Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance (13 page)

That, she assumed, was what he would do on any night of the week. Send his henchmen out to trawl for girls and then have them. Two or three at a time, most likely.

She lay on the bed, facing the thin muslin that draped over the window from the ceiling to the floor. Unhappily, she pulled the thick, soft covers around her and stared unseeing through her window at the twinkling lights of Manhattan.

She watched and wondered about all the people in their cars, driving through their ordinary lives. Ordinary lives like the one she never wanted. Had she been wrong, had she chosen badly?

The light grew more faint.
She half-remembered him in the bar, saying, “This is the part where I say, ‘Why don’t we take a bottle upstairs.’ And you say, ‘Your room or mine?’” Had he said that, or did she dream it?

She knew that she dreamed him kissing her, long, deep and wet, throwing her onto a bed, grabbing her hair and tearing her clothes. She knew that was a dream because her dress was still intact.

He couldn’t have ripped the front of it open, staring into her wild eyes as he did. It was not possible that he tore her panties with his teeth. Nor sucked her, driven his tongue into her like a deep, soulful kiss, massaged her there with his lips.

It was a dream or—or what?—her vivid picture of his body enfolding her and taking her, his hands freely taking pleasure in all of her dark places.

The image of his eyes glowing, the sensation of his breath burning her skin, the memory of her gasps of astonishment as he lifted her, spun her. Filled her and drilled her. She must have conjured all of that for herself out of somewhere.

And still, the recollection was as clear as any real event. And her regretful yearning, was it over the fantasy, the dream that she knew she shouldn’t have had, or was it for the fact that she had awoken from it? Awoken to find it gone. Melted away like a Hudson morning mist.
 

She dreamed of a dark figure and she knew it was him. Threw her up against a cold, brick wall. Turned her to face the wall and dragged her legs apart. She shivered, remembering the cool air and the relief as he tore her soft undies.

Then she felt the hot, hard rod.

Her hands were in her panties. Her hips bucked as she encountered the tang of her own scent. She should be thinking about what to do next, and she knew she shouldn’t be thinking about him like this at all.

There seemed only one way to get him out of her pants. For now, at least. Her wet, flying finger had to flick him, beat him, rub him away. Harder. Harder.

She was in darkness. Standing at the end of a long corridor.
 
There was nothing she could do. A low voice behind her said, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.” She shivered as she spoke. “I’m sure.”

Then the voice said, “There’s no going back.”

Unable to make a sound, Princess’ head shook.

The voice commanded her. “Kneel.”

She sat up in the bed, startled and panicky.

“The refit isn’t quite complete yet,” he told her as he held open the door. “And there are still some touches of decor and lighting to be done, but I want you to see how it’s coming along.” She chewed her cheek like she was about to be shown around her new jail.

The club was transformed exactly the way Agostini had wanted. Touches like candelabras and drapes he remembered from a suite in Vegas combined with lighting that he’d seen in a hotel bar in Miami, all came together and made an atmosphere of sophistication and exclusivity.

He kept the style of the regular members’ area but the dark woods were more polished. Steel and chrome were replaced with a more discrete, understated sheen of brass. A notch up in the classiness stakes, he thought.

The most important change was the VIP area he created, taking almost half of the old club room, plus some kitchen space and all of the unused storage areas.

Princess wore a black brocade vest over a beautiful white silk shirt and soft, black pants. Her hair was up. He hadn’t seen her wear it like that before and it showed what a lovely neck she had, and her fine profile.

He led her into the showroom and she looked around at the transformation. The dark, sunken dance floor and stage areas had completely new surfaces, buffed and glossed to a deep shine. Behind the bar, counters were polished brass and bottles shimmered backlit in front of mirrors. The bar-top was polished black marble.

The space had a more accessible feel. Still upmarket, but more open and lively. It took a little while before Princess noticed the reduction in size. “Where’s the rest of the club gone? What’s going on?”

