Orchid Club

by Lila Dubois

  But she hadn’t let him.

  He’d tried, oh he’d tried.

  “Mas—” She started to speak, to say the word he’d wanted to hear from her lips.

  Solomon yanked his hand away from her and took a shaking step back. “No,” he growled, and he wasn’t sure if he was talking to her, or to himself. “No.”

  Vivienne pressed a trembling hand to her throat. Had he hurt her? Her eyes were soft and vulnerable, and the barest hint of luminosity along her lower lashes told him that she was on the verge of tears.

  That look was like a punch to his gut. This was the Vivienne he’d been trying to protect, to take care of. He reached for her.

  The moment his arms moved her expression morphed. Her eyes went hard, even as a tear spilled down her cheek. “How dare you?” she snarled.

  Solomon clenched his jaw to stop himself from apologizing. He wouldn’t apologize, not to her, and not for this. The tense silence between them seemed a physical thing, pushing them apart, or maybe he felt like that because all the alcohol had finally hit his bloodstream.

  Vivienne took a step toward him and wobbled. She reached back to steady herself on the bar, and her flailing arm swept across the top, knocking both shot glasses and the bottle of whiskey to the ground at her feet.

  Glass and Jack Daniels went everywhere. The sound of breaking glass was loud even in the ballroom that was now filled with cries of pain and pleasure.

  Vivienne seemed not to have noticed the destruction. She was focused on Solomon. “How dare you tell me I only pretend to submit and then touch me like that. How dare you remind me of what I—”

  “Vivienne, stop!”

  His warning came a moment too late. She’d taken a step toward him, onto all that broken glass.

  Her eyes went wide as her body registered the pain. She jerked her right foot up, and started to fall as a result.

  Solomon lunged and scooped her up, glass shards crunching under his shoes. His balance wasn’t great and he stumbled, Vivienne in his arms, until he fetched up against the bar.

  “Mr. Carter! Miss Deschamps!” Lillian’s eyes were wide as she and two tuxedo-clad club attendants raced over. One of the men was holding a towel, and he dropped to a crouch and started pushing the glass into a pile even as he soaked up the spreading pool of whiskey.

  Lillian, ever poised, looked at them with mild disappointment. “Please come with me.”

  The second attendant tried to take Vivienne from Solomon, but he held tight. When he squeezed her, Vivienne threw her arm around his shoulder and buried her head against his neck.

  “Mr. Carter, please, you are quite drunk. Too drunk to carry Miss Deschamps.”

  “I’m not that drunk.” He took a step and nearly face planted with her in his arms.

  The attendant leapt into action, stepping in front of Solomon and wrapping his arms around both of them, managing to keep them on their feet.

  “Maybe I am that drunk,” Solomon said slowly.

  Vivienne snorted like a little piggy and then giggled.

  “She’s drunk,” Solomon declared.

  “Very,” Vivienne said in agreement. “This whole thing is bad, bad, bad.”

  “Yup.” Solomon let the attendant take Vivienne from him.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask both of you to leave.” Lillian sounded pained.

  “You’re kicking us out?” Vivienne asked.

  “How can you still sound all snooty and noble while drunk?” Solomon asked her.

  Vivienne hung her head back over the attendant’s arm, looking at him upside down. “Celeste.”

  “Ah, yeah, that makes sense.” Solomon tried to follow, but wobbled.

  Lillian pulled his arm over her shoulders. Solomon leaned into her and she squeaked in alarm. He was a big guy, and if he started to go down he’d probably take Lillian with him.

  “Lillian, let me.” James appeared as if by magic, a wide-eyed and mostly naked Christiana a few paces behind him.

  “Hey, girl, lookin’ good.” Solomon winked and shot finger-guns at her.

  Christiana glanced at her Dom, then back to Solomon. “The intimidating pirate who owns a private island is a goofy drunk?”

  “And heavy.” James grunted as he pulled Solomon’s arm over his shoulders. “At least try to walk.”

  “I am not a pirate,” Solomon declared.

