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BRADEN
Sitting at the bar on the lower level of the club, Braden let his gaze wander over the couples in the pit as he nursed the single glass of scotch he allowed himself when he was on the floor.
And tried to stop imagining a certain bratty little brunette in any number of compromising scenarios.
The club was relatively quiet, which wasn’t unusual for a Monday night. Really only the hardcore players came out during the week, unless they had a specific event planned. Vivian had been trying to get him to do more theme nights for a while now, and the more time he spent on the floor, the more he was forced to admit she might be right.
He’d just about decided to make his way up to the restaurant level to check on things when Shane, one of the club submissives, came hurrying up, a worried expression on his face. “Mr. Elliott, we have a problem.”
It wasn’t like Shane to cut to the chase so quickly without a pun or teasing remark. Alarm bells ringing in his head, Braden straightened on his stool. “What’s wrong?”
Glancing around, Shane jiggled the ever-present bag of candy corn in his hand. “Okay, well, you know how you’ve been keeping an eye on the new guests because of that auction thing?”
Braden narrowed his eyes at the nervous subbie. “Yes. How do you know about that, is the question.”
The look Shane sent him clearly said he thought Braden was being obtuse. “Please, everyone knows. Anyway, there’s a girl here, asking questions. Specifically about the virgin auction. Thought you might like to know.”
His annoyance at club gossip running amok fading temporarily, Braden lifted his head to scan the club. “Who?”
“The pretty redhead with Mr. Prescott. She’s not even being discreet about it.”
“Thank you for letting me know. Would you tell Mr. Prescott I’d like to see him and his guest in my office immediately, please?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Elliott.” With a mock salute, Shane turned to head toward the pit.
“And Shane.” He waited for the other man to turn back. “You can let your fellow submissives and the employees know that anyone caught talking about this auction in any capacity, especially with our clients and their guests, will be answering to me.”
Eyes wide, Shane nodded before hurrying off toward the platform where Holden Prescott was busy attaching his guest to a St. Andrew’s cross. Satisfied Shane would deliver his message, Braden drained the last few drops of his drink and slid from his stool to head back upstairs.
He’d only just gotten seated behind his desk when someone knocked on the door of his office. “Come in.”
Holden entered, clearly annoyed despite his attempts to look unperturbed. Beside him stood a willowy redhead who, unlike her Daddy, was doing absolutely nothing to hide her aggravation with the situation.
Something about her seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“You rang?” Holden drawled, one eyebrow raised in deference to his obvious irritation at being summoned.
“Apologies for interrupting your scene, my friend. I needed a word with your guest, and I didn’t think you’d be amenable to her being interrogated alone.”
“Interrogated?” Fury snapped in the redhead’s eyes and echoed in her voice. “What the hell is your problem, Mr. Elliott?”
Okay, obviously she knew him, even if he didn’t fully recognize her. Who the hell was she?
Before he could ask, Holden glared down at her. “Francesca. Quiet.”
The puzzle finally snapped into place. “Francesca. Frankie. Frankie Legare?” One of Lottie’s friends, who he’d seen around while Lottie was growing up, and then on a far more consistent basis when Natasha had been sick.
“Yes,” Frankie snapped, crossing her arms and tilting her chin with an open defiance that had Holden growling at her. “Now, what the hell do you mean ‘interrogation’?”
“Francesca, mind your manners.” Holden’s scolding tone earned him a glare from his guest that would have had Braden chuckling under different circumstances. It was well known within their circles that Holden did not tolerate brats, though he tended to attract them. The man was, to put it bluntly, gigantic, and nearly every sub who came through Club BDE’s doors dreamt of being manhandled by Holden Prescott.
“My manners? I’m not the one going around threatening to ‘interrogate’ people!”
“To answer your question,” Braden interrupted, mostly due to his own impatience but partially out of pity for Francesca who obviously had no idea what kind of grave she was digging for herself, “I own this club. And I just have a few questions, then you can be on your way.”
“Fine.” Tossing her long ponytail over her shoulder, Francesca shot him a haughty glare that was so reminiscent of the looks Charlotte had given him the day before that he nearly had to adjust himself under the desk. “What do you want to know?”
“Where did you hear about the virgin auction?”
