“Here.” He stopped in front of an arched iron gate that looked like it was from the Middle Ages.
“What’s behind there?”
“Our destination.” He turned a lever and opened the gate, ushering me inside a damp tunnel. A torch lit the way deeper within.
“Uh, we’re going in there?”
“Second thoughts?”
I’d asked for this. I was prepared for a free fall with this man. “You won’t lose me that easily, Siberian.”
Was there a whisper of surprise in his expression? Had he thought I’d back out? Or hoped I would?
“At least give me a hint about where we’re going.”
“It’s a place I’ve been before.”
As we followed the tunnel, I realized we were descending below the city. I’d read about catacombs underneath the streets of Paris and was itching to investigate my surroundings, yet he led me ever forward.
Ahead was a circular chamber with more torches. In the center, a fountain bubbled, flames dancing across the surface of the water. Firelight flickered over the rounded walls, illuminating mosaics. The tiles depicted lusty satyrs and maidens in coitus, the flames making it look like the satyrs were moving, thrusting.
Next to a formal entrance, a shining brass plaque was embossed with four words:
LE LIBERTIN
CLUB PRIVÉ
I murmured to him, “Is this some sort of . . . sex club?” Wasn’t sex club synonymous with swingers’ club? My heart fell. The idea of sharing him—or being shared—stopped me in my tracks.
“Lost your nerve?” he asked, detecting my tension.
“I don’t want either of us to be with anyone else.”
He backed me against the wall under one of those torches. Firelight captured his face; behind his mask, his eyes were molten gold. “You are my woman. Mine. And I learned very early in life not to share what’s mine. You think I’ll ever let another touch you?”
I lifted my chin. “I won’t be sharing you either.”
This seemed to gratify him. “Then we’re in agreement. Any other hard limits I should be made aware of?”
I thought he was amusing himself with me, so I rolled my eyes, grumbling, “Just take me into the freaking club before I die of curiosity.”
Inside, a woman greeted us from behind a large secretary. She too wore a formal gown and a mask, an owl one. Though it obscured some of her features, her olive skin, lithe figure, and sloe eyes were arresting. “Welcome,” she said with a thick French accent as she helped me from my stole. Once she’d stored it, she told Sevastyan, “Your private room is this way, Monsieur S.”
How many times had Sevastyan been here?
He said something to her in French, then ushered me forward with his possessive hand back on my hip. As we followed her down an arcade, strains of lively classical music grew more distinct. We approached a set of double doors manned by liveried footmen, expressionless as they granted us entry.
Past the doors was a dazzling ballroom with a soaring ceiling, filled with formally dressed attendees.
We are no longer in the Corn Belt, folks.
Massive flower arrangements perfumed the air. Rich tapestries graced the walls, depicting more sensual scenes. Matching statues of Venus—which looked like they belonged in museums—flanked a grand staircase. Along the steps, living human statues with skin dusted gold held candelabras to light the way.
The decadent velvets, swathes of silk, and candlelit grandeur made me feel like I’d walked into a French period film. I finally found my voice to murmur, “How old is this place?”
“Centuries.”
With that one word, he might as well have shot me full of adrenaline. Ah, the history—I breathed it in. Endeavoring to note every detail, I gawked all around me.
As we passed through the throng of attractive partygoers, I realized no one was getting down and dirty. There were drinks and laughter and flirting, but nothing different than you’d see in a regular club.
Was it just me, or were we collecting lots of stares? Sevastyan seemed to be growing increasingly agitated.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“They think you’re available. That you don’t belong to me.”
“Why?”
“Because you lack a collar.”
Collar and keep you. “Um, that’s hot—in a totally appalling kind of way.” But hey, this was all pretend, all gossamer fantasy and silken decadence, right? Noticing that many of the women did, in fact, sport collars, I asked him in a fake petulant tone, “How come I don’t get a collar?”
But he was serious when he answered, “You haven’t earned one.” Right when I was about to flare, he added, “And I haven’t earned the right to give it to you.” He looked so conflicted behind his domino.