  Christiana was on his other side, occasionally shoving him back toward James when he started to tip the other way.

  “I’m sorry, my sweet. I promise I will get back to our scene in a moment,” James told her.

  “You’ve had to deal with my drunk cousins.” Christiana put both hands on Solomon’s waist and helped brace him as he wobbled. “Good to know your friends aren’t all refined and fancy.”

  “I’m fancy,” Solomon muttered. He really didn’t like moving. He wanted to go back to the bar and just hold on to it.

  “Yes, well, this is the first time I’ve seen Solomon this drunk.”

  “It could be worse,” Christiana mused. “He could be tequila drunk.”

  “She speaks truth,” Solomon intoned.

  The noise level dropped, and it was dim and blessedly cool in the hall outside the ballroom. Solomon looked around. “Where’s Vivienne?”

  Lillian came trotting up. Behind her was the same attendant, still carrying Vivienne, who was now wearing a black-and-white jacket that covered her to mid-thigh. The long skirt was gone, and there was a bandage around her foot.

  “Mr. Carter.” Lillian had the calm, firm voice of a disappointed teacher. “You know that we do not have a set drinking limit; however, being inebriated is against our rules. You can no longer participate.”

  “You’re kicking us out of the Orchid Society?” Vivienne asked. She spoke in French, though Lillian had been speaking English.

  “No, only for tonight. You may return for the second and third nights of the Paris event if you promise not to, ah—”

  “Get wasted?” Solomon asked.

  “What did she ask?” Christiana was looking around. “I don’t speak French.”

  Solomon threw his free arm over Christiana’s shoulders. “I like you.”

  “I like you, too.”

  “But you have to pick.” Solomon’s brain wasn’t exactly functioning at full capacity, but he hadn’t forgotten why he’d come here. “James can be your Dom or your husband, but not both.”

  “Unless you want to lose that arm, you’ll stop touching my sub.” James’s voice was cool and polite, but laced with danger.

  “Code switch,” Christiana told him as she shrugged his arm off her shoulders. “You have to learn to code switch.”

  Two more attendants rushed up. One of them was naked except for a pair of leather briefs and some wrist cuffs. The other wore tuxedo pants but nothing else. More than likely they’d been helping with scenes and were called away to deal with this crisis.

  The Vivienne and Solomon Crisis.

  Lillian motioned and they took Solomon from James, one on each side.

  “Please take them downstairs and put them into cabs,” Lillian said. “I will ensure the party is not adversely affected.”

  “Will you get in trouble for this?” the attendant on James’s right asked.

  Lillian’s face blanched, but then she straightened her spine. “I was aware of Mr. Carter and Mademoiselle Deschamps’ history, and should have anticipated the problem.” She turned and marched into the ballroom.

  “What was that about?” Christiana asked.

  “I’m not sure,” James replied. “Solomon, call me when you wake up, and if you’re very nice I’ll see if I can find a chipper and bring you some food.”

  The idea of greasy English-style French fries made his stomach roll. “Stop.”

  “Eggs and good French coffee,” Vivienne declared. “That is what we will need.”

  The attendants hauled them both to the elevators. His stomach threatened mutiny as they descended. A moment later
they were outside. It was still raining, and the smell of wet stone was strangely comforting.

  Two black town cars pulled up. The driver hustled around to hold an umbrella over Vivienne as the attendant placed her delicately in the car.

  “Where should I take her?” the driver asked the attendant.

  “Solomon?” Vivienne bent low, looking at him from the dark depths of the car. She looked lost, and a little afraid.

  “The Ritz,” Solomon declared. They would go to his hotel room and then…well, his brain wasn’t working well enough to think that far ahead. He was dimly aware that his jacket, along with his wallet, ID, and hotel key, were all in his locker.

  The attendant and driver exchanged a glance. “The Ritz,” Vivienne declared.

  Finally, the driver nodded, rushing through the rain to climb into the car.

  As it pulled away the second car drew up. Solomon shrugged off his assistants and stomped through the drizzle to the door. He managed to get into the car.

