coffee and then I wandered inside the park. I rounded the George Washington Statue but instead of taking the path over the bridge, I turned right at the cross section before it, and took the path that sloped down toward the pond. Thankfully the bench I had in mind that sat facing the water was free and with a sigh I sat down. Checking no one was looking, I slipped off one of the Gucci pumps and winced when I saw the blister on my heel.
My old purse was filled with everything a woman might need, including blister pads. My new Chanel purse was not.
“Damn.” I sighed again and tried not to flinch as I put the shoe back on.
Deciding I could deal with that pain later, I took out my e-reader and made myself comfortable. For a few hours I was able to get lost in Andy Weir’s The Martian and the story of its intelligent and funny protagonist Mark Watney. After a while, however, I became aware of someone sitting on the bench next to me. I didn’t know how long she’d been there because when I was really into a book everything else disappeared around me.
I lifted my gaze and she immediately lifted hers from the magazine she was reading and smiled. “Beautiful day, right?”
I gave her a smile and returned to my book.
But I could still feel her eyes on me.
“You seem really into your book. Can I ask what you’re reading?”
She was dressed in a suit and it was lunch time so I guessed she was on her lunch break. She seemed friendly enough, if a little nosy. “The Martian.”
Her eyes lit up. “I’ve read that. Great book. Seen the movie?”
I shook my head.
“It’s good too.”
I smiled politely. “Good to know.”
“I never read a book on my lunch break. I�
�d get totally sucked in and forget the time.” She tilted her head, studying me. “I feel like I know you. Where do you work?”
Inwardly I sighed. Time to keep up the pretense. “I don’t.”
She made a ‘wow’ face. “Nice.”
“It is?”
She gestured to my shoes. “Fabulous Gucci shoes and a Chanel purse. You don’t work. Nice. How does that work?”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you a socialite or something?”
For some reason the hair on the back of my neck prickled. There was something off about her questions, or rather her tone. She’d gone from friendly to almost interrogative in two point five seconds. “What is it you do?” I countered.
The woman looked away, not meeting my eyes as she shrugged. “I’m in advertising.”
She wasn’t in advertising.
“I really do feel like we’ve met.” She turned back to me with a big false grin. “I’m Alicia Young. What’s your name?”
“I don’t think we’ve met, Alicia.”
“Are you sure?” She tilted her head to the side in thought and then suddenly gasped, her eyes wide with an ‘aha’ expression. “You were at the Ruby Room last night. With Griffin.”
Then just like that I remembered the feeling of being watched outside the park. Had I been followed from the club and failed to notice because my feet were hurting?
Last night Griffin had paid that photographer to take snaps of us. Had we made the gossip pages already? And was this a gossip columnist trying to sneak-attack information out of me?
Maybe I was being paranoid. This whole gig was making me paranoid. Yet I felt the need to flee this stranger.
“You know I’m running late for an appointment.” I stuffed my e-reader into my purse and stood up, trying not to flinch at the pain of the shoe rubbing against my blister.
The woman didn’t hide her look of frustration as I strode past her and I felt less paranoid. She had to be a reporter, right?
Outside the park I realized I wasn’t going to make it the fifteen minute walk back in my heels so I hailed a cab. The driver wasn’t too happy to learn I only wanted him to drive me a few minutes down Commonwealth but I compensated him for his efforts with a large tip.
