30DaystoSyn

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “And it goes well with eels’ toenails and jujubes?”

  “It goes well with prime rib with wild mushroom risotto,” he replied.

  “Which you have already ordered,” she said.

  “Naturally.”

  “I guess a hamburger and fries aren’t on the menu here,” she quipped.

  “Actually, you can have most anything you want,” he told her. “Club Triumph caters to the wants and needs and desires of its members and their guests. The management wants those who come here to thoroughly enjoy the experience.”

  “It is an experience, that’s for sure. Who owns it?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Liar,” she said and he smiled. “You would never join anything until you knew all there was to know about it. So what did you find out about Club Triumph?”

  “That it’s run through a holding company in Dubai.”

  “Which is owned by…?”

  “Somebody?” he countered.

  “All right, be that way,” she said. “How long have you been a member?”

  “Nine years.”

  “And how long has the club been in existence?”

  His slow smile told her everything she needed know.

  Including the name of the owner.

  He stared at her a long time then slowly exhaled. “You have a question, love?”

  Before she could answer, the wine steward returned with a bottle of champagne and two champagne flutes. A young man accompanying him carried a wine bucket on a stand.

  “Clos Du Mesnil 1995, sir,” the wine steward said, holding the bottle, label out, with one hand on the bottom and one on the top. “May I pour, sir?”

  The Kiwi nodded.

  They were silent as the wine steward went through the elaborate process of opening the bottle of champagne and pouring a small amount into the Kiwi’s flute.

  A small sip, a nod, and the wine steward poured champagne for the two of them, put the bottle in the ice-filled bucket, bowed then left.

  He lifted his flute. “To the days to come,” he said.

  She clinked her flute to his. “To the days to come,” she repeated and felt her womb clench.

  The champagne was excellent and it flowed over her tongue like nectar. She closed her eyes and smiled to let him know it was heavenly.

  “Glad you like it,” he said. “You were about to ask a question?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, setting her glass on the blood-red tablecloth. She lowered her voice. “Is the initial membership fee for the club really a million dollars?”

  “It is but there is more to the membership than just fine dining twenty-four hours a day,” he said. “On this floor are the dining facilities, a nightclub and the offices. Above us is a large multi-functional facility open to all members. On the second floor is a full gymnasium complete with steam rooms, hot tubs and saunas, as well as racquetball and handball courts. There is a huge library, one hundred-seat screening room, smoking parlor, game rooms, computer rooms and solarium on the third floor. Suites of private rooms—individually owned by the members who purchase them from CT—are located on floors four through seven. On the roof is an infinity swimming pool complete with a waterfall.”

  “Holy moly!” she said.

  “That’s just above ground. There are four sublevels below us, two for private use and two for parking.” He took a sip of his champagne then set the glass aside.

  “That’s quite an operation,” she said. “I don’t imagine there’s anything like it but that was the idea, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s not the first of its kind.” He leaned back in his chair, swiveled the base of the flute on the table. He was looking at the swirling wine as he asked, “You’ve heard of the Hellfire Club?”

  “Where the wealthy rakes of eighteenth-century Britain worshipped Satan?” she asked, her stomach suddenly churning.

  “That would be the one,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “It was dedicated to Bacchus and Venus. Booze, boys and bawdy broads,” he stated.

  “I take it this is Atlanta’s version of the Hellfire Club?” she questioned and was beginning to be very concerned.

  “It is. The motto of Club Triumph is the same as that of the Hellfire Club—Fais ce que tu voudras.”

  “Do what thou wilt,” she translated the Latin from her Catholic schoolgirl days. The concern was rapidly escalating to deep disquiet.

  He nodded slowly. “Very wealthy men come here to engage their more prurient natures. They bring their mistresses or…” He looked to his right. “Their lovers.”

  She followed where his attention had gone and was astounded to see a very well-known older politician sitting with a very handsome young man. The elderly gentleman had his hand in the younger man’s lap.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He is a deacon in my church,” she exclaimed. “He was just inducted into the Order of St. Gregory.”

  “He’s a lot of things, baby,” he said drily. “Godly ain’t one of ‘em. He’s the raunchiest poo pusher in the room.”

  She looked away, vastly disappointed in a man she had voted for many times. She forced her mind from a mental picture of the man and his wife of sixty-odd years standing in front of St. Teresa’s with their brood of nine children and slew of grandkids and great-grand kids.

  “I had no idea he was a Satanist,” she said and nausea lurked in her throat.

  “I’m sure he’s not. We don’t worship Satan here, Lina,” he said, amusement crinkling at the corners of his expressive eyes. “Nor do we sacrifice animals or maidens or babies. There are no blood rituals performed and murder isn’t on the list of services provided.”

  “But it is a place where illicit acts are carried out.”

  “You could say that, yes. It is a private men’s club. Whom the members bring with them is their business.”

  “And if they don’t bring someone with them?” she asked. “Does the club provide…?”

