Claiming Fifi

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Claiming Fifi Page 2

by Tara Crescent


  Even the act of taking the card from him feels like disloyalty toward Raymond, but those eyes are boring into me, insisting I comply. “Thank you.” I shuffle my feet. “I’ve got to set the table now.”

  “Of course.” He steps aside, and I almost run away from him, seeking the sanctuary of the kitchen. The card, I crumple up and throw in the trash.

  I love my master, and all I want to do is please him.

  Adrian had been right, of course. He’d known Raymond Downing’s reputation. He’d tried to warn me, but I’d been so eager to please my master, so happy that I finally had found someone who would give me the dominance I craved, that I hadn’t listened.

  Hidden behind the fountain, I watch the two men leave the building.

  I’d only seen them two more times after that, both while I’d still been Raymond’s submissive. They’d always been polite to me, and their eyes had always been watchful.

  Stop being dramatic, Fiona. Raymond was two years ago. You’re perfectly fine.

  I’d started to think of them as my guardian angels. Seeing them now, my pulse is racing, and I have no idea why my skin is damp with sweat.

  2

  Adrian:

  “What do you think of the new office?”

  My partner Brody has been away in New York for a week, overseeing the security setup of one of our more high-profile clients. He’s just returned, and the two of us are catching up over a late lunch.

  It’s a hot, muggy day. The sun beats down on us on the outdoor patio, and I have to chug my beer to keep it from getting warm.

  Brody’s eyebrows rise. “I never thought I’d see the day Adrian Lockhart drank in the middle of a workday.”

  “Office, Brody,” I growl, irritated.

  He gives me an amused look. “The office is perfect,” he admits. “The crew seems pretty happy to be in Georgetown too. Nita was practically dancing with glee.”

  Our assistant’s commute has gone from an hour of gridlock to a pleasant fifteen-minute walk. Of course she’s ecstatic. “It made sense. Most of the team lives in Georgetown.”

  “So, are you going to tell me what the drinking is about?”

  People look at Brody Payne, and they notice the friendly smile, the eyes that sparkle with humor. Some of them—the foolish ones—assume he’s easy-going, but not too bright. They’re wrong. Nothing gets by Brody.

  “Xavier Leforte called this morning,” I reply.

  He’s in the act of lifting his glass to his lips. He carefully sets it down. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”

  Indeed. It’s been two years since we last saw Xavier. Ironically, it was at another funeral. This time, we were mourning our dead submissive, Sandy, who had died in a ski accident.

  I suggested the trip. It’s my fault she died.

  “I’m assuming he didn’t call to exchange pleasantries,” Brody continues. “What does he want?”

  “You know Xavier,” I shrug. “He wouldn’t say over the phone. We have a three o’clock appointment with him.”

  Brody’s piercing blue eyes settle on me. “Is it about the club?”

  Club Ménage, as some of us have nicknamed it, is a high-end sex club. Mostly BDSM, though it’s pretty welcoming of most kinks. A lot of the members like ménage, hence the nickname. We’d met Sandy there. The three of us had played there almost on a weekly basis.

  I haven’t been back since her death. It would hurt too much.

  “Probably,” I reply. Why else would Xavier be phoning out of the blue?

  The waiter arrives, and we order our lunch. When he’s gone, Brody takes a long sip of his drink. “I’ve been thinking of going back.”

  I go very still. “To the club?”

  His lips tighten. “It’s been two years, Adrian. I love Sandy. I will always love her, but she’s gone.” He surveys me warily. “I think you should come with me.” He pauses and plays his trump card. “Sandy would have wanted us to move on.”

  He’s right. Sandra Jackson had a possessive streak a mile wide, but she would have never wanted us to mourn her forever. She was far too practical for that. I can almost hear her voice now. Adrian, it’s been two whole years. I’m very flattered at your devotion, but for fuck’s sake, get your ass back in the game.

