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“What kind of problem?” I sit up in my chair, Ricky’s deep voice telling someone outside that he’s speaking with me now.
“I’ve got someone up here claiming they know you, but they aren’t on the membership list.”
“Who?” This isn’t the first time someone has tried getting in by pretending to know me. Usually, it’s just some up-and-coming new money who heard a rumor about the club.
“Her name is Emery Ashford.”
“I’m coming up there,” I say, hanging up the phone and exiting my office in a flash.
What the absolute fuck is she doing here and how did she find out about this place?
I knew when she discovered those $250,000 membership fees on the credit card statement she’d keep digging. I just didn’t expect her to find the place.
Matter of fact, how the hell did she find it?
I straighten my suit coat and run my hands through my hair as I approach the entrance. When I step outside, Ricky has Emery off to the side. There’s a slight chill in the air tonight and the only thing she has on her body is shiny fucking scrap of material.
Jesus Christ, she looks like she’s just begging to be fucked in that thing.
I take in her outfit, her tits practically falling out of the dress that shows off her long, slender legs and delicate shoulders. I have the sudden urge to drag her inside, away from prying eyes.
“I’ll handle it, Ricky.” I give him a nod as I approach Emery. She crosses her arms over her chest, her hip jutted out to the side. Her attitude is in full effect tonight, I can already tell.
“What can I do for you, Em?” I slide my hands into my pockets as I step closer to her.
“Let me in.”
“Afraid I can’t do that.” I shake my head, trying to remain calm. “Is Andy around here with the car? Tell him to pick you up.”
“I took an Uber.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to meet my date here.” She flips her hair over her shoulder.
“Your date?” I give her a questioning look. “You’re dating already?”
“Maybe.” Her lips curl into a delicious little grin.
“Seems a bit rushed for a grieving widow, don’t you think?” I don’t attempt to hide the anger in my eyes even though I know she’s lying about having a date.
“You didn’t seem concerned about it when you took me into your bed.”
“Mmm, that’s because that wasn’t a date, sweetheart.” I chuckle. “And from what I remember”—I step a foot closer to her, reaching my hand out to tilt her chin upward—“you begged me to take you to bed.”
“You wish,” she mutters, smacking my hand away.
“Who is your date?” I know she’s full of shit, but my chest still tightens at the thought of her on a date. If she were on one, I’m not sure that we’d actually be having a conversation about it. Most likely I’d be dragging the man out by his throat and kicking the shit out of him for even looking twice at her, then revoking his membership.
“Nobody you know.” She shrugs.
“Now that is interesting because I know every single person who walks through that door by name.”
Her smile fades. “You know I could ask you the same questions. What are you doing here, Mr. Bishop?”
“We both know I own the place, Em. Don’t act like you don’t. So I’m going to ask you one more time, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“You’re a liar,” she says matter-of-factly.
