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“Welcome to The Vortex. May I see your invitations, please?”
Lori passed her the tickets. The hostess scanned the QR code. A beep sounded. With a smile, she asked them to follow her, then spun on her heel and moved deeper into the building. Lori held on tight to Zane’s hand. She could almost smell the money. The place was thick with wealth, power, and influence, yet wasn’t stuffy in the slightest. It had a vibrancy that hummed like electricity along power lines. Her nerves amplified with excitement, her eyes darting this way and that, taking it all in.
Blue lighting surrounded a central bar, curved for added effect, and the floor gleamed enough that she could almost see her reflection in it. Well-spaced tables sat around the bar, each one adorned with expensive linens, heavy silverware, and cut-crystal glasses.
“Wow.” She leaned into Zane as the greeter stopped by a large table about halfway down the left-hand side of the club. “Are you feeling like an interloper?”
“Nope,” Zane said, confidence carried through from youth even hotter now than she’d found it when they were in their teens. “We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be, Lori.”
They sat, and the greeter handed them each a heavy leather menu embossed with gold writing.
“Your server this evening will be Michel. He will take good care of you. Enjoy all our club has to offer.”
She retreated, gliding back to her post. A man in his mid-twenties then appeared at their table. “Mr. Quinlan. Miss James. Welcome to The Vortex. As guests of Mr. Somers, I’m delighted you’re here. May I have our bartender make you some drinks to get you started? A cocktail, perhaps?”
Lori suppressed a nervous giggle. Zane handled him like a pro.
“A bottle of Cristal and some still water, please.”
“Excellent choice, sir. I’ll leave you to peruse the menu. However, for an appetizer, I can highly recommend the Scottish langoustine. Caught fresh only yesterday and flown in overnight.” He chef-kissed his fingers. “They are exquisite.”
“We’ll keep it in mind,” Zane said.
As Michel retreated, Zane leaned in. “No langoustine for me unless you want to go home with a guy on your arm who’d give Mick Jagger a run for his money in the lips department.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Why? Are you allergic?”
“Dreadfully, yes. Found out on my twenty-first birthday. Ate lobster and ended up in the emergency room with a bloated face and lips that looked like they’d been stung by a thousand bees.”
“Oh dear.” Lori let out a bark of laughter “Poor you.”
“Go on. Drown me in empathy.”
She laughed again, then glanced around. “This place is incredible. And you. It’s like you were born to be here.”
“I was.” Zane grinned.
“Whereas me.” She pointed to herself. “I feel as if everyone is staring and whispering amongst themselves, wondering who let the riffraff in.”
Zane brought her hand to his lips and kissed each individual knuckle. “The light of everyone here dimmed the second you walked in the door. You’re brimming with class, Lori. Always have been. You don’t need to put on airs and graces and pretend. You’re you, and you’re amazing.”
She fiddled with her necklace, her insides knotting at his declaration. “You keep saying these wonderful things, and yet I don’t feel like I’ve earned them. Not after—”
Zane pressed his finger to her lips. “Stop. I’ve told you already. That was then. This is now. You’re here with me, and that’s all I care about.”
A fresh torrent of guilt swept her along on a tide of regret and sorrow. Pointless regrets. She’d examined her decision over and over the past thirteen years, and each time she forensically analyzed it, she came to the same conclusion: lying to Zane had been the only option, at least the only one she could ever have lived with. She only had to look at him to know she’d done the right thing. If she’d tied him to her while she’d gone through the transplant procedure and the long, scary months of recovery that followed, he might not have turned into the man he was today. Smart, successful, handsome as could be, with the kind of compassion she counted herself damned lucky to be on the receiving end of.
Dashing aside the dark thoughts that crept from the fissures in her mind, she flashed a beaming smile at the love of her life, then half lifted out of her chair and kissed him.
“I bet they frown upon PDA here.”
Zane pulled her closer. “I couldn’t care less.” He drew his teeth over her bottom lip and tugged. The bustling chatter and servers dashing from place to place swallowed the sound of her groan.
The food was delicious, the champagne crisp and light, but, for Lori, it was the company that stole the show. She drowned in Zane’s delicious brown eyes, hung onto his every word as he moved effortlessly from subject to subject, squeezed her core when he eased up her dress and used the pad of his thumb to trace circles on her inner thigh.
Michel came to clear their plates, informing them that a jazz band was playing in a separate part of the club and he’d secured them a table if they were interested. Rising to their feet, they followed Michel through several hallways—how big was this place?—arriving at an enormous room with a stage at one end where the band were, a large dance floor in the center, already crammed with customers, and tables dotted around the outer edges. Michel stopped beside a table in a cozy alcove, motioning for them to sit. He took their drinks order and retreated.
“Let’s dance.” Zane took her hand then led her onto the dance floor. He pulled her into his arms, swaying to the music, his lips feathering her forehead, her ear, the slope of her shoulder. His erection grew, nudging at her belly.
