The Businessman's Tie (The Power to Please, Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter 3

“I’ll let you go if that’s what you want.”

While I was at work, while I was shopping, while I had a
drink with a friend, while I drove, and especially when I was slept, I would
hear him, his deep voice in my ear, the warmth of his breath falling on my
skin, his hard chest an iron shield against my back.

“I’ll let you go if that’s what you want.”

And I’d be in that hall again, with him, remembering how his
fingertips grazed the sensitive skin on the undersides of my arms. Or
remembering his hands slipping beneath the edges of my panties. The smack of
his palm on my ass.

It’s a good thing I’m not a surgeon or an air traffic
controller. As an office manager for a mid-sized cosmetics company, my
distractions over the next week didn’t cause any horrific accidents of a
lasting kind. Okay, so I forgot to tell our western regional sales team that
we’d be meeting on Thursday instead of Wednesday. Could have been worse. I
could have amputated a wrong leg or sent a plane hurtling into the river. A
disgruntled sales crew was nothing in comparison.

All the same, I took my job seriously, and tried hard to
focus on the tasks at hand. I tried to push away the memories. Get on with
things. Forget.

By the time Saturday rolled back around, I was forced to
admit I’d made no headway in forgetting my encounter with The Businessman.
Kevin, the other man I met that night, had called and asked me out on a date,
but I told him no. I couldn’t think of anyone but The Businessman.

I relived my tryst with him countless times. I dared to
fantasize about a second encounter. I kept thinking about how we hadn’t even
actually had sex. He was a man. He would want sex, right? All men wanted sex.

Not that it mattered whether he did or didn’t want to fuck.
I didn’t know his name, let alone his phone number.

To keep myself busy I decided to clean out my closet and
organize the shelves. When I found the purse I had carried to the bar the week
before, I opened it to clean out the few cosmetics I hadn’t bothered to put
away that night. I pulled out a lipstick and some mascara and a pen and back in
the corner a ... what was this? My hand closed around a silky fabric. I pulled
it out.

It was The Businessman’s tie.

Really.

I stood there and stared at it like it was some foreign
thing, as if I didn’t know the thing hanging from my fingers, a specimen of
unknown origin.

But of course, I knew its origin. It belonged to The
Businessman. He must have put it in my purse before he returned it to me.

I studied this physical evidence of Eros. The tie was a dark
blue silk, with a deeper shade in diagonal stripes. It felt slinky and cool in
my hand. I checked the label. Some Italian name I wasn’t familiar with, but
that wasn’t surprising since my husband never had a reason to wear ties when he
was wallowing on the couch.

There was nothing on the tie to indicate the name of the
owner. Damn.

So why had he given it to me?

Perhaps it was meant to be a memento, a little something for
me to remember him by. Or perhaps it was a calling card that he left for all
the women from his hallway dalliances, an accessorized version of a slashed “Z”
for Zorro. If so, his conceit verged on the ridiculous.

No, I couldn’t believe that was it. I didn’t know who this
man was, but I couldn’t believe him ridiculous.

In the mindless way we do things sometimes, I raised the tie
to my nose and inhaled. It smelled like him, spicy, masculine and clean. I
sensed him in that scent, surrounding and looming over me in the shadows. His
voice, a deep rumble coming from behind.

I remembered something he said.

“Our kind will always find one another.”

I thought he would take me when he said it. But he didn’t.
And I didn’t understand why not. The intensity in his eyes, in his voice, as if
he meant more than he was saying, I interpreted it as a command to remember his
words. Even then. More so now.

And then I suddenly understood what he meant. I realized why
he left his tie in my purse.

He wanted me to find him.

I held the tie to my nose again and breathed in his scent.
It was like a time machine delivering me back to the minutes I spent with him.
I still wasn’t sure what he meant when he had said “our kind,” but I was
certain he wanted me to find him.

Funny how an entire week of trying to forget him was
immediately trumped by one millisecond of a hint that he wanted to be with me.
If I’d known his name and number, I would have called him right away.