  “This isn’t a whorehouse, Melina,” he said. “The club doesn’t offer or provide prostitutes or bum boys for its members.”

  She unconsciously licked her lips. She thought she already knew the answer to her question but had to ask. “Are the private levels below us like the caves beneath the club in Britain? Does funky stuff go on down there?”

  “Yes. There is a system of chambers where the patrons can go to experience every vice known to man.” He frowned. “Well not every vice. The lines are drawn at bestiality and pedophilia.”

  “By vices you mean such as BDSM and the like? Whips and chains and…”

  “There are chambers for those who indulge in that sort of thing, yes.”

  “And have you yourself indulged in those chambers?”

  “On occasion,” he replied.

  Once more she licked her lips and saw his eyes zero in on them before lifting slowly to hers.

  “Do that one more time,” he said, “and I will stretch you atop this table and have my way with you while everyone watches.” He leaned toward her. “And believe me, baby, they would.”

  Tears scratched at the back of her throat. “Why did you bring me here, Kiwi?”

  “For dinner?” he countered.

  “And that’s all?” she demanded.

  “No, that’s not all.”

  “Then why?”

  His blue eyes glittered. “Because tonight’s the night I take you, baby.”

  She went completely still, staring at him as though he had just informed her he was going to string her up in one of the dungeons in the sublevels.

  “I thought you said Thursday night,” she said, swallowing.

  “I rearranged the timetable,” he said then finished the champagne in his glass.

  “Not Thursday,” she said. Her voice was small, filled with something akin to fear.

  “Not Thursday,” he agreed. “Tonight.”

  “Oh,” she said and her face turned red. “What changed your mind?”

  “The way you look in that dre
ss,” he told her.

  The headwaiter was standing discreetly in his view. He nodded to indicate the meal should begin. She turned her head to see to whom he’d made his silent signal.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she said, looking down, fiddling with her napkin.

  He braced his elbows on the table and threaded his fingers together, rested his chin on the back of them. “Look at me.”

  She didn’t.

  He made his voice more authoritative. “Melina, look at me.”

  Again she licked her lips before raising her eyes to his and he had the wild desire to leap across the table and trap her against him, ravage her mouth in full view of all the members who were so studiously trying not to stare at them.

  “Yes?” she queried in a mousy voice.

  “I want you to eat everything that will be in your bowls and on your plates,” he said sternly. “Do you know why?”

  “Because you grew up hand to mouth and living on scraps from restaurant dumpsters or fruit you nicked from vendor stalls in the market so you have this maniacal, irrational penchant for not wanting food to be wasted?”

  He had to school his lips not to twitch with amusement at her little show of pique.

  “Yes, that too, but mostly I want you to do so because you are going to need your strength.”

  That caught her full attention. Her lips parted and her eyes flared—just a little but enough to tell him his words had put a shiver down her spine.

  “Why?” she asked. “Are you going to take me down below?”

  He knew she didn’t realize how provocative that question was or how he had interpreted it. A wicked part of him wanted to rattle her cage.

  “Do you want me to take you to the Dungeons?” he asked.

  Her answer came too quickly. “No!”

  “I will, though,” he told her. “Not tonight. Tonight is a time for gentleness but we still have four more days to make the journey to the rooms below.”

  Their waiter arrived with the first course, cutting off whatever protest he was sure she’d been about to make.

  Throughout the meal he engaged her in small talk—mostly about her brother or what was going on at her job—in order to put her at ease. He watched her push her food around on the plate and said nothing more about her cleaning her plate. Her hand was trembling and he knew she was nervous, unsure of the night ahead of her. By the time dessert—a mouthwatering crème brulee that was her favorite—arrived she was fidgeting tensely in her seat.

  “What do you think I intend to do once we get up to my suite, love?” he asked as he finished his dessert and lifted the napkin to his lips. He looked at her over the crisply starched black linen.

  “Rape, ravage and pillage me,” she said, her voice a bit higher than normal.

  He smiled, folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. “And will you be terribly disappointed if none of those things are on my agenda for tonight?”

  “For tonight?” she echoed.

  “Oh, I’ll get around to them because they sound intriguing.” He almost laughed when she groaned.

  “I feel like a sacrificial lamb,” she said.

  “There’s no need to.” He signaled the waiter and a busboy hurried over to clear the table.

  “Your usual after-dinner drink, Mr. McGregor?” the wine steward asked as he came over as well.

  “Not tonight, Drummond.”

  “And the lady?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  “Very well, madam. Sir,” the wine steward said with a bow. “Enjoy your evening.”

  “I intend to,” he said, fusing his eyes with hers. He waited until they were alone before he spoke again. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

  He pushed his chair back from the table and rose. She sat perfectly still as he moved behind her. The moment he lowered the necklace over her head, she gasped, her head dipping as she stared at the pendant he was clasping around her neck. It fell lovingly between her breasts and she put up a hand to touch it.