  Something still holds me back. Guilt. Sandy is dead, and we’re alive, and it feels wrong to savor life again. “How do you know?” I growl. The waiter chooses that moment to show up with our sandwiches, and he takes a nervous half-step back when he hears the anger in my tone. He sets our food down and disappears, and I continue to glare at Brody. “How the fuck do you know what Sandy would have wanted? It’s not as if we can ask her, is it?”

  Brody doesn’t flinch. “I knew her,” he says. “As did you. Stop the bullshit, Adrian. It was a horrible accident, but it was an accident.” He takes a bite of his meatball sub, and some marinara slops on his tie.

  I smirk openly, the tension draining away. “Smooth.”

  His lips twitch. “It’s a meatball sub. I challenge you to eat it without making a mess.”

  “That’s why I ordered a turkey club, buddy.”

  We spend the rest of the meal catching up on Brody’s work in New York, and on what’s been going on in the office while he’s gone. Neither of us mentions Xavier or the club again, but it’s there in the background, and I know I can’t ignore it forever.

  Brody will go to the club, with or without me. The real question is, what do I want to do?

  Brody:

  My phone beeps at me as we walk back to the office.

  It’s a text message from Dixie Ketcham, a lawyer in Jackson, Mississippi. Dix is an old friend who worked at the agency with Adrian and me. Under normal circumstances, I’d be happy to hear from her.

  Kayla Perkins just got arrested for drunk driving. What do you want me to do?

  Just like that, my mood goes to hell. Kayla Perkins is eighteen, angry and self-destructive. She’s been arrested twice in the last year—once for shoplifting, the second time for public intoxication. Now, it’s drunk driving.

  Get her off, Dix. No matter what it costs.

  The teenager used to be a straight-A student until my father forced himself on her. Of course, in the small Mississippi town I grew up in, Judge Eugene Payne is a pillar of the community, and no one would ever believe the allegations against him.

  I believe them. I discovered the truth about my father when I was eighteen. I haven’t been back home since.

  BDSM helps. The protocols, designed to protect the vulnerable, protect me. Safe, sane, and above all, consensual. That’s how I play.

  Outside of the club, there’s a very real fear inside me that I’m my father’s son. That his sickness has been passed on to me.

  Inside the club, I feel safe. But when I see that text from Dix, every desire to go back to Club Ménage drains away.

  I wonder what Xavier wants.

  3

  Fiona:

  Ana Sophia Morales, the woman who loosely functions as the administrative assistant in my private investigator practice, looks up as I walk in. As usual, she’s knitting. “Who’s pregnant?” I ask, noticing that she’s beginning a new project. Mrs. Morales knits baby sweaters, and judging from the number of times she’s cast on in the office, someone in her circle is always ready to pop a baby out.

  Still, it keeps her entertained, and let’s be honest, I’ve been the recipient of her knitting generosity more than once. Hand-knit socks in the winter? Amazing.

  Normally, Mrs. Morales would use this as an excuse to launch into a long and entertaining story about her very large family, but today, she inclines her head toward my office. “There’s a new client waiting for you. A man.” With a shake of her head, she adds, “You’re going to want to do something about that stain on your blouse before you walk in, Fiona.”

  I ignore the loving rebuke, focusing instead on the client in my office. I’m not expecting anyone. I just wrapped up a case this morning, and all
I have on tap this afternoon is mountains of paperwork. “Did you get his name?”

  She looks down at her yellow legal pad. “Xavier Leforte,” she reads out. “He didn’t have an appointment but…”

  But, especially with the security firm moving next door and potentially encroaching on my business, I can’t really afford to turn away walk-in clients. “No worries, I’ll see him now.” Speaking of security firms… “Mrs. Morales, do you happen to know the name of the company that just moved into the building?”

  “Lockhart & Payne,” she answers promptly.

  Butterflies tumble and whirl in my stomach. That explains why I saw Adrian Lockhart and Brody Payne in the atrium. They’re going to be working in my building.

  Why does that bother you so much?