  “Where to, Sir?”

  “The Ritz.”

  Solomon let his head fall back as he looked out the window. London looked dreary in the rain, but Paris…Paris sparkled, the sheen of water only enhancing the city’s beauty.

  He might say he hated Paris, but deep inside he knew the truth. He would always love Paris, because it had given him Vivienne.

  Just as he would always love Vivienne, no matter how much he wanted to hate her.

  Death. Death would be preferable to this.

  Whimpering, Vivienne stumbled toward the bathroom. Pain shot through her right foot and she nearly fell. She hopped into the bathroom, hanging onto the wall.

  A hangover. She hadn’t had a hangover since the year after she’d finished college, when she’d been living in London with—

  Vivienne slapped a hand over her mouth and staggered to the toilet.

  She was in a hotel—an elegant hotel, but most definitely a hotel. She should be worried about the answers to questions such as where, exactly, was she?, how had she gotten here?, and what happened? but right now all she could think about was her throbbing head and roiling stomach.

  She shed her coat, which she’d apparently slept in, and managed, with some difficulty, to unzip the leather panties and peel them off, then tore off the bead-studded top. She peeled off the strapless bra, which had left deep grooves in her sides, hissing as she freed herself. Naked, she sat on the toilet to look at her foot. There was a dingy bandage on the arch. Blood had glued the soft cotton of what she thought might have been a handkerchief to the wound, and when she peeled it off, the cut started to bleed again. Vivienne cursed under her breath and did her best to clean the puncture. The sight and smell of the blood made her unsettled stomach revolt.

  Ten minutes later she felt slightly better, having rid her body of the remaining alcohol, and slid into a nice hot shower. Luckily the cut was on her arch, so she was able to walk on the ball of that foot. She stayed under the water until she felt human again, and was pitifully grateful for the hotel’s large hot water tanks.

  She found a neatly folded robe in the bathroom cabinet and held it up to read the stitching on the breast. The Ritz Paris. Now she knew where she was, at least. The cut on her foot was no longer bleeding, but she stuck a tissue over it just in case. Vivienne put on the robe, moving carefully so as not to jostle her head. She could feel her heartbeat in each temple. At least she no longer felt like death would be preferable to her current state of being.

  She twisted her hair into a loose bun at the back of her head, but with nothing to secure it, it soon came undone, spilling down her back. She used one of the small makeup wipes included among the toiletries to finish wiping away the remains of her mascara, then stared at herself in the mirror.

  Vivienne usually woke up panicked. Her responsibilities and to-dos were both never-ending lists. She couldn’t appear panicked or stressed out in front of others, even her own assistants, so she woke up early, lay in bed, and let the worry overwhelm her for a while. Eventually her heart rate would slow and she would no longer feel like she was choking. That’s when she’d get up and start her day, having first acknowledged all those feelings of being overwhelmed, and then shove them back down deep inside where they belonged.

  Her therapist had gone wide-eyed when she’d told her about this particular coping skill, but despite plenty of therapy, Vivienne still woke up every morning choking with anxiety.

  Yet this morning she felt nothing—well, other than the pain in her foot, sick to her stomach, and an overwhelming desire never to see whiskey again. It was as if, for once, her brain had helped her, insulating her in a protective bubble of numbness, because from what she did remember of last night she should be prostrate with anxiety.

  She remembered going to the club. Remembered getting dressed—she made the mistake of looking at her discarded clothes on the floor, and her head throbbed. Remembered seeing Solomon. The bar. The shots.

  And then he’d touched her.

  Vivienne trailed her fingers along her throat. He’d touched her the way he always had before—softly, but with total command. For a moment she’d felt…safe.

  She closed her eyes and tried to will the memory of that feeling away. She’d wanted him too. She’d have to be dead not to want Solomon Carter, but when he’d finally touched her the way a Dom would, desire hadn’t been the primary emotion.

  Vivienne dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and sniffed, willing herself not to cry. It was just this horrific hangover causing her to overreact.

