Legally Obligated

by Amstel, Jenna

  “Why don’t we discuss this over lunch, Raisa?” he asked. “There’s a place nearby where we can talk.”

  Raisa hesitated. Today opportunity had fallen literally out of the sky. If she walked away, who knew how long it would take her to find another good job. Someone like Lance Vasilis could open doors with a simple phone call that years of pounding the pavement would never achieve. He was one of those rare men that exuded the confidence only power and arrogance could bestow.

  There was also the reality of her financial situation, which she couldn’t ignore. Unemployment wouldn’t cover her living expenses, she was damned if she was crawling to her family for help. Moving to the city and setting up a new life had been enough of a struggle, but to concede defeat would cost more than a lost job, it would mean the loss of her independence and self-esteem.

  Yet, as Raisa looked at Lance, she sensed a predatory aura about him that both disturbed and intrigued her. She also couldn’t ignore the physical response he triggered in her that aroused her almost like a drug. She had not been in a relationship for a while, the task of moving to a new city and building a new life and career demanding all of her time and energy.

  And in reality, she had yet to find someone that challenged her. Raisa had always been the leader in past relationships, if they could even be described as such, but never before had she felt so vulnerable and naked in the presence of a man. Man ... that was the key word.

  “Okay,” she said. “Why not?”

  Lance smiled and input something into his phone.

  “I assume you have a GPS?”

  “Yes, on my phone.”

  “Excellent. We wouldn’t want you to be distracted by texting while driving, would we?”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about that, Lance,” Raisa said.

  “Okay, done,” Lance said with a smile. “I sent you directions to La Petite Mort along with my contact information. It’s only about a mile from here but it’s an unmarked building on a private road so it’s somewhat difficult to find.”

  Raisa frowned. She knew almost every trendy place in the area, but La Petite Mort sounded unfamiliar.

  “Relax,” Lance said, reading her expression. “It’s a private club. If we’re going to talk, I want to talk, not listen to music to go deaf by or hordes of adolescents whining on their phones.”

  Raisa made a mental note to leave her phone in her purse once they arrived.

  “See you in a few minutes, then, Raisa,” Lance said.

  He turned and walked smartly down the sidewalk, catching the eye of everyone he passed. Unlocking her car, Raisa slipped inside and sat a moment. She felt buzzed, lightheaded, almost a though she had not eaten for a couple of day. What was this effect that Lance Vasilis had on her? Had this been the days of Camelot, Lance would have been Merlin, a wizard of formidable power.

  She took a deep breath and checked the directions waiting on her phone, then initiated the GPS. The crisp female voice began speaking as Raisa started the car and pulled into the traffic.

  Twenty minutes later, Raisa made the fourth U-turn down the same street she had already driven down three times. Frustrated and well aware that Lance was probably waiting for her, she pulled over and scrutinized the directions to the club. It was somewhere nearby, that much she had gleaned, but she was clearly missing the entrance to the private street that could only be tucked behind a tiny, tree-shaded park partially blocking her view of several buildings.

  Growing more agitated, she was about to make another tour of the area when she noticed a car pull away from a parking spot along the otherwise jammed street. Raisa quickly maneuvered into it, and after she switched off the car, she called Lance.

  “I’ve been waiting for your call,” he said with a laugh. “I knew after ten minutes you were probably lost.”

  “You weren’t kidding when you said this place is hard to find,” Raisa said, locking the door and activating the alarm. “I parked by that little green. Can you direct me so I can walk?”

  “You’re almost there,” Lance said. “Just cut east through the park and turn a sharp right. You’ll see a narrow street with a vintage bookstore on the corner. Turn left and walk until you reach a building with an Art Deco entrance. You can’t miss it ... has two stylized panthers on either side of the door. Press the call button and I’ll come and get you.”

  Raisa wondered at the convoluted directions. “Are you sure you’re not a Mason? Everything seems so mysterious.”

  Lance laughed. “If that were the case I’d have initiate you first, but that would actually be quite enjoyable.”

  Nonplussed, Raisa remained silent. Even over the phone Lance emitted an irresistible magnetism.

  “Okay,” she finally answered. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Can’t wait,” he said before disconnecting.

  Raisa hurried across the park and turned right, spotting a charming little bookstore that must have been almost a century old. It blended well with the other elegant and lovingly preserved buildings that harkened to at least turn of the century. As she began walking down a narrow street devoid of cars, she wondered where Lance might have parked until she noticed a discreet driveway leading to the rear of an immaculate fifteen-story building.

  She paused to scan the pleasing curves and stepped details of the building’s face flanked a pair of sleek, crouching black panther statues in graceful Art Deco style. The building bore no address or identification of any kind, save for a number of well-placed security cameras. A stunning leaded window in bold geometric colors offered no glimpse of the interior. Noticing a discreet call-box peeking from beneath a metallic guard, she buzzed the single illuminated button.

