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Chapter Seven
You’re going to be the mother of my children. The sooner you make peace with that, the sooner we can get busy making them.
Hannah grimaced as she put the finishing touches on her makeup, then twisted around in the mirror to make sure her little black dress—a halter-topped, backless, bodycon work of nightclubbing art—covered her in all the necessary places. How many times had Dalton’s phrase whispered through her mind since their last date? A million? Two million? Enough times, at any rate, to convince her that she was slowly losing her mind.
Life was a funny thing. From the moment she’d landed a job at Chicago Pulse, Hannah had imagined herself at the top of her profession as a society columnist. Not because she was particularly ambitious, but because she loved what she did.
But things had changed. She didn’t love her day job nearly as much as she used to after she’d been forced to realize the party scene wasn’t as safe as she’d thought it was. And now...
Now all she could think about was having babies.
Dalton’s babies, to be precise.
No wonder it felt like she was going crazy.
Dalton wasn't helping any. For the past two mornings since their date, he'd shown up at her office to personally deliver her favorite coffee—a skinny vanilla latte—along with a single rose. He never lingered, always on his way to work, but he never failed to make time for a kiss so powerful it carried her through the remainder of the day with a warm tingle and the inability to think of anything else except him.
And his babies.
Gah.
“Come on, Hannah, focus.” Turning from her reflection, she grabbed up her clutch purse and slid it into a larger work bag that held a new camera, a digital recorder, a ring light and tripod, a tablet, a notebook and pen, extra batteries and various cables and chargers, as well as a trusty pair of flats. As much as she would have liked to simply sit and enjoy the show, covering the grand opening of a club usually meant running after every possible angle, from delving into what sort of show the Thunder Club’s customers should expect, to where the club owner got their drive and inspiration to open a club in the first place, to what sort of celebrities had made it into the VIP section. It was always big news if a club’s grand opening attracted a celebrity, and it was her job to be the first to report it.
Normally the thrill of that particular hunt filled her with glee.
But strangely, all she wanted to do was call Dalton to see what he was doing tonight.
An irritated growl escaped her as she stomped downstairs, turning out lights as she went. This lack of enthusiasm was all Dalton's fault. Over the past couple of days, he hadn’t given up trying to talk her into handing the Thunder Club assignment over to someone else. Everything he'd done and said had told her he didn't want her to go through with it, which in turn had made her dig in her heels all the more. It was her job. Of course she was going to do it.
But now that the pre-grand opening of the Thunder Club was here, she no longer cared about covering the story.
She just... didn’t want to go.
Maybe it would be okay if she did as Dalton suggested and simply did a quick interview with the owner, took some of the club’s publicity photos, and jetted out of there before the first show, she thought, shrugging into a coat before heading out the door. She wasn't compromising the integrity of journalism by not sticking around for hours on end, after all. A club’s grand opening was just like any other she’d covered in the past. Hell, she could write about it in her sleep. She could probably even write about it without going at all.
Except...
That lackadaisical approach would compromise her integrity. Not to mention if she got caught doing something like that, she’d not only be fired but she could also ruin the reputation she’d painstakingly built for being an honest voice in the ceaselessly changing online world of influencers.
Damn it.
She had to go.
By the time Hannah dragged herself through Thunder Club’s lavish double doors—gilded with gold leaf and echoing the Art Deco of the Carbon and Carbide Building where the club was housed—the party was already in full swing. Designed as if it were a supper club from the Roaring Twenties, there were linen-covered tables set on three levels, built in a semicircle around a well-lit stage where no doubt the majority of the club’s action took place. It was a simple yet perfect design; no matter where the patron sat, the focal point was the stage.
The lighting for the audience was far more discreet. It was basically dark, save for the candles in purple or red glass bowls set on each table. Again, smart move on the owner’s part, Hannah decided, showing her press pass and invitation to a drool-worthy shirtless man who appeared to be guarding the VIP section. Inhibitions could easily be forgotten in the dark. That was part of the fantasy a business like the Thunder Club sold to its patrons.
The VIP section was front and center right next to the stage, with the best view of a show that Hannah had no doubt would make even the hardest cynic blush. Considering the ripped Adonis that had shown her to her table—and he was just the usher—Hannah suspected this new club on the Chicago scene was destined to make money hand over fist.
“Ah, Miss Raven. I’m so glad you made it to my humble little establishment.”
Hannah turned in her seat and focused on an older woman approaching her table. Her white hair was cut almost military-short. Her piercing blue eyes were highlighted by dramatic makeup, and her bearing was casually regal. Her outfit was nothing short of jaw-dropping—a severely tailored black tuxedo jacket with nothing underneath, and an ankle-length black skirt that after close inspection Hannah realized was all but see-through.
Wow. Talk about making an impact.
“Bebe Zaiger, I presume?” With a smile, Hannah paused in setting out her digital recorder and camera, and rose to greet her hostess with a handshake. “Congratulations on the opening of your club. I’m honored you invited me to cover it.” No matter how much Dalton made me want to stay home.
“I would have been crazy not to have the city’s hottest society columnist cover the Thunder Club’s opening.” Taking the chair next to Hannah’s, Bebe Zaiger returned Hannah’s smile with a brilliant one of her own. “I just hope this personal dream of mine will pass muster in your eyes.”
“Sounds like an excellent starting point for an interview.” Settling back at the table, Hannah got her digital recorder going, then grabbed up a pen and notebook. “Why do you call the Thunder Club your personal dream? Have you had the idea of this place in your head for some time?”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted a place for us gals to have as much fun as a bunch of horny men at a strip club. I should know enough about that since I was an exotic dancer for almost twenty years.”
Hannah felt her jaw drop. She never would have guessed. “Really?”
“Hell, yes. That may have been a while ago, but you can still bounce quarters off my ass and I’m damn proud of it.”
Hannah laughed along with her. “Can I quote you?”
“I’d be upset if you didn’t. And you can also quote me that a long time ago I wondered why there were so many strip clubs for men but none for women, when let’s face it—men are hot as hell, and it’s fun to watch them take their clothes off. Haven’t you ever been mesmerized by how your man gets undressed?”
“I...” The fever-inducing image of Dalton peeling off his clothes while she watched—the slow unbuttoning of his shirt to reveal a hard, muscle-defined chest, before his hands slipped down to his belt—flooded her brain so completely she nearly forgot to answer. “I currently don’t have a man. Well, that’s not exactly true. I do have a man, and wow, what a man. But everything is still so new I’m not sure that I actually have him. Or that he has me. Officially, I mean.” Good grief, if she could stop babbling, that would have been great.
