Page 40 of Nightfire

Now many of them needed stimuli Sands was only too happy to provide, for a fee.

“Sir?” The beautiful young woman who went by the nom de lit of Skye turned to his brand-new partner, Anatoly Nikitin. Nikitin waved her away irritably. Few men turned down anything Skye had to offer, but the Russian did.

She was one of his better investments, beautiful, willing and talented at her job. His accountant told him she grossed him a million and a half dollars per annum. Her deflowering alone had brought him a hundred thousand dollars. Tax free of course.

How could the Russian be so immune to her charms? His new partner refused more or less everything in the Meteor Club, which had been designed to offer a man every possible pleasure, save drugs. No drugs in the Meteor, save the legal ones. He had every variety of prescription upper and downer and a whole range of Viagra-like pills. All legal.

You could indulge every pleasure your mind could conceive of legally here at the Meteor, and no police officer could touch you.

There were plenty of street rats plying illegal drugs. It was a dangerous, violent, filthy business that the state punished severely and quite rightly so. Only fools entered it, and they died young and badly.

The business of women, the business of elegant pleasures—ah, that was another thing entirely. Immensely lucrative, non-violent. Or at least it was at the high end of the business where he had situated himself.

Everything in the Meteor Club was guaranteed to stimulate a man’s pleasure centers. With the infusion of Russian capital from the investors Nikitin represented, the Meteor Club had undergone a radical restructuring and upgrading. A perfect place to relax, have an exquisite meal prepared by one of France’s best chefs accompanied by a wine from the club’s superb cellar. There was even a smoker’s room with humidors filled with the finest Cuban cigars.

In the back were rooms where the men could find their pleasure with the finest blossoms Sands could pluck, up until now mainly from Mexico. But soon there would be a new influx of beauties from Russia. To cater for all tastes. Dark and light.

Soon they would cater to those who liked their pleasures…fresher. This would be a brand-new business. If you liked them young and were willing to pay the price, why the Meteor Club would guarantee excellence and discretion.

This, in contrast to the main business was, of course illegal. And so of course a hefty premium would be charged.

The Russians has started setting up a new system, a more dangerous, yet much more lucrative system. It required more careful organization, of course, which cost money. But the rich men who wanted certain things—they were willing to pay.

In the back were sound proofed rooms for men who liked their pleasures darker. For a suitable fee, Sands and his investors in the new Meteor would provide anything, anything at all.

Membership at the Meteor Club, for standard fare, started at $350,000 a year. Extras cost more. The new, younger line would cost quite a bit more.

Even in an economic recession, it was a seller’s market. No one offered the kind of goods the Meteor Club did, in such an elegant setting, disease-free, discretion guaranteed.

His new partner seemed immune to the many delights of the club. It seemed odd to Sands, to turn pleasure down. Sands understood indulgence down to the bone. He had no understanding of abstinence at all.

He and Nitikin had been working together for almost a year now, ever since Nikitin, who Sands suspected had a military background, had contacted him. Nikita represented certain Russian interests looking to invest in America and they had money to burn. Money on a scale Sands had never seen before. Indeed, the influx of capital had taken the Meteor Club to an entirely different level, to the point that it was in all likelihood the finest men’s club in the country, offering absolutely anything a man could want as long as he could pay for it.

Though they’d often had dealings, going over business plans until well into the night, Sands had never seen Nikitin partake of the club’s wares. He never ate or drank here and he never took a woman to the back rooms, though Sands had invited him to do so often. If for nothing else to gauge the quality of the merchandise for himself.

Nikitin never gave any indication of playing for the other team, either. No, when he arrived, he just sat, a still figure in a corner where the light never reached, and simply observed. Within a week, he had a complete handle on the business and had estimated the club’s yearly earnings to within ten thousand dollars. And offered to increase those earnings tenfold.

He had a plan, too. With huge infusions of cash and a new supply chain. Fresher, cheaper, younger goods. A river of it.

Irresistible.

Sands leaned forward and picked up a toast point with true Beluga caviar spread on it, washing it down with Champagne. He pushed the plate over to Nikitin, who ignored it. Sands suppressed a sigh. Really, this would be much more pleasant if Nikitin were a friendlier person.

There was a woman’s cry, the sound of a slap, a man’s voice raised.

Trouble.

Beside him, he felt Nikitin stiffen.

Sands gestured to one of the bodyguards who unobtrusively mingled among the club members. They weren’t obvious muscle. They weren’t beefy and huge with enormous lumps under their arms. He chose his security carefully, both for their martial arts skills and their discretion. And, well, decorative value. They were attractive and graceful. He gave them an enormous dress allowance.

You only discovered they were security when there was trouble. Like now.

Consuelo. Again.

Really, Sands thought. Maybe she was more trouble than she was worth. A spectacularly beautiful woman, yes, even more beautiful than Skye, but lately quite…recalcitrant. And after all that he’d done for her. She’d been born Rosa Perez and she was one of Sand’s favorite personal discoveries. He’d groomed her from the age of ten when he’d found her cowering in a corner in an orphanage in a backwater town in Jalisco. She’d been almost feral, barely human. He’d taught her to read and write, to dress, to speak perfect English—she’d almost forgotten her Spanish—to move with grace and to please men in every way.

It had taken all his skill to see beneath the grime and filth. He’d effected a remarkable transformation. She’d been a superb investment, but maybe her origins were starting to show through again.