Play it Filthy (Kings of the Tower Book 4)

by May Sage

  Desmond's eyes were a snake's, zeroing in on its prey before pouncing. Remembering that he was in the US, Edmund wondered if the man was going to pull a gun and shoot him or some shit.

  Instead, Desmond forced a smile.

  "You're right. We did start on the wrong foot."

  He lifted a slim folder he held under his left arm, and slid it on the small table in front of Edmund.

  "What's this?"

  "An NDA. Tight and comprehensive. I am going to have to check the provenance and that Malcolm give the key to you, and no one else. But if it all checks out, it makes you a legatee of a membership in one of the world's most exclusive clubs. I'll take you there tonight. As long as you sign on the dotted line."

  Edmund eyed the stack of paper suspiciously, as he would have any document.

  "I'm going to have to get my lawyer to check that."

  Desmond lifted a brow. "You don't know your way around an NDA?"

  "I do know how to survive in a world of assholes and predators."

  Every word had meaning in a contract with a man like King.

  "Fair enough. Get it checked. I'll do my work on the key. Meet me in the lobby at eight."

  Edmund didn't think he'd ever been told what to do like that, not even by Cici. He didn't think he'd ever disliked a man as quickly and thoroughly as he did Desmond King. They were too similar to get along. Ed was glad they lived on different continents.

  "I have something to do tonight," he lied, simply to irritate Desmond.

  "Cancel it. We’re doing this tonight at eight, or not at all."

  Jesus, the guy was a serious piece of work.

  "All right. I'll see what I can do."

  Thankfully, he wouldn't have too many issues rescheduling his imaginary plans.

  Chapter 9

  Hester contacted the finance department of K.C. as soon as she got to the office on Wednesday morning, and a report hit her email by four o'clock that afternoon. They'd found five suitable harbors that would work just as well as the one they currently owned; the finance team sent her an estimate of the costs, adding a margin and ten percent on top to make sure that they profited from the transaction.

  Hester read the report thoroughly, attempting to be entirely detached about the situation, before calling Claudia, who'd worked on the case.

  "Hey. Great findings on the Ashworth deal. I'm sending you his email. Ask him for four hundred thousand." That was the most expensive option. "You can go as low as two hundred and fifty if he's being stingy. We don't currently need the site, but we certainly don't want to lose money on the transaction."

  Claudia didn't think to question it—it was normal protocol with any regular client interested in a King Construction property—but Hester knew that she should have contacted Edmund herself. As he'd pointed out, a man like him didn't deal with middlemen. He might be pissed. Wincing on Claudia's behalf, she told her, "You may want to make it clear that you've been given freedom to approve the sale, by the way. He's a bit of an asshole; if he thinks he isn't talking to someone in charge, he might be rude."

  "Charming."

  Hester laughed. "He can be, when he wants to. Somehow that makes it worse. Okay, let me know if you need some help; otherwise, Ashworth is in your hands."

  And officially out of Hester's. She smiled smugly, until an hour and a half later, when his name flashed on her phone.

  Dammit. Why was he calling her now? Instead of answering, she quickly refreshed her emails to see if Claudia was screaming for help. Nothing. She sighed and picked up.

  "Hester Hall."

  "Hester. I receive the primary documents from your finance team. I'm glad to see they're quite efficient. It looks like I might be able to tie this deal up before going back to the other side of the pond."

  "I'm really glad to hear it." Really. "Can I do anything for you in the meantime, Mr. Ashworth?"

  "Mr. Ashworth is my uncle, Hester. And I was actually wondering, now that you've shoved me onto someone else's desk, whether you'd like to go for a drink?"

  She remained entirely silent, mouth hanging open, brain paused. No. The answer was “thanks, but no thanks.” Why the hell wasn't she saying it, then?

  "Still there, Hester?"

  "Yes. A drink?" she repeated numbly.

