That thought hurt her far more than she wanted to admit.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Night Twenty-Six
She’d come home from work to find a beautiful cocktail dress lying across her bed. It was a simple black silk sheath but it was elegant and tasteful with a light dusting of black sequins scattered over the bodice. Beside the dress was a pair of black sheer-lace cheekini panties and matching lace bra. All laid out with care along with a handwritten card that read For Tonight.
On the floor was a pair of sparkling silver heels she knew cost more than she made in a month. Hanging over the closet door was a beautiful gray light wool coat. If she had to make a guess, the entire ensemble had probably set him back at least three grand.
She stared at the card then traced the script with a fingertip. His handwriting was as bold and powerful as the man himself. The cardstock smelled of the cologne he always wore.
Smiling, she walked over to the dresser and propped the card against the crystal budvase that held a single, perfect gardenia. The flower had been there when she returned to her new apartment that morning. She wondered if it had been Spike who had placed it there and just where the leggy blonde could have procured the flower this late in the year. There had been a card with the flower, as well. That card was also propped against the budvase, the wording on it a simple Thank You.
After the Kiwi had been officially discharged from the hospital, he’d gone his way and she’d gone hers—each in separate cars. Though he insisted she didn’t have to go to work, she insisted just as adamantly that she did. He’d given in with a long, weary sigh as though he was too tired to argue with her. A light kiss to her forehead had been his capitulation before he turned and headed down the corridor with Kit at his side. Jonny had been waiting for her at the west entrance of the hospital to avoid the crush of reporters waiting for the Kiwi.
They were being very protective of her, carefully guarding her from the glare of the reporters’ cameras—even though the press now knew her name. They also knew where she worked and everything they could gather on her. There were paparazzi hanging out at Dunham, Belvoir, and Brell. It was interesting going to and from work being chased through the streets of Atlanta. Even though the paparazzi knew where she lived, they couldn’t get within five hundred feet of her thanks to a cordon of burly bodyguards handpicked by Kit.
They’d also learned where Drew was and had sent people there to question him and the staff.
“I’ll put a stop to that fucking shit!” Jono had sworn and he had. Drew was now guarded religiously by steroid-pumped Māori warriors with facial tats that would make the bravest paparazzi think twice about engaging them.
She was heading into the bathroom to shower when the phone rang. It wasn’t the house phone. She’d been told not to answer that one for fear it might be bugged. Instead, new burner phones showed up every day on the nightstand and coffee table of her new apartment.
“Hello?”
“Like it?” he asked.
“It’s lovely, Kiwi,” she said. “The heels are to die for.”
She heard him laugh.
“Yeah, well, they bankrupted me,” he told her.
“Fat chance of that,” she said. “How do you feel?” He’d had a slight headache when he’d woken that morning.
“I’m okay.” There was a long pause then, “I spent most of the night watching you sleep.”
She had insisted on sleeping on the couch though he demanded she sleep beside him in the hospital bed.
“Not my fault,” she said. “You could have been snoring away instead.”
“I don’t snore,” he said. “That’s just my—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, mimicking his accent. “It’s just your motor running in idle.”
“You should know. You’ve seen me motor, woman,” he said.
“Where are we going tonight?” she asked.
“Taking you for that fancy meal we never got to have,” he replied.
“And where will we be going?”
“A fine establishment that serves pickled eels’ toenails and jujubes.”
“Oh yummy,” she said, never missing a beat. “I’ll bring my eel fork.”
“Not necessary. The restaurant will provide,” he said then hung up.
“Goofball,” she laughed.
* * * * *
He sent Jonny to pick her up in a black-and-red Bugatti Veyron Super Sports.
“The most expensive street-legal car in the world,” Jonny told her as she stood at the curb in awe of the machine. Across the street several paparazzi were busy taking pictures of the car. “It is also the fastest street-legal car clocking in at a top speed of 254.4 mph.”
“I’d just as soon not test that record out tonight, thank you very much,” she said as he opened the door for her. She glanced at what he was wearing. “Nice duds, bro.”
Jonny grinned and ran his hand down his Armani suit. “You like? The head sherang spared no expense tonight.”
“I’ve heard that before. What does head sherang mean?” she asked.
“The boss,” he replied.
“Ah,” she said and settled into the very comfortable seat as he closed the door.
He jogged around the front of the luxury car and got in, whistling. The car started up with a purr.
“Neat,” she said. “Where are you taking me?”
“Club Triumph,” he said. “Members only.”
“I read about it in Metro Vibes. Pretty swank, huh?”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. Those of us without a brass razoo couldn’t buy a toothpick in that eatery.”
She looked behind them as he pulled out into the street, worried the reporters would come racing in pursuit.
“They won’t follow. My men will see to it.”
“That’s a relief,” she said, thinking of how Princess Diana had met her tragic end.
They were headed into downtown Atlanta as a light rain began to fall. Jonny turned on the wipers then glanced over at her.
“He’s got a new Room,” he said.
If the news was meant to please her it failed by a long shot. She said nothing to the information, staring through the windshield as rain pebbled the glass.