  He bent down to put his lips to her ear. “Don’t say you can’t accept it,” he whispered. “And don’t say it’s too expensive. I designed it myself and had it crafted in Dubai especially for you.”

  The necklace was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she’d ever beheld. A heart-shaped dark-red ruby with flashes of black shading hung from an intricately filigreed white-gold bail. Surrounding the ruby was a row of diamonds. The platinum Byzantine chain holding the pendant glittered in the light of the candles.

  “The ruby is a symbol of passion and desire, of an inner fire that will never go out,” he told her. “It shines light on the dark places in your soul and encourages you to follow your dreams. It teaches you how precious you are.” He put his hands on her shoulders and caressed her gently. “Now you have my heart. Guard it well for I will never give it to anyone else.”

  She craned her head around and looked up at him as he straightened. His gaze was red hot.

  “Shall we go?” he asked quietly. At her nod, he pulled out her chair then put a hand to the small of her back to usher her from the room. The heat from his palm scorched her through the silk of her dress.

  People surreptitiously watched them. Heads were put together when they passed. Men smiled knowingly at them. Women gave her envious glowers. The young men sitting with their older companions gave the Kiwi wistful looks.

  He ushered her down a dim corridor that dog-legged sharply to the left. Beyond was a sumptuous staircase right out of Victorian England. It curved upward with breathtaking beauty.

  “No elevators?” she asked.

  “There are but if you could see them they’d ruin the ambience. Besides, climbing the stairs takes you back to a more licentious time. A time when libertines corrupted innocent young women and innocent young women went eagerly to their deflowering.” As they walked he reached down to take her hand in his, brought it to his lips for a moment.

  “You would have been right at home in that era, wouldn’t you?”

  “I could well have been Heathcliff,” he replied. They started up the stairs.

  “The wild gypsy boy who became a wealthy self-made man then took his revenge on those who wronged him,” she said.

  “Except I’m the wild Māori boy who inherited his Paheka father’s enormous estate then helped those who had his back when he was growing up,” he countered.

  “Paheka?”

  “A white New Zealander,” he explained.

  The climb up the gently curving staircase with its black runner covering the highly polished oak treads was like stepping back in time. Arriving on the landing, she was struck by the lushness of the scattered settees done in scarlet-red damask and the beautiful silver-colored lamps with cut-crystal shades that adorned oak occasional tables.

  “You spared no expense did you?” she asked.

  He glanced down at her with a twinkle in his eye. “Someone did a bang-up job of it, I reckon.”

  “He did, indeed,” she agreed.

  “As I told you, the private suites are on the fourth through sixth floors.”

  “Which floor are you on, Mr. McGregor?”

  “The seventh,” he said.

  “Well, of course you are. We’ve got to climb five more floors?” she asked.

  “Don’t you think I’m worth it?” he countered.

  “You’d darn well better be,” she said with a humph. She stopped. “Wait.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  She bent over to remove her high heels.

  He laughed. “Smart girl,” he complimented her.

  “How many members do you have?” she asked.

  “There is a cut-off of forty. At present we have thirty-nine and a waiting list of over two hundred vying for that coveted spot.”

  She whistled. “You said the members had to purchase the suites. How much do they go for?”

  “Fourth floor is two hundred and fifty thousand.
The higher up you go, the more expensive the suite,” he told her.

  “Mother Mary,” she said. “And how many suites are on each floor?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “And you are on the most expensive floor.”

  “I am,” he said smugly.

  She looked over at him as they climbed. “Do the members know who owns the club?”

  “Of course, but should they reveal his name, they will be expelled from the club and none of them want that.”

  She stopped as they reached the fifth floor. “I really need to join a gym,” she said.

  “I’ll get you a membership wherever you like,” he said. “Ready?”

  She sighed, not looking forward to climbing the other two stairways. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Be warned, Kiwi.” She said. “When we reach that last set of stairs, you are going to pick me up and carry me the rest of the way.”

  “Your wish is my command, milady,” he said with a grin.

  They passed no one on their way up to the sixth floor. It was eerily quiet on each landing—each space identical to the one below it. When they neared the last stairway, he stopped.

  He turned to face her, reached out to put his hands to her cheeks and leaned down to give her a soft, lingering kiss. Easing back, he locked his eyes with hers.

  “It’s not too late,” he said quietly. “If you don’t want this tell me now.”

  “And if I don’t?” she asked, searching his face.

  “We’ll end it and go our separate ways. I’m not a piker. I’ll pay you for all the nights up through this one. Your time is worth—”

  “Stop talking,” she said. She raised her chin. “I’m not a piker, either. I made a deal with you and I intend to see it through.”

  He stared at her a long moment. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Fair enough,” he said and reached down to sweep her into his arms. He barely gave her time to wrap her arms around his neck before he was striding purposefully up the stairs carrying her as effortlessly as if she’d been a small child.

  Gaining the seventh floor landing, he stopped so she could take in the sight before her.