The only thing I could think to do was return to the bar and
see if he were there. Lots of people have favorite hangouts and maybe that bar
was his. I had no other clues and if he truly wanted to see me again, he had to
know my only lead was the bar.

It was still early enough in the evening that I had plenty
of time to primp myself to within an inch of my life. Silly, I thought, but did
it anyway. Hair shining and hanging loose down my back (all the better for him
to grab it), minimal makeup (no one looks good in raccoon eyes), sexy lacy bra
and panties (not my most expensive, should they be torn and tossed again, and
please let them be torn and tossed again), a silky blouse, a skirt and a decent
pair of heels. This was the best I had to offer. It would have to do.

The bar was mostly full when I arrived, but I found a
barstool to perch on that enjoyed a decent view of the room. I scanned every
nook and cranny of the place while I waited for the bartender to fill my drink
order.

The Businessman wasn’t there. I tried not to be
disappointed. Whenever I thought of seeing him again, a flutter passed low
through my belly. What would I say when I saw him? What if I was wrong about
him wanting me to find him? Hell.

An hour later he still wasn’t there, though I’d fended off a
handful of soused potential suitors looking to provide me with drinks and a
quick roll in the hay. They kept filling the empty seat beside me. Bothersome.
I was relieved when, after I barely fended off a drunk and rowdy car salesman,
a young woman sat next to me.

She smiled at me and I smiled back. She was in her early
twenties, a lovely thing, small and dainty, with long blonde hair and a
pixie-like face. She wore a pink slip of a dress that showed off her lithe
figure. I might have been a little jealous if it hadn’t been for her easy smile
and welcoming manner.

She said her name was Lilly and that she’d been waiting on a
date in the restaurant next door but that he stood her up. I couldn’t imagine
what kind of jackass would stand up this little jewel of a woman, and I said
something along those lines. She laughed.

We chatted for a while about men being scumbags, etc., the
things we women say when we believe we’ve been rejected. Lilly was a pleasant
companion and kept the drunks at bay with minimal fuss. She wielded an
excellent derisive stare that sent them scrambling away within seconds. I
nearly laughed out loud the first time I saw her effortlessly send an impostor
whimpering away in disgrace.

All the while, I never quit scanning the room, seeking out
my dark-haired stranger. All to no avail.

After several drinks, Lilly became more and more talkative.
She told me about a nightclub she once visited with the man who stood her up
that very evening.

She spoke in a lowered voice as if she were telling a
secret. “It was a really crazy place. All sorts of things were going on.”

“What kind of things?”

“You know.” She made a funny face. “Sex things.”

“Really? Sex things? Like ...”

“I think it was a sex club. You’ve heard of those, right?
People go there to hook up and have sex.”

“No. Those places aren’t real ... are they?”

“I think they are. And I think some kinky stuff was going
down in the back rooms of this club.” Her expression filled with comical
intrigue.

“Hmm,” was all I could think to say.

“I didn’t actually see anything, though,” she continued. “I
just suspect it because of what some of the people were wearing.”

“Such as?”

“You know, leather, corsets, that sort of thing.”

“Maybe it was a Goth bar.”

“I don’t think so,” she murmured, and looked down at her
drink. “I’ve been thinking about that place a lot, and I’d kind of like to go
back, you know, to see if I’m right.”

Well I’ll be damned, I thought to myself. Lilly didn’t look
like the kinky type. But who knew. I didn’t think I was the kinky type either
until I met The Businessman.

“Listen,” Lilly said. “You seem like a nice girl and I like
you even though I just met you. I don’t have any friends that I can ask to go
with me to that nightclub. Do you think you might ...” Her voice trailed away
and she gave me a little, hopeful smile.

“Do you want me to go with you to a sex club?”

“I don’t know for sure that it’s a sex club. I don’t want to
get your hopes up or anything.” She laughed then said, “Really, though, maybe
you’re right and it’s just a Goth hangout. But it might be fun to check it out,
and it’s not like there’s anything happening here.”

I couldn’t argue with her about that. It was nearly 10:30
and I hadn’t seen a trace of The Businessman. Maybe he only came on Fridays.

