Page 12 of Wicked Fortune

I laugh as his finger makes a twirling motion. I comply and do a sultry spin, noticing as I do that Holt is looking right at me.

“That look on Holt’s face almost counts as first contact,” Clive whispers. “He’s practically panting for you.”

“You better not be teasing. You know I need this job.” And not just because of Jenny. He knows I’m behind on my rent. And he also knows that if I don’t come up with five months of back payments pronto, the Car Gods are going to repossess my Honda. As for my credit cards … well, you’re not really living until your bumping up against that limit, right?

Fuck my life.

“What’s your plan?” Clive asks as we cross the room toward the stairs. Since we’re in no hurry, I suggest we veer toward the bar. Perhaps alcohol will remedy that overarching flaw in my, well, plan. Or un-plan, as it were. For that matter, if Holt really is panting for me, then maybe by turning away from him and having Clive on my arm, I’ll stand more of a chance of actually catching my prey. An experienced seductress, I’m not.

Unlike me, Clive seduces without even trying. I watch, both entranced and amused when a woman in a slinky, strapless dress about the size of a bandaid sidles up and strokes his arm. “I’m heading to the Rec Room,” she says. “Second floor. I’d love to see you there.” Her eyes dip, roaming slowly up and down his body. “All of you.”

“And doesn’t that sound delicious?” He takes her hand and kisses it. Then he winks. And despite the fact that this is a sex club where that kind of behavior is about as tame as a third-grader’s birthday party, she actually blushes.

I tilt my head and stare him down as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Did you have a sudden change in orientation?”

“Just getting her ready for the guy who’s going to comfort her when I don’t show up.” He frowns. “Actually, maybe I can comfort him when he realizes who she’s really hot for.”

“You’re such a bitch.”

He laughs. “That’s why we adore each other.”

“True that.”

We get our drinks, then head up the stairs. Holt is no longer standing by the column, and a little knot of disappointment twists in my gut. I catch myself looking for him the moment we hit the landing—and I tell myself I’m only looking because he’s my mission.

I am, of course, lying to myself. I know because I do it all the time.

The lighting up here is even dimmer, and the area is much larger than it appears from below. In fact, the second floor extends so far back the space fades into a hazy gray broken only periodically by flickers of light when doors are opened and closed.

We’ve paused by the railing in the center of the landing, and from that vantage point I can see four rooms with closed doors, one of which is clearly designated as the Rec Room. But not everything is happening behind closed doors. There are chairs and sofas and chaises in the open spaces, and each and every one has been claimed by various couples—or solos or trios or more—in various states of undress and doing things that any porn producer would love to get on tape.

I’m not a prude by a long shot, but my first reaction is shock. My second is arousal. Like serious, hardcore, fuck-me-now arousal.

I realize I’m casting my gaze all around the area, but not so I can get off watching others. No. The truth hits me like a slap. I’m searching for Matthew Holt. And the fact that I’m not finding him has my lady parts threatening to shrivel up and die.

I lean toward Clive and whisper, “Where did he go?”

He shakes his head, then pulls me in front of him and holds me close, his hands cupping my breasts and his already-at-attention cock pressing against my lower back. I know why he moved me—because otherwise we stand out like a celibate sore thumb—but damned if all the ooey-gooey places inside me aren’t begging for some action. I cast my gaze over the erotic show going on in front of us and turn my head enough to whisper, “Are you sure you don’t want to change your orientation?”

“Tempting,” he says. “But it’s not me you want.”

Then his hands slide down my sides to find my hips. He steps back, breaking contact as he turns me ever so gently until I’m facing the dark passage that leads into the bowels of the second floor. And there, stepping from the gray and into the light, is Matthew Holt.

Clive steps back, gives my ass a pat, and whispers, “You’re welcome.” Then he slips away to disappear into the Rec Room, leaving me staring at Holt, my nipples hard, my skin tingling, and my mind wondering how the hell I’m going to accomplish my mission when every single one of my brain cells has ceded rational thought to a deep, primal need to strip naked and surrender to the gorgeous hunk of a man who’s now walking straight toward me.

FIVE

I glance down at my feet, currently rocking a pair of five-year-old Louboutins that I found at a thrift store. They may be out of season, but they make my calves look damn good.

Unfortunately, they’re also hell to walk in, so I’m not moving very swiftly as I do a quick one-eighty, zigging so as to parry Holt’s zag. Then I leave Holt in my wake as I take off down the hall, hoping it seems that I’m doing nothing more than working up a sensual little buzz as I scope out the action on the various couches and loungers.

I tell myself not to look back.

I remind myself that I don’t want to be his destination. Not yet, anyway. While I certainly wouldn’t balk at the idea of basking in his glow and upping my chance of being hired as his PA, my primary purpose in coming up here is to mingle and eavesdrop and see if I can garner even the tiniest hint of whether this mansion ever hosts the Hardline meet-and-greets. Or, better yet, follow someone down to the secret playroom where even now all the meeters and greeters are—possibly—partying.

Once I’ve accomplished that mission, I’ll happily play footsie with Holt. But Bree enticed me here by pointing out that since Matthew owns both Hardline and Masque, it might be one of the party locations for regular guests who’ve demonstrated an open frame of mind.

All of which means that right now, I’m in detective mode.