A fit, middle-aged man swept in front of us. He wore an elephant mask with an exaggerated trunk. Subtle, buddy, reaaallll subtle. He started to speak, but Sevastyan just gave him his signature killing look—the one that made men quake.
We weren’t stopped again.
The owl woman was waiting for us at that grand set of stairs. We followed her up to a second-floor landing, then made our way down a hallway lit by gas lamps.
“Where are we going, Siberian?”
“Patience,” he intoned.
Not exactly my strong suit. After all, impatience was a sibling to curiosity.
A thought struck me. “Why did you pick a butterfly mask for me?” Of all the creatures he could have chosen.
“Do you think there has to be a reason?”
“I’m finding that you don’t do anything without a reason.”
“Perhaps there was . . .”
“Here we are,” the woman said, stopping before an unmarked door. She unlocked it, and we entered.
An ornate candle chandelier cast subdued light over the space. In the middle of the room was a large settee upholstered in sumptuous-looking fabric. Antique chairs and tables made up a sitting area off to the side; a copper tub sat off to another. A plush theater curtain covered an entire wall.
The air was warm, smelling of candle wax and . . . newness. Which was odd, considering how vintage everything else had seemed.
It also smelled of leather.
The woman opened a waiting bottle of chilled champagne, pouring two flutes before she left. At the door, she gave me a knowing wink. What did she know that I didn’t?
Maybe that a train was barreling down the trestle? Or how deep the freaking water was?
Keep cool, Natalie. I trusted this man to protect me, to pleasure me, to be what I needed him to be.
He motioned to the settee. “Sit.”
I did, noting that it faced the theater curtain. Would we be viewing a movie? A bawdy play? We hadn’t gotten to enjoy the masquerade at all, I thought with disappointment. In books, people always got to stay till midnight at least—not ten measly minutes.
Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I spied covered shapes throughout the room—shapes that could be anything. But I had an idea. My mind raced to those BDSM vids I’d devoured, the primer I’d inhaled, the magazine I’d shown him. Was there a pillory in here, or a spanking bench, or a swing? Would Sevastyan bind me up to torment me?
Part of me was terrified at the prospect. But I was woman enough to admit the idea got me wet. Roll with it, roll with it.
When he sat beside me, I said, “What is this room?”
“It’s ours. One of the very few available to own.”
Ours? “How long have you had it?”
“About nine hours. I had it renovated today and equipped to my specifications.”
Since our fight this morning? That explained the new smell. I could only imagine the money he’d had to throw at this to get everything ready in time.
He picked up a multi-button remote from the table beside the settee. “You told me that you wanted to see more of Paris. Here’s another slice of it.” He pressed a button. The curtain began to open, revealing
a wall of glass.
Behind the glass was . . . was . . .
When I realized what I was beholding, I breathed, “Oh. My. God.”
Sevastyan’s hand shot out to catch my champagne flute just before it hit the ground. . . .
Books by Kresley Cole
The Game Maker Series
The Professional, Part 1
The Immortals After Dark Series
The Warlord Wants Forever
A Hunger Like No Other
No Rest for the Wicked
Wicked Deeds on a Winter’s Night
Dark Needs at Night’s Edge
Dark Desires After Dusk
Kiss of a Demon King
Deep Kiss of Winter
Pleasure of a Dark Prince
Demon from the Dark
Dreams of a Dark Warrior
Lothaire
Shadow’s Claim
MacRieve
The Arcana Chronicles
Poison Princess
Endless Knight
The MacCarrick Brothers Series
If You Dare
If You Desire
If You Deceive
The Sutherland Series
The Captain of All Pleasures
The Price of Pleasure
We hope you enjoyed reading this Pocket Star Books eBook.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Kresley Cole
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition January 2014
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Interior design by Jaime Putorti
Cover design © Richard Yoo
Cover art © Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-4711-3405-0
Table of Contents
Cover
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Copyright
The Professional Part 2 Page 11