  After a few moments, the black lacquered door silently opened. Raisa hesitated before stepping inside to a gorgeously appointed salon of black and red leather, chrome and glass. The door shut behind her with a soft click. She was about to sit down on a lush leather armchair when Lance emerged from an interior door.

  “Welcome to La Petite Mort,” he said, ushering her into a spacious Art Deco lounge she had only ever seen in the period buildings of New York and Miami.

  Raisa stared at original furnishings, artwork and decor that took her breath away. A few attractive and clearly well-heeled men and woman sat quietly chatting and drinking exotic cocktails at intimate, candlelit tables or at the authentic black, chrome and wood-inlaid bar. Smartly uniformed staff so discreet they were practically invisible tended to the members. Soft Jazz Age music whispered from concealed speakers.

  “This is incredible,” she said. “This reminds of pictures I’ve seen of the Queen Mary.”

  “Touche,” Lance said as he directed he toward a secluded corner table beneath a gorgeous geometrically patterned Frank Lloyd Wright window. “It’s refreshing to find such awareness in a young woman.”

  An impeccably groomed male server approached a moment after they had seated themselves and left a pair of cocktail menus. Without asking Raisa, Lance ordered two dirty Martinis. The server simply nodded and vanished.

  Raisa watched with a faint sense of irritation. Lance was clearly a man used to being in charge, but considering why she was at court that morning, a drink was the last thing she wanted.

  “Lance, thank you,” she said, “but I didn’t want a Martini.”

  “Something else? Though I hope nothing as vulgar as those Margaritas you have a penchant for.”

  Raisa bristled at the reference. “No, I meant I didn’t want anything alcoholic. I don’t plan to make the same mistake again. A cranberry spritzer would be fine.”

  Lance smiled. “Do you really think I would let you drive after having even one drink?”

  Raisa looked questioningly at him.

  “My purpose for bringing you here was to get to know the real Raisa Sanchez. I’m not interested in inane office chat or the latest trends dictated by YouTube or Facebook.” He gazed into her eyes with such directness that she squirmed. “If you’re going to work wit
h me I need to know the real woman, inside and out.”

  The directness of Lance’s comment disturbed Raisa. She glanced away from him, only to notice a couple seated at the bar engaged in what was clearly suggestive conversation. The woman, a stunning sloe-eyed Asian, seemed completely undisturbed by the hand of her companion, a muscular, ebony black African, drifting determinedly up her short skirt.

  Despite herself, Raisa could not bring herself to look away even as the man began to openly fondle the woman. The woman opened her shapely bare legs, causing her skirt to hike up even further, exposing the curve of her bare ass. Raisa felt an illicit thrill and quickly averted her attention back to Lance, who carefully watched her.

  The waiter almost magically appeared before them bearing a polished tray bearing two dirty Martinis. He set them down on the embellished napkins with the speed of a striking viper and quickly disappeared. Lance immediately took his glass and sipped, but Raisa did not touch hers.

  “Why don’t you try it, Raisa? You can’t claim not to like something without experimenting. Only the unadventurous make those excuses.”

  Raisa stared transfixed as he rolled the olive around in his tongue in an even more blatantly suggestive manner than he had at The Dockyard.

  “That’s right,” he said, studying her futile attempt to control her reaction. “Challenge yourself. Allow those stereotypical thoughts to percolate in your mind and then discard those limitations. They do nothing but create tiny minds, and I surround myself only with free minds.”

  Raisa struggled to contain her rising confusion. She reached for the Martini and took a small sip. It was not to her taste, but it was not the most unpalatable drink she had ever tried. As she sipped again, she noticed the couple at the bar rise and walk arm in arm toward a striking Egyptian style Art Deco elevator. They tumbled inside laughing and whispering like a pair of horny teenagers.

  “Does that bother you?” Lance asked, watching the couple with a feline smile. “Why? Because they have no concern for the opinions of others? Or perhaps, it violates some moral code no doubt imposed by your parents or some religious indoctrination?”

  He sat back in his chair and casually wrapped his arm around the back as if holding a lover.

  By now Raisa was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She had come here assuming Lance had wanted to talk to her about a job opportunity, not test her with some bizarre psychological analysis.

  “Or maybe it’s something more elemental?” Lance said. “A black man with an Asian woman ... breaking convention by overstepping racial boundaries. I’m willing to assume this is not something you’re used to dealing with? No doubt your parents were not initially happy at the prospect of you moving here either, a beautiful young woman alone in the city ...”

  Angry and increasingly upset, Raisa jerked up from her seat and reached to grab her purse. Lance gripped her wrist and pulled her to face him, his gaze drinking in the emotion coloring her face.

