“Thank you, Clive. Can you ensure my car is parked in the usual spot when it arrives? Tell my driver I’ll call him when we require collecting.”
“Yes, sir,” Clive says and takes the keys held out to him.
Brad grasps my hand, then leads me up an ordinary-looking wooden staircase. Basic white walls offer no clues to where we are. My nerves rise in my throat with each step upward. Uneasiness alerting every nerve to possible danger, the uncertainty of what’s next.
At the top, there’s another red door. Music plays barely on the other side. Classical, I think. Brad pushes open the door, and I step across the threshold into the most incredible room.
“Welcome to the Millionaire’s Club,” he says, his shoulders straightening a fraction. He places a hand on my back to guide me into the room; I freeze a few steps in, my jaw hanging slack.
Panic. Sheer unadulterated panic sets in. I’m completely out of place. Brad must sense my nervousness. His fingers wrap around mine, the hand on my back pressing firmer.
A stunning, tall blonde woman struts over with a fake smile. Her black bodysuit is encrusted with diamantes, highlighted with sheer dark tights and ankle-breaking patent heels. Blonde curls pile high on her head, topped off with a display of black and silver feathers. The human version of the perfect cocktail.
“Mr. Thomson,” she purrs seductively, batting her eyelashes in time. “Delighted you can join us this evening. Your usual booth?”
“Yes, Carmen. That would be lovely, thanks, and a bottle of the Moet, please.”
“Of course.” Her lips purse sexily, then she leads us to a private booth to one side, ass swaying on each and every step.
Safe in my seat, I see the room in all its glory. It’s a restaurant/club/theater... I’m not one hundred percent sure what it is. All I know is it’s somewhere people with money come to have fun. Every item may as well drip gold.
A stage sits to one side, surrounded by black tables that sit ten in silver chairs, each one decorated with a huge silver candelabra laced with fresh flowers. The cutlery and crockery scream money—you can see your reflection in the highly polished glassware. Around the edges of the room, private booths face the stage, each one upholstered in luxurious black fabric with deep red cushions for comfort. Heavy velvet drapes offer privacy whenever needed. These are intended as tables for two.
At the back of the room is a bar that runs the full length of the wall. Six bar staff work behind it, creating and shaking drinks. All the staff, gorgeous and female, wearing the same outfit as the woman who greeted us. Glancing up, I notice the ceiling is jet black, smattered with downlights that look like stars.
“What is this place?” I whisper to Brad. He’s watching me intently as my eyes fly around the room. The creases in my brow, no doubt, furrow deep.
“This, Katie Clark, is where successful people come to hang out.” He flashes a broad, confident smile. “This is where successful men bring women to impress them. Has it worked?”
I gawk, dumbfounded by his arrogance, but nod because he’s right: I’m impressed. His money influences me, and I’m disgusted with myself for admitting that. The love story in my head skips forward chapter by chapter.
We take our seats.
The waitress approaches our table, perching a tray on one hand, holding two glasses and the bottle of the stupidly expensive plonk he ordered. She places down the two glasses and elaborately pours us a glass each. The bottle hovers high above the tilted glass, and she doesn’t spill a drop. Amy tried the same move once, and half the bottle ended up all over the table.
The waitress hands over two leather-bound menus, each containing a single piece of card. Opening the folder to read what’s available, I’m surprised to see the heavy cream card is blank apart from two words embossed in gold writing: Chef’s Menu.
My eyes drift to Brad, I’m confused. He laughs.
“You don’t get to pick your meal here, Katie Clark. The chef is one of the best in the world. He decides the menu, and you eat. The food is exemplary, but you’re often better off not asking what it is.”
Trying to maintain an appearance of being calm, I smile sweetly and hand the menu back to the waitress.
“Will I bring your first course, sir?” she purrs.
“Please, Carmen.”
Just then, the most sensational sound drifts through the air, a voice pure and clear, one of the most stunning I’ve ever heard. The lyrics are in Italian, but I can’t help being moved by the song.
The woman is older, in her fifties, and classically dressed in a dark trouser suit—a far cry from the bunny girls strutting around serving drinks. She has dark hair tied high in a ponytail and natural makeup. Her subdued appearance accentuates her incredible tone, I find myself lost in the music. Brad’s hand on mine reminds me of his presence.
“So, what do you think, Katie Clark?” he asks, his eyes wide and hopeful. They have an almost vulnerable quality I haven’t seen in the short time we have known each other.
“It’s amazing. I’ve never been anywhere like this.” He smiles, visibly relaxing. “Brad, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” His eyebrow arching, interested.
“Why do you call me Katie Clark?”