  "That's right. No Scotch, that's a promise. Maybe some fancy cocktails or beer, your call. Maybe even dinner after. You know…"

  She did know. Edmund fucking Ashworth was making a pass at her. There wasn't a version of this where she didn't end up legs spread in his hotel room if she said yes.

  The problem was that she wasn't entirely against that development.

  "I—I don't fraternize with clients, Edmund. Sorry."

  There, she'd opened her mouth and said the right thing. Hester was incredibly proud of herself.

  "I'm hardly a client—not of King Construction, or King Tech for that matter. You just happened to own a harbor I wanted. Come on. If you didn't want to, you would have said no about seventy-four seconds ago."

  She bit her lip. "I can't."

  "Again, that's not exactly a no. Nor do I hear a clear, ‘I don't want to.’ How about you tell me why you can't, and I convince you otherwise?"

  "Because you're rude and high-handed, and I do my best to not interact with people like that in my free time."

  The insult made him laugh. "Still not a no, I see."

  He was right, dammit. Her brain was messing with her, flashing some images from her dreams of the previous night. And then she remembered the exact shape of his ass. Dammit.

  It had been a long time since she'd had a chance to let her hair down and have some fun. For all his faults, Ed came with one undeniable benefit: he lived abroad, all the way in England. She wouldn't see him again after that "drink".

  "Come on, Hester. Give me a chance to apologize for the rudeness and the high-handedness."

  Another call was trying to get through; the vibration of her phone pulled her out of her reverie. "It's not five o'clock yet. I have a job, you know. And someone is trying to call me about work. Goodbye, Ed."

  "Got it. I'll talk to you after five."

  He hung up before she could tell him not to bother.

  Shaking her head, Hester answered her second phone call and got back to work. At five, she found herself glancing at her phone, half expecting it to ring immediately. So of course, it didn't.

  She remained at work for another hour to tie up some loose ends for K.T., knowing Frank would have a heart attack if the details of his Friday morning presentation weren't finalized soon. Catering had been ordered by Chris, she made sure to check that there were various options for fussy eaters, and she called each member of the board to check if they'd make it. She knew Desmond wasn't going to show his face, but she emailed him nonetheless—and copied Frank in on that message so he knew she'd bothered to inform the boss. At six, she stretched her back and logged off from her computer, satisfied.

  She headed downstairs, waving at the security guys as she crossed the lobby.

  "Have a good evening, Jack."

  "Excuse me, Ms. Hall? I have something for you. I would have called if I'd known you were still in the building."

  That wasn't exceptional at this time; the admins stopped bringing the mail and couriers at four, unless it was an express. She approached his desk, her eyes widening as he pulled a large yellow basket from the floor. There was a potted plant, small bottles of gin, vodka, brandy, rum, and a bar of chocolate, all wrapped in transparent paper with a big cream ribbon.

  Her mouth watered. Hester wasn't one to spend an excessive amount of money on herself; she only got good stuff like those Belgian chocolates around her birthday.

  "There was no card, I'm afraid—I checked. It didn't come from a courier. A man just came and said it was for you. I scanned it for dangerous items."

  "Don't worry about it. I know who it's from."

  "You do?" Jack seemed relieved. "Oh, good. Pamela from Knight Security had a stalker for a
while; I hoped it wouldn't be anything like that."

  Hester winced. Hopefully not. She'd assumed the package had come from Edmund, but now she realized she had to check. It could have been anyone, and some sicko could have laced the chocolate with something nasty.

  If she wanted to try the chocolate, she had no choice: she had to call a certain irritating British businessman.

  Well played, Edmund. Well played.

  Chapter 10

  She called later than he would have thought she would, but she called, nonetheless.

  "Hester. A pleasure. Are you off the clock now?"

  "Obviously. Did you send me alcohol and chocolate?"

  Like her boss, she wasn't into beating around the bush.

  "Depends. Would I be in trouble if I had?"

  "Women have evolved beyond falling for gifts and flattery," she replied hotly. "But I also happen to really like chocolate, so I'm keeping it."