“There are no cameras,” he told her.
“He told you about the cameras,” she said softly.
“He had Kit retrieve the videos and the laptop,” he replied. “He spent all morning deleting every frame you were in. The rest of it he gave to Jake for safekeeping. Well, all of it except the part he wanted to hand over to the piggies.”
She turned to look at him. “The beating?”
Jonny nodded. “Done and done where the old biddy is concerned. That’s more evidence against her.”
She twisted around in her seat. “Do you think he will regret doing that, Jonny?”
“Nah. She sent him to Parrie. He’s just returning the favor as he says.”
“Parrie?”
“Paremoremo Prison,” he said. “Where me and him and Craigie were.”
“Was it bad?” she asked and when he didn’t say anything she apologized for her nosiness and insensitivity.
“Yeah, it was bad,” he said at last. “More so for him than for us.” He braked for a red light and his hands flexed around the wheel as he stared straight ahead. “He was better looking than us and younger and smaller. Easy pickings for some.” He looked at her. “Don’t tell him I said that. I shouldn’t have.”
“I won’t,” she said and felt terrible sadness well up inside her.
“But he toughed up and filled out and learned how to punch like a fucking mule, you know? Not many men can take him now one on one. I know I wouldn’t want to try.”
“I imagine not,” she said and was glad when the light changed and he stepped on the gas. She needed to get them off such a depressing subject. “How’s Spike?”
She saw him grin.
“That chickie is prime,” he said with a nod.
; “How long have you two been dating?”
“Not long,” he told her. “A couple of weeks. Before then she was seeing this potato…”
“An Irishman?” she questioned.
“Polynesian,” he replied. “Brown on the outside, white inside.”
“Well, of course,” she said. “Makes perfect sense. You Kiwis are such a logical bunch.”
He laughed. “Anyway, he was lower than shark shit. He’d fuck a barber’s floor if it had enough hairs on it and she caught him at it with one of her mates. She dumped him and took up with me,” he explained.
“I really like her,” she said. “You two make a cute couple.”
He snorted as he signaled that he was turning left. “Don’t read too much into it, love. She knocks like a ten-ton lorry but I like it that way.”
She was afraid to ask what that meant.
The sign for Club Triumph was inconspicuous. A single black enamel plate with the name emblazoned in silver script was discreetly lit by two black metal canister lights on either side of the sign. The black door set in the middle on the ground floor of a black glass-and-chrome high-rise was guarded by a brute of a man with shoulders the size of Mount Rushmore and a face just as granite-hard. His eyes followed them as they pulled up in front of the building.
“No valet parking here,” Jonny said. “You get dropped off and your driver peels off like a bride’s nightie. I can’t even get out.”
“Oh,” she said, reaching for the door handle.
“Unh unh,” Jonny said. “Just wait.”
She looked at the bouncer, saw him talking into the sleeve of his jacket then watched as two hulking men came out of the black door.
“A bit of overkill, wouldn’t you say?” she asked Jonny.
“Only the multis—the rich nabobs—get past the Sumo wrestler and his minions,” he said. “You have to buy a membership in order to get in and Spike told me the going rate is a cool mil to get in and annual dues of twenty grand.”
“Surely not,” she said as the two men reached the car.
Jonny lowered her window and one of the men held out his hand.
“ID,” he said in a rough voice.
Jonny leaned past her to hand him a plastic card. The guard looked at it, looked at her, looked back at the card then leveled his stony stare right at her.
“Middle name?” he inquired.
“Dawn,” she answered.
“Fraternal grandfather’s middle name?”
She blinked. That was a question you didn’t get asked every day and she supposed that was as good a way as any to ascertain who she really was. “Abraham.”
He inclined his head as he pocketed the card. “You’ll get a permanent card inside, ma’am,” he said and opened her door. He extended his hand to help her out. “Welcome to Club Triumph.”
She turned to thank Jonny but the man shut the door before she could. With her hand still in his, he led her to the door where the bouncer was smiling.
“Welcome, Miss Wynth,” he said, opening the door for her. “Have a good evening.”
“Thank you.”
From the moment she entered the dimly lit interior of the club, she was in awe. The walls were covered in black silk wallpaper upon which was stamped an intricate gleaming silver tribal pattern. Her shoes sank into thick black carpet that was lit by baseboard lights. Overhead were elaborate chrome chandeliers with flickering electric candles turned down so low the anteroom held mysterious, deep shadows.
Another massive guard bowed gracefully to her, took her coat, and then silently indicated she was to follow him. The black suit, tie and shirt he wore, and the silent way he walked, made her think of goblins at Halloween. He took her to a small room where he handed her over to a tall, thin woman wearing black slacks and a black off-the-shoulder blouse.
At first the lights were low but as the woman came toward her, the lights came slowly up until they were at normal brightness, revealing photographic and identification equipment.
“Please stand on the X, Miss Wynth,” the woman said in a thick Italian accent.