“Come with me.” Pierce held out a hand. He was looking forward to showing her around, giving her the private view, the guided tour. “I’ll show you where the rest of it is.”

He took her along the discreet passageway to the wide, black lacquered double-doors, framed with carved silver. Thick, red velvet ropes hung across the doorway.

“Welcome to the VIP area.”

“But it must be most of the club.”

“That’s right, it is.”

“I love the idea of a VIP zone, but if most of the place is VIP, then surely it loses its value.”

“Come and see.”

Pierce moved the rope aside and opened the doors to admit her into the select sanctuary, the semi-connected, discrete, intimate spaces. Leather couches and chairs surrounded low, wide marble tables.

Larger spaces had room to seat a dozen or more, while others were hideaways for three or four people. The whole of the space had sumptuous, concealed lighting that subtly shifted color and tone.

Walking her around, he said, “We can run the lights from a program, or key them with multimedia and sound-to-light from the sound system.”

The club’s old-school cigar room vibe had been teleported into the twenty-first century, reinvented as a playground for adults of privilege. The space was transformed into an understated, masculine, twilight playground. A place where secret societies might meet. A sanctum for serious assignations.

“There’s one extra feature, just for the tonight’s event.” He opened a door to the wood paneled games room. A roulette table dominated at the center with a large card table and seating for a dozen, and smaller, round tables at each end.
 

“Roulette, draw poker, and blackjack.”

Princess’ eyes were wide and her voice was low. “You can’t get a license for those in New York.”
 

“Oh,” he waved a hand, “I invited a few judges, the deputy police commissioner, and the deputy mayor. And it’s exclusively a private event. I think we’ll be safe enough.”

He knew that her experience in the club business was more than enough to know that it was against every rule in the book. Her eyes gleamed.
 

“How do you think your financial types are going to feel about you flouting the law like that?”

“Are you kidding? They’ll love it. They’ll be all over it like dogs humping a velvet couch.”

Twenty chairs at the far end curved around a dais with lectern and a microphone. “That’s for the presentation,” he added.

She looked up at him. “Is it an auction?” He had liked the auctioneer’s place of authority and imitated it. He’d even found a big, heavy black ledger to turn as he gave the address. He liked that Princess recognized where he got the idea for the setup.

He couldn’t resist asking her, “Doesn’t the place look great? Don’t you love what I’ve done it?”

“Ask me when you’ve handed it back to us, Mr. Agostini.”

“But you’ve got to admit, it looks a whole lot better.”

“Well, let’s see. Why don’t we take the deeds to your penthouse and put them in my name? See how long it takes you to see how much better they look there.” Well, he could understand that. He respected her for it, too.

He gave her a copy of the guest list for the big event, printed with photographs, and he ran through all of the names.

She scanned quickly down the list. “No, as you said, no women.”

“You’re right.” The sarcastic tone infiltrated his voice before he could stop it. “I didn’t consider guests by height, weight, or hair color, either.” He didn’t mind too much about her making the jibe, but this was business and there was work to do.

“Most of these people won’t be investors at the end. I’m hoping to wind up with about six, and I have an idea who they’ll be, but it’s important that everybody’s treated right.”

He went back over each of the names on the list and told her something about the firm or the fund they represented, and a little about them personally. He was pleased that she already knew most of the men, and she had something to say about several of them.

He said, “Miflin is the number one holdout, and he’ll be an opinion leader. If he’s in favor, they’ll all want in.”

She said, “I’ve seen him in here before. He’s not a member, but let me try to remember who it was that I saw him here with.” Pierce liked the conspiratorial look she gave him. He held her gaze.

He said, “He’s a professor of banking law.”

“At NYU. I remember. There was a girl—a dancer, I think—who he couldn’t keep his eyes off.”

Pierce kept his face straight, but he was impressed. He took Princess through the timing of his presentation. It would start early enough that everyone will still be able to focus and concentrate.

“They’ve already had the bones of the proposal outlined in the pack that went out with their invite. They all understand and they’re all interested, otherwise they wouldn’t have gotten the invite.”

