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We walk into the corner office. “You want a drink?” Adrian asks, moving to the small but well-stocked bar.
“Sure.” Xavier settles himself on the couch and leans back. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
Adrian pours him a Scotch. “How’ve you been?” I ask him as he sips the single malt. “It’s been a while.”
Xavier lifts one eyebrow. “Not by choice. The two of you made it clear at Sandy’s funeral that you wanted to be left alone.”
I wince. Yeah. We’d said some things that day we hadn’t meant. The Belgian had introduced us to Sandy, and there was a period of time where I couldn’t look at him without remembering her. It had been easier to avoid all of it. The club, our friends, the lifestyle. “Sorry about that.”
He waves away my apology. “I get it,” he replies somberly. “Not everyone deals with grief the same way.”
He’s not talking about us. He’s talking about Layla, his former submissive. The one who ran away when her twin died, wanting no more contact with any of us.
I’d thought Layla hard-hearted then. After Sandy’s death, I understood her a little better.
Adrian’s thoughts are running the same direction as me. “Are you in touch with her?” he asks Xavier. “Is she okay?”
I’ll give Xavier credit. He doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t know what we’re talking about. “We talk on the phone once a year,” he says, his eyes on the drink in his hands. “I call her on the anniversary of Lina’s death. She never has very much to say.”
“Is she well?” Layla and Lina had been the first in their family to go to college. They’d both been on an academic scholarship, but when Lina died, Layla hadn’t finished her last semester. “She’s not hurting for money, is she?”
He shakes his head. “She’s always had my credit card,” he replies. “And Rafe’s.”
Together, Xavier and Rafael are richer than several small countries. “I can’t imagine Layla spending your money,” I reply, thinking of their petite submissive. “She was always too proud.”
“Too stubborn,” Xavier corrects, a smile on his lips. “But she seems to have changed her mind in recent months. There have been quite a few charges on it.”
It’s always been Layla for Xavier and Rafael. It’s been fifteen years, and there have been other submissives—God knows there’s no shortage of women throwing themselves at Xavier Leforte—but none of them have lasted.
Adrian and I exchange glances. “So,” Adrian says, “what brings you here, Xavier?”
“I could just be visiting old friends,” he replies.
Cagey as always.“But you aren’t,” I say. “You hate DC. You didn’t come into the city for small talk.”
That’s uncharacteristically blunt. Of the pair of us, Adrian’s usually the surly asshole, not me. I’m the charming, tactful one. But Xavier’s presence is bringing back memories of Club M, and I miss it. I miss the anticipation of a scene. I miss the sharp intake of a submissive’s breath as she wonders what I have planned for her. I miss the awareness, the control, the connection.The safety.
And now Xavier’s in our office.
“You’re right,” he says. “I need your help with a situation. I just hired a private investigator to investigate a blackmail attempt on one of the members.”
Blackmail? That sounds serious. Club Ménage prides itself on secrecy. It has to. This close to DC, the club attracts a high-profile crowd. When I last played there, there had been a half-dozen senators on the main floor, one of them being led around on a leash by his mistress. “What kind of blackmail?”
Adrian leans forward. “I’m a little offended you didn’t come to us,” he says. “Who did you hire to look into it?”
“Fiona Clarke.”
A crash wave of memory sweeps over me.
Two years ago, we’d met a guy called Raymond Downing at a poker game. Downing was a douchebag. His father was a senator who sat on the armed services committee, and Raymond took full advantage of the senator’s influence.
That kind of influence peddling isn’t uncommon in DC. I didn't approve, but that wasn't the reason I couldn't stand the sight of him.
No, I hated Downing because he treated his submissive like dirt. His submissive, Fiona Clarke.
“I didn’t know Fiona was a private investigator.” An expression of distaste crosses Adrian’s face. “Is she still with Downing?”
Xavier shakes his head. “No. Their relationship only lasted three months.” He gets up and pours himself another Scotch. “It seems a shame,” he says casually, “that her introduction to BDSM was in the hands of someone like Raymond Downing.”