The process of being photographed and having her palm scanned made her feel like a covert operative. Chills ran down her back as the thin woman led her from the office and down a murky corridor where the scent of gardenia wafted through the air. At the end of the corridor was an ornate Louis XVI desk behind which sat one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen.
Dressed in a long black strapless gown that showed off her creamy shoulders to perfection, the woman sat like a queen upon her throne. The chrome chair beneath her elegantly rounded derriere was upholstered in black velvet.
“We are so happy you could join us, Miss Wynth,” she said. Her smile was sheer perfection with ultra-white teeth behind scarlet-red lips. “I am Xanadu. Your guide for the evening is Justin.”
From the shadows stepped a gorgeous hunk of a man she was fairly sure spent the daylight hours as a male model. He looked as though he had been poured into the black leather pants that snugly fit his lean hips. A black silk shirt stretched across broad shoulders and tapered to a trim waist. His leather boots, belt and tie were all ebony colored.
“If you will follow me, Miss Wynth,” he said in a smoky voice. “Mr. McGregor is awaiting you.” He swept his hand into the shadows from whence he had come.
For what seemed forever she followed Justin through meandering corridors, past black door after black door until the light strains of sensuous Celtic music drifted toward her. Ahead there was a faint light that drew her like a moth to the flame. So thick was the carpet upon which she walked she seemed to be floating above it. A light draft played over her bare arms but it was warm air accompanied by a perfumed scent like that of burning candles. As they drew nearer the light, she noticed it flickering and came to realize the luminosity was being generated by blazing tapers.
Her first sight of the dining room took her breath away. The walls were done in the same Celtic designed black wallpaper and the carpet underfoot was just as soft but it was the blood red tablecloths upon which sat silver candelabras that immediately caught her eye. No chandeliers hung suspended from the ceiling. Ranged along the walls were chrome braziers where flames flicked and licked and wavered. Above her was a scarlet red-and-black stained-glass ceiling in the middle of which was a huge silver five-pointed star.
“Wow,” she whispered.
In the far corner of the room was a waterfall backlit by a silvery light that made the black rocks surrounding the cascade glitter and the water itself sparkle. The water fell into a rocky basin that gave off a faint blue glow. The sound of the tumbling falls was very pleasant and gave the room a tropical feel.
There were no more than two chairs at each of the tables and the cushions of those chairs were upholstered in the same fabric as that which covered the walls. Polished silver place settings adorned the tables—the silverware gleaming in the light from the black tapers standing in the three-armed candelabras. The stemware was a smoky gray crystal that reflected the flickering light.
But if the accoutrements of the room inspired her, the people within the room overwhelmed her. From the waitstaff to the diners, she realized everyone in the restaurant was dressed entirely in black and every woman there was wearing silver heels similar to the ones on her own feet.
“This way, please,” Justin said after giving her a moment to take in the sumptuous yet eerie beauty of the room.
She had to shake herself to put her feet into motion to follow him. The soft melody changed and she recognized the song. It was one of her favorites—a haunting Celtic ballad titled Red Is the Rose. She wondered if the Kiwi knew she dearly loved the song.
“Of course he does,” she said under her breath.
And then she saw him.
He was sitting at the back of the room in a sheltered alcove. The shimmer of the candlelight lit his face to accentuate the brutal beating he had taken. She could not help but speculate on what the wealthy patrons of the supper club tho
ught of his battered face. Surely they knew what had happened. News of it had been all over the television and radio and newspaper but no one was looking at him.
Or at her as she passed among the tables.
As she drew closer, he pushed back his chair and stood. There was a slight welcoming smile—perhaps a tad nervous—tugging at his lips.
She knew an expensive suit when she saw one. It was most likely Alexander Amousa for she had read that was the designer he preferred. The black silk shirt and tie alone would have paid her rent payment many times over. The cufflinks at his wrists flashed red in the candlelight as he held his hand out to her. The ruby-red stones in the teardrop settings were the only color amidst the unrelieved black of his attire.
She slipped her hand into his. “You clean up nicely,” she said as he leaned down to brush his lips fleetingly against her temple.
“I done gone and took me a bath too,” he said as Julian held the chair for her.
“I could tell the stink was off’n you,” she responded and heard Julian chuckle.
When she was seated and Julian had plucked the linen napkin from the table then snapped it open before placing it in her lap, he took his seat.
“You look lovely,” he said in that deep, nasally voice that never failed to gain her attention.
“Thank you. How are you feeling?”
“In other words, you look like shit, Kiwi, but I’m trying not to stare at your ugly mug,” he said with a grin.
“There is nothing ugly about you, Kiwi, and unfortunately for most women you know it,” she said. She looked up as the wine steward came to stand beside him.
“Good evening, Drummond,” he said. “We will start with Clos Du Mesnil 1995 then I believe the 1997 Domaine Romanee Conti with our meal.”
“Very good, sir,” the wine steward said with a slight bow then faded back into the shadows.”
“Are you a wine connoisseur?” she inquired.
“I know what I like. The wine we’ll be having with our meal is a rich red burgundy that is as smooth as silk. You’ll get a taste of plum and currant along with a touch of tar and smoke.”
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