She folded the list and slipped it into her pants pocket.

He asked her, “Have all of the dancers and hostesses been confirmed?”

“Yes. The DJ is flying in and I found us a red-hot mixologist to make signature cocktails for the evening.”

He asked her to take him through the cocktail menu and snacks, and she at least seemed impressed with his appreciation for the details.
 

As they talked, he realized that she was leaning against his arm. At the same moment, she seemed to realize it, too, and straightened up.

He took care not to smile as she moved just an inch away. He thought that she was holding back a smile, too.

Calhoun and Callaghan would be in charge of the security detail, and with a buzz right in his solar plexus, Agostini thought,
This is going to go like clockwork
.

The night of the launch, Princess took pride in sheathing her shapely legs in fine nylons. The fact that she had bought them with his money, and without his knowledge, added another level of thrill.

The grip, the tension and the secret promise of the stockings thrilled her.
Why
, she asked herself,
who are you hoping to show them to?
She turned to get a three-quarter view in the mirror. The silky thin, loose panties grazed the lowest curve of her ass beautifully, she thought.
I’ll show them to nobody
,
her thought ran on.
To me
. And her smile twinkled darkly.
Probably
.

Princess stationed herself in the VIP area as members, guests and girls arrived. All the people who she knew were eager to voice their praise.

“I just
love
what you’ve done here.”

“So on trend.”

“This will be a new benchmark.”

Cocktails flowed and she heard an enthusiastic buzz for the relaunch. Dino was dazzling in white tails with a white cravat and a silver-tipped ebony cane. Julz hung on one arm, Shawna on the other, and Kat and Mona followed them into the club. He bobbed his head and whispered in their ears, then grinned widely when they exploded in giggles.

A worry of Princess’ was that her father hadn’t shown his face since she arrived. That was not a good sign.

Through the clink of glasses, she heard a voice she recognized. “It’s a brave scheme, but I have it on good authority that FCC transmission licenses are going to be tough to clear.”

With a smile, she stepped over to where the group stood and extended her hand. “Professor Miflin,” Princess let him take her offered hand, “I’m so glad you could join us tonight. Were you just talking about the FCC?”

He smiled indulgently. “That’s right, my dear.”

“The Federal Communications Commission?”

“Why, yes,” he gave her a twinkle and a patrician smile, “it is.” And he squeezed her hand.

She took his arm. “Come and meet Judge Dean. I believe he sits on the board of the FCC. He should be able to help answer your questions.”

On the way to the games room where she’d seen the judge, they passed the tall, Eurasian dancer Princess remembered Miflin casting his eyes at. Princess had made a point of persuading her to come, and encouraging her to arrive early.

“Here’s Trixibelle. You know Trixibelle, Professor?”

The lovely dancer turned and rose from her chair to give him the full gleam of her smile. Miflin’s watery eyes were wide. Her caramel skin was poured into a shimmering cream dress and her dark scent was intoxicating. He said, “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Trixibelle,” Princess beckoned with her free hand, “the professor and I are heading for the games room. Would you like to join us?” Trixibelle batted her lashes as she nuzzled against the professor’s other arm.
 

Princess opened the door for them. In the shadows, she saw Pierce watching her with what looked like an approving smile.

A glow rose inside her. Even remodeled, Hotsteppa’s was still her territory, and running the club was her line of work. However angry the circumstances made her, this was still where she belonged, and she was good at her job.

Princess made introductions for Miflin and the judge, who happened to also be making friends with a dancer.
You’ll have a whole lot in common
, she thought.

She missed a beat in the sparkling chatter as she saw her father at the poker table. Princess smiled as she excused herself.

Standing behind her father’s seat, Princess smiled around the table as she whispered, “Daddy, could I have a word with you about the kitchen staff, please?”

He offered a thin smile and squeezed her hand on his shoulder. He said, “It’s not our club anymore, Princess. Not
my
club.”