  I push that thought to the back of my mind and focus on the walk-in client waiting for me in my office.

  New client. My spare blouse is hanging on the back of the door, inside my office. I’m going to make a great first impression with my marinara-stained shirt.

  Happy fucking birthday to me.

  I walk in, polite words of greeting already on my lips. “Welcome to the Clarke Agency.” Then I stop to take him in.

  The man seated in my office is extremely good-looking. Dark hair shot with an occasional strand of grey, salt-and-pepper stubble, and eyes as black as coal. He’s wearing a tailored suit that probably costs more than I pay in rent each month—and I pay an obscene amount of money for my three-hundred-square-foot space—and I would swear in a court of law that his leather shoes are handmade.

  None of that makes me freeze in the doorway. No, what makes me pause is the self-assurance rolling off him in palpable waves.

  In the atrium, I’d hidden behind a fountain to avoid running into Brody and Adrian. Evidently, it’s raining dominants today. It’s my thirtieth birthday, and I’ve been restless all day. Samara, my best friend in Maine, who believes in astrology and karma and other such things, would probably tell me that the universe is giving me a sign.

  The man rises to greet me. His gaze flicks to my stained shirt, but he doesn’t comment on my marinara mess. “Ms. Clarke,” he says with a courteous smile, extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Xavier Leforte. It’s good to meet you.”

  His voice is faintly accented. Each word is clearly enunciated, the result of some very expensive schooling, no doubt, but underneath, there’s an accent that he can’t entirely conceal. European of some kind. The easy answer is French, to match his last name, but my gut tells me that’s not quite it.

  I shake his hand warily. Moving around the over-sized battered wooden desk, I settle in my chair and lean forward. “How can I help you, Mr. Leforte?”

  He regards me expressionlessly. “I run,” he says, “a private club.”

  “What kind of club?” I ask.

  He hesitates for a split-second, and I catch myself. People spill their innermost secrets so often in my office that I sometimes forget how difficult it must be to pour out your problems to a complete stranger. “I treat all our conversations as confidential,” I assure him.

  “Of course.” He steeples his fingers and meets my gaze squarely. “It is a club where consenting adults come to live out their sexual fantasies.”

  He pauses to take in my reaction. I have none—none that’s visible to him, at any rate. Keeping a poker face is an elemental part of my profession. Inside my stomach though, the butterflies have multiplied a hundred-fold.

  You’re making a big deal of nothing, Fiona.

  “It’s called Club M,” he continues. His lips turn up in a half-smile. “Though that’s not what the M stands for, some of the regulars have nicknamed it Club Ménage.”

  “What does the M stand for, then?” I ask, my curiosity aroused. I have a fairly good idea what his problem is. It’s a sex club, and we live in a time where cameras are everywhere. Someone’s probably blackmailing someone else with exposure.

  But why approach me? Sex clubs aren’t my area of expertise.

  He doesn’t answer my question. “One of our new members had a photo mailed to her.” He opens a folder, takes a large photo out and slides it across the table toward me.

  I take a look. The photo is one of a young blonde woman, tied to a Saint Andrew’s Cross, fully naked, her face blurred out. An uncomfortable tingle of arousal shoots through me when I see her restraints. Damn it, Fiona, not now.

  “Let me guess. There are no phones or cameras allowed.”

  He nods. “Members are scanned when they enter, and they leave. It should be impossible to get electronics into my club.” His gaze hardens. “I’d like to hire you to investigate this.”

  I steeple my fingers, unconsciously copying his gesture. Something’s not quite right here. Xavier Leforte is far too calm about this blackmail attempt. I debate tiptoeing around the issue and then decide against it. I’ve only just met Leforte, but my instincts tell me that being direct is the best way to handle him. “What are you keeping from me?”

  A faint smile creases his face. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I have my suspicions about this photo,” he says. “But I’d like you to conduct your investigations without being influenced by me.”