  “I don’t know what gives you the right to talk to me like this,” she said a little too loudly. “But I don’t appreciate it.” She tried to pull free from Lance’s viselike grip. “Please let me go.”

  Lance abruptly released her and clapped. Embarrassed by his response, Raisa glanced around but no one in the bar seemed to notice or care about the outburst.

  “Bravo!” he said with a dazzling smile. “I was wondering what it would take to break the mare.”

  Raisa shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “You just passed your first test, Raisa. Now please sit down. We still have a great deal to discuss.”

  Raised hovered, uncertain whether to sit down or leave. Finally, she sank back into the chair. Lance watched her over the rim of the Martini glass.

  “Have another sip,” he said. “You need to learn to relax. Look at your posture. You’re tense, rigid, and you’re gripping your purse like a weapon.”

  “How do you expect me to react?” Raisa asked defensively. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Lance, but I don’t appreciate being embarrassed in public like this.”

  Lance chuckled. “Embarrassed? Why?” He motioned around the lounge. “Do you see anyone that looks remotely interested in our conversation? Did anyone even glance our way?”

  Raisa looked around at the scattering of people. Now that she paid them more attention, she began to recognize looks and behavior suggesting that La Petite Mort was more than just an exclusive upscale behavior. When two younger men seated at a table at the far opposite of the lounge began to kiss, she watched with a mixture of fascination of shock before turning away.

  “What’s wrong, Raisa?” Lance asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Disconcerted, Raisa focused on sipping her Martini. If Lance were testing her, she wasn’t sure this was an interview she wanted to pass.

  “I ... thought we came here to discuss an opportunity for me,” she said. “If not, I’d just as soon leave. I really don’t have time to waste even if you do.”

  “That’s such a feeble excuse,” Lance said. “Why don’t you simply be honest about your feelings instead of hiding behind some platitude.”

  Raisa’s eyes flashed angrily, a response that pleased Lance.

  “Okay, we’re making progress. Now, I’ll ask you again, why don’t you admit your true feelings?”

  “Fine,” Raisa said. “Why did you invite me here?”

  “To discuss the opportunity of working for me.”

  “But all we’re doing is talking around it,” Raisa said. “We could have chatted in the park down the street.”

  “Actually, this is part of the interview,” Lance calmly responded. “Did you really think I was going to start off by asking you what your goals are and how you feel you’d benefit the company?” He laughed and shook his head. “Or maybe you thought I would give you some absurd aptitude test, as if a few inane questions were capable of measuring someone’s true potential?”

  “Maybe that is what I thought,” Raisa said. “Why did you bring me here? What is this place?” She glanced around at lounge. “Is this some kind of ... “

  “This ‘place’, as you call it, reeks of history,” Lance said. “It started off as a speakeasy before becoming a brothel and subsequently a private club. This building possesses a soul, a memory of the extraordinary minds that have sat at these very tables.”

  Raisa blinked at Lance. Judging by the behavior around her, she could only wonder if brothel was present tense as opposed to past.

  “You’re stalling, Raisa. Stop over-thinking. Stop over-speculating. Can’t you just tell me what you want?”

  The abruptness of Lance’s tone startled her. “You know what I want,” Raisa said. “Why do you keep asking me the same question?”

  “Do I? You mentioned wanting to repay me for my help. Being the gentlemen that I am, I didn’t want to press the matter of financials considering your situation.”

  “I need to find another job.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  Raisa felt her frustration surge. The situation had suddenly become impossible, yet she was indebted to Lance for helping her. The alternatives would have ruined her life, but she didn’t like this bizarre game he was intent on playing.

  “But I just answered you,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice calm.

  “Bullshit. You told me what you need. You either didn’t understand or listen to my question. I asked you what you want.”

  Raisa blinked. She suddenly felt very suffocated by the decadent opulence surrounding her and wanted nothing more at that moment then to flee into the fresh air. Taking a deep breath, she sipped at her drink and felt the potent alcohol soothe away her anxiety.

  “I want to be financially independent,” she finally said. “I want to have a career, not just a job, and I want to be successful at it.”

  Lance smiled, clasped her hand and raised it to his lips. The gesture was so unexpectedly gentle that Raisa could only stare at him
.

  “There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? A simple answer to a simple question.” He paused to take another deep sip of his Martini.

  Raisa followed suit, finding her taste for the cocktail growing. Noticing this, Lance glanced toward the bar. Though Raisa saw no one actually acknowledge him, the waiter that had earlier served them magically appeared with a tray of fresh Martinis.

  Glancing at the waiter, a slim, somewhat effeminate man with pale cornsilk hair and dove gray eyes, Raisa noticed the tip of a colorful tattoo peeking from the gold braided collar of his smart black uniform. His right ear was also multiply pierced. Though he glanced only fleetingly at Lance as he collected the empty glasses, Raisa noticed a vibe between the two that implied a more intimate connection.