  He'd expected complaints and objections rather than a thank you, so he just laughed. "I certainly didn't intend to demand it back."

  "Well, good." After a pause, she said, "About that drink…"

  "Friday?"

  "I'm busy on Fridays."

  "Saturday, then. Six o'clock. I can pick you up."

  "Why would you? No one drives in the city."

  She still hadn't said no, or yes, for that matter.

  "Because that's the gentlemanly thing to do."

  "I can pick myself up. Ed, has Desmond been in touch? About the key."

  He wondered why her voice had changed suddenly. Gone was her teasing, daring tone that made it clear she was smiling on the other end of the phone. There was a certain tension now.

  "As a matter of fact, he has."

  "Oh. And…has he shown you around yet?"

  The mystery surrounding that stupid little key was killing him. What the hell was it all about, and why did Hester sound so apprehensive when it was brought up?

  "He's taking me on a date in a couple of hours. What does it have to do with anything?"

  She snorted. "All right, how about you go have fun with Desmond tonight, and you call me tomorrow about that drink."

  He paused. "You're under the impression that Desmond will put me off you. You give your boss too much credit. I don't even like the guy."

  Now it was her turn to laugh. "Of course you don't. You're way too much like him; you were bound to clash."

  She wasn't wrong.

  "I don't think Desmond will put you off me. I think Desmond will show you a better way to spend your time in this lovely city. Tomorrow. And don't worry. I'm not expecting a call."

  She hung up without another word, leaving him certain of one thing.

  No matter what, he was going to call her the next day.

  Edmund had dinner in the hotel restaurant, all the while emailing the members of his family who mattered to him. Malcolm's funeral was set for the following Tuesday; he knew his uncle, mother, and Cici would make it. His cousin Vanessa McNamara was quick to confirm that she'd travel up from DC for it. No surprise there. No one else from her side of the family sent anything.

  His dessert had just arrived when a familiar figure entered the restaurant, a tall, stunning, wild-haired woman on his arm. Desmond's companion was a mixed-race beauty with a dazzling smile. She also happened to be very pregnant.

  They spotted him and headed to his table, Desmond grave and the woman sweet and welcoming.

  "Hello there. That looks good." Her eyes were on his poire belle helene as she sat in an empty seat in front of him.

  Remembering when Gabriella from accounting had been about six months pregnant like this woman, Edmund slid his dessert in front of her, lifting his hand to call a waiter. "Can I have another one of these? Desmond, anything?"

  "I'm good, thank you. Ryn, Edmund Ashworth. Edmund, my wife, Kathryn."

  "Delighted," he said quite honestly.

  Her presence was considerably improving the atmosphere; for one, Desmond didn't look like he was about to explode. Ed realized that this morning might have been more about Desmond's impatience to get back to his pregnant wife than anything else. Maybe, just maybe, the bloke wasn't a complete asshole. Jury was still out on that.

  "Des was telling me about the key."

  "Yeah? That makes one of us. I still have no clue what it does."

  Ryn glared at her husband. "Were you being—well, you?"

  Desmond chuckled. "I couldn't explain things until checking with the lawyer and after he'd signed an NDA. You know how things work."

  "Yeah, about that."

  He looked through a briefcase at his feet, and got the document out. "All signed. I trust you called my uncle's lawyer?"

  "Indeed, all clear. As soon as you're done with dessert, we can head over and get talking."

  Edmund turned to Ryn. "Is all the secrecy really necessary, or does he just get off on it?"

  She chuckled between bites of pear. "A little bit of this and that. Long story short, he runs a very secret club. Your uncle was one of the founding members; didn't own stock or anything, but his initial donation started the place, so he had a membership for life, transferable upon his death. That makes you a legatee. The key is mostly symbolic. It does open the front door, but there's also a bunch of other locks and whatnot."

  Well, now he was intrigued.

  "Wait, are we talking religious fanatics here?"

  Ryn seemed to find the idea hilarious; even Desmond cracked a smile.

  "No, quite the opposite. We won't take you to church; although I can't promise there won't be some worshipping by the end of the night."