  “Why pick me?” I lean forward, pushing the photo back toward him. “This isn’t my area of expertise.”

  “I disagree, Ms. Clarke.” His lips twist into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and he drops his bombshell. “You’ve dipped your toe in the world of dominance and submission before. For three months, two years ago, you were Raymond Downing’s submissive. Since you ended that relationship, you’ve eschewed your darker desires for more vanilla offerings, but you will still remember enough of the protocol to fit in.”

  Shock blankets me. My time with Raymond wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t exactly public knowledge either. I keep my voice steady with an effort. “I don’t see how my past has any bearing on this conversation.”

  “Your past is the reason I’m in this room,” he replies. “A submissive will not arouse suspicion. People will talk to you frankly, in a way they won’t talk to me. I need to keep this investigation discreet.” Unlike me, he sounded perfectly relaxed. “Our membership dues are astronomical, in part because we take the privacy of our members very seriously. If you take this job, you’ll be given a cover story. You’ll pose as a new member, eager to explore every aspect of the club.”

  He’s right. My prior experience with BDSM would serve me in good stead. I speak the language. I know the rules. I’d be able to blend in.

  My palms are damp with sweat, and my skin is covered with goosebumps. Pull yourself together, Fiona. It was a long time ago. Stop being such a wuss.

  Then he plays his trump card. “I’ll pay a hundred thousand dollars for a month of your time.”

  The money is tempting. I do okay, but at the same time, I don’t have much of a cushion. If business went to hell—and with the arrival of Lockhart & Payne, there’s a good chance that it might—an extra hundred grand in the bank would be really, really nice.

  Come on, Fiona. This is a no-brainer.

  “Okay.” My voice is loud in the quiet room. “I’ll do it.”

  4

  Brody:

  Xavier’s in conversation with our assistant when we get back to the office. “Stay away from that one, Nita,” I warn her with a grin. “He’s trouble.”

  “Nice tie, Payne,” Xavier replies with a chuckle, giving me the finger. “Enjoyed your meatball sub?”

  I bite back my laugh. I can go years without seeing the men that attended Lina’s funeral fifteen years ago, but our friendship was forged in fire. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t seen Xavier in three years or three months.

  We walk into the corner office. “You want a drink?” Adrian asks, moving to the small but well-stocked bar.

  “Sure.” Xavier settles himself on the couch and leans back. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  Adrian pours him a Scotch. “How’ve you been?” I ask him as
he sips the single malt. “It’s been a while.”

  Xavier lifts one eyebrow. “Not by choice. The two of you made it clear at Sandy’s funeral that you wanted to be left alone.”

  I wince. Yeah. We’d said some things that day we hadn’t meant. The Belgian had introduced us to Sandy, and there was a period of time where I couldn’t look at him without remembering her. It had been easier to avoid all of it. The club, our friends, the lifestyle. “Sorry about that.”

  He waves away my apology. “I get it,” he replies somberly. “Not everyone deals with grief the same way.”

  He’s not talking about us. He’s talking about Layla, his former submissive. The one who ran away when her twin died, wanting no more contact with any of us.

  I’d thought Layla hard-hearted then. After Sandy’s death, I understood her a little better.

  Adrian’s thoughts are running the same direction as me. “Are you in touch with her?” he asks Xavier. “Is she okay?”

  I’ll give Xavier credit. He doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t know what we’re talking about. “We talk on the phone once a year,” he says, his eyes on the drink in his hands. “I call her on the anniversary of Lina’s death. She never has very much to say.”

  “Is she well?” Layla and Lina had been the first in their family to go to college. They’d both been on an academic scholarship, but when Lina died, Layla hadn’t finished her last semester. “She’s not hurting for money, is she?”

  He shakes his head. “She’s always had my credit card,” he replies. “And Rafe’s.”

  Together, Xavier and Rafael are richer than several small countries. “I can’t imagine Layla spending your money,” I reply, thinking of their petite submissive. “She was always too proud.”

 

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