I went out that evening seeking a tryst with a dark,
handsome stranger. I didn’t find him. Maybe the next logical step was a trip to
a sex club. Ha! Liar, liar. I wanted to see the sex club, if that’s what it
was.

Lilly’s eager smile and cute pixie face sealed the deal for
me.

“Okay,” I said. “What the hell.” At least it would take my
mind off of how to find The Businessman, and it could make a good story the
next time I talked to my girlfriends.

We paid our tabs and lucked into getting a cab quickly. Less
than twenty minutes later we stood outside the alleged sex club.

Cars lined the sidewalks on either side of the street. In
front of us stood a huge brick building that ran nearly the entire length of
the block, the building’s many tall windows stretching in a regular line down
the wall. All the windows were blacked out. The place looked like an old
factory from the 1900s.

Most likely, it housed multiple businesses, or maybe loft
apartments, though all I could see was a single black door with a lone light
hanging over it. On the door a small sign read, “Private Residence.” Nothing
indicated this was anything resembling a night club.

I gave Lilly a questioning look. “Are you sure this is the
place?”

“Definitely. Did you expect it to say ‘Sex Club?’”

I laughed. I didn’t have any idea what to expect.

She took my hand and pulled me to the door. “I think it’s
supposed to be a joke, the name, you know. Come on.”

She opened the door and we entered a small, well-lit foyer.
The lack of exterior signs was more than compensated for with a jumble of signs
lining the walls of the foyer. I had no time to study them, but mostly they
were about being 21 years old and the usual sort of warnings clubs post. I
think one sign had a list of rules, but I didn’t get the chance to read it.

A muscular man, clearly of the bouncer variety, lounged on a
stool near another closed black door at the rear of the foyer. Now that I was
inside, I heard strains of music coming from beyond the door, particularly the
thumping bass.

“Good evening, ladies,” said the man. “Just the two of you
tonight?”

Lilly beamed her pixie smile. “That’s right.”

He waved toward the door. “Go ahead,” he said, then went
back to reading his weightlifting magazine.

We went through the door and into another short foyer, this time
dimly lit. Probably it was designed to prevent the strong light in the entrance
from spoiling the lighting inside the club. Sure enough, the next door opened
into the club itself.

It was large. And loud, with a good-sized crowd. Basically,
it looked like any run-of-the-mill dance club. Lights flashed and music pulsed.
There was a long shiny bar that ran the length of one side of the room. A large
dance floor was ringed with tables and chairs. High-backed round booths settled
against the remaining walls. Stairs led to a second story which was a balcony
overlooking the dance floor.

It smelled like beer and whiskey, of money being handled by
sweaty hands, the overbearing combination of too many heavy-handed sprays of
perfume, the musk of the sexual hunt.

In other words, it looked and smelled like any average night
club, except for one thing — the people.

Many of them were dressed exactly as expected, decked out in
their sexiest clothes for a night of partying. But in among these regular types
were others who, as Lilly promised, were decked out in some wild leather garb.
Snug, studded leather pants. Corsets cinched so tightly I couldn’t imagine how
the women, and a few men, managed to breathe. Shorty crop tops allowed glimpses
of the undersides of breasts. Latex dresses. Crazy high stiletto heels.
Thigh-high shiny black boots. Some people had multiple piercings and wore thick
collars around their necks.

And still, this could have been a Goth thing, except that I
spotted a woman in the crowd, dressed in a corset, black panties, some kind of
webbed stockings ... I could have sworn I saw her moseying through the crowd
leading a shirtless man by a leash that was hooked to what appeared to be
nipple rings.

I wasn’t a prude, or some innocent young thing with no experience
in the big bad world. However, I’d never seen a man being led around on a leash
... other than on HBO. A leash attached to nipple rings. That was some serious
motivation not to lag behind your leader.

Lilly pulled me farther into the club and toward an empty
booth. It was set apart from the dance floor and the speakers, and so was a bit
quieter, allowing you to be heard without yelling.