  The sooner she felt like herself the sooner she’d be able to reason away her feelings. No, that wasn’t it. The sooner she felt like herself, the sooner she’d realize that having Solomon touch her really hadn’t given her a feeling of safety she’d been missing in the five long years since he walked out of her life…

  Food. She needed food.

  Vivienne tied the robe tight and exited the bathroom. She’d never stayed in the Ritz before—why would she?—but she’d been here plenty of times to meet with business associates who were staying at the hotel. She liked the private dining room of L'Espadon, or having drinks in the Bar Hemingway, which always impressed non-Parisians. Even that oblique reference to drinking was enough to make her queasy.

  Vivienne squinted against the mid-morning light that filled the room, filtering through the sheer white curtains. The room was lovely, with a high, plush bed, antique-style furnishings, and flocked wallpaper. A brocade sofa faced the small carved limestone fireplace, with a narrow desk set against its back. The room was done in tones of cream, gold, and Parisian blue, with Chinoise-patterned curtains.

  She wouldn’t have cared if it were a roach-invested hovel, as long as it had functioning room service.

  Vivienne spotted the phone on the desk. Holding onto the wall—in case her head fell off—she hobbled to the desk, dropping into the pale gold chair.

  The couch moved, a massive lump rising from the cushions, like a prehistoric creature of the deep breaching the surface of the sea.

  Vivienne screamed.

  The lump shouted and tumbled off the couch onto the floor, knocking into the coffee table as he fell. Vivienne shot to her feet, palms on the desk, and leaned forward, her heart in her throat.

  Solomon fought the duvet, which was now wound around him, managing to fling it off his face. He immediately moaned and covered his eyes with one hand.

  “Solomon?”

  It took a moment, but the implications finally sank in. This must be his hotel room. She didn’t remember leaving the club, and had assumed that even in her drunken state she’d been clever enough to go to a hotel rather than home. It wouldn’t do to be seen stumbling into her building intoxicated—that sort of thing was unbecoming.

  But she hadn’t been clever. In fact she was very, very stupid. She’d come to Solomon’s room.

  “Vivienne?” His question was a hoarse whisper.

  “We didn’t have sex.” She was sure of that. She’d stil
l been wearing everything but the overskirt, and there was very little chance she’d wiggled back into the tight leather panties after being fucked.

  Her pussy pulsed at the thought. Fucking Solomon. What a terrible, wonderful thought.

  “Of course we didn’t have sex, because we’re dead, and this is hell.”

  Vivienne sank back into the chair. She was smiling. She shouldn’t be smiling, but she was. “I will get us food, coffee.”

  “Fuck, no. Don’t talk about food.”

  “Go vomit, you will feel better.”

  “I’m not moving. Throw me a trash can.”

  Vivienne grabbed the small metal can from under the desk and chucked it over the couch. It landed with a thunk and Solomon started cursing.

  Vivienne picked up the phone. “You asked me to throw it.”

  Solomon struggled to his feet and her mouth went dry. Well, drier.

  He’d stripped down to boxers, and there was a lot of beautiful skin on display. He was more heavily muscled than he had been the last time she’d seen him naked years ago, but not as ripped. When they were younger he’d sported six-pack abs—as he’d called them—and his arms could have been used to give a musculature anatomy lesson.

  Now his stomach was flat, but not defined, his arm muscles a set of smooth, rolling hills. He was still, and probably always would be, mouthwateringly handsome. He turned, nearly stumbling as the duvet caught at his feet. As he did, she saw his face in the light.

  The scar. For a moment she’d forgotten about the scar that deformed his beautiful face. Forgotten that while they might not be fully enemies—they’d gotten kicked out of a club for being drunk together, after all—they were adversaries. Certainly not friends. She didn’t think it was possible for people who loved as deeply as they had to ever feel anything as mild as friendship.

  His beautiful face.

  Guilt made her already uneasy stomach churn. Vivienne looked at the phone, plucking the white receiver from the gold cradle with trembling fingers.

  “Water,” Solomon said. “Get water. And bacon.”