  Her tone was so very warm and suggestive, Ed would have thought she was hitting on him, if she hadn't been sitting right next to her adoring husband.

  His pear dessert arrived shortly, and he ate it in a few bites, now quite eager to get going.

  Chapter 11

  Ed couldn’t believe his eyes. Holy shit! How could he have lived thirty-five years on this planet without stepping into the Tower? He felt cheated out of an essential experience.

  He'd gone to private clubs, and sexy clubs, too—there were plenty of those in the UK—but never had he seen a place quite like this. It wasn't just that the building itself was the latest tech, with state-of-the-art security, or the fact that everyone he came across, on every floor, was either a wet dream or a known face anyone would have recognized, from actors to politicians and royalty.

  "My uncle was part of this?" he asked, bewildered.

  "Yeah, there're plenty of gay and bisexual members. He met his boyfriend here—they didn't attend very often in their later years though."

  "I can see why. Not many people over sixty."

  "There are some older members. If you check the device I gave you, you'll see the room in front of us is locked to anyone under fifty—you can only go in if accompanied by someone in that age bracket."

  Playing with the phone Desmond had handed him when they'd walked in, he found the information about the door—playroom, 50+, current activity: orgy.

  Holy fuck.

  "Here, let me show you."

  Ryn demonstrated how to navigate the building virtually, and pointed out the similar rooms on other floors; there was one locked to people under thirty and over fifty, as well as some which didn't have any age restrictions at all.

  So many floors, and there was depravity on every single one.

  "There are some rooms available to members for short or longer stays; next time you're in town, you could stay here if you wish, rather than booking a hotel. As a legatee, you have access to every Tower. There's one in London, too."

  Fuck. What he wouldn't have given to know of this place ten years ago.

  "So, what do you think?" said Ryn, beaming enthusiastically.

  "It's…great. Really."

  And it was. He'd been hard since they'd watched a couple of girls demonstrate paddling downstairs, and he'd honestly had a difficult time preventing himself from reaching inside his p
ants and stroking his cock on the dancefloor, watching bodies in various states of undress swaying, touching, and fucking right there in the middle of the room, and against walls, and on sofas.

  Edmund appreciate everything, from the depravity to the safety measures. The device stated when each individual member had been tested for STDs, for Christ’s sake. He loved the fact that the members were so well-known; no one was going to run their mouth about what was going on there. The very tight, almost-threatening NDA made a lot of sense now.

  And yet, this place was making him feel…old. Wrong. What he couldn't help but note was that so very many people here were paired, like Ryn and Desmond; they walked with their spouses, kissed their girlfriends while getting sucked by someone else. This wasn't just mindless casual sex. He'd entered a lifestyle club, and the majority of the members were in satisfying, longstanding relationships. That only served to remind him that he utterly sucked as a partner.

  He hadn't cared, through college—everyone was fucking up. In his late twenties, he still figured he had time to find someone he was serious about. But then he'd found her. Erica had been perfect; smart, beautiful, with a great sense of humor and incredible tits. She'd loved sex, which hadn't hurt. He'd been twenty-nine when they'd started to date. Edmund had taken over the operations of the Ashworth business two years prior, when his uncle retired. At thirty-one, Ed invested in a piece of land in Austria that ended up being a gold mine, full of resources. The deal doubled their worth in less than a year. From that point onward, taken by a bug, he'd traveled the world and discovered more hidden treasures. He loved developing, mining, planting, extending the reach of his corporation. He'd loved that a great deal more than he'd loved Erica, and when she'd figured it out, she dumped his ass.

  He'd tried again, with a woman who understood the deal this time; Anna was an ex-model who'd married a mogul in her early twenties. She'd been divorced for three years, and was enjoying a life of leisure in Brighton. But Ed found that a cold, unfeeling relationship didn’t suit him either, so he'd broken up with her a year ago. Since then, he'd come to realize that he had to choose between a real relationship and his work, and his work was winning.