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“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive. I think I’d know.”
She frowns. “Have you been to one?”
“No,” I say, amused. “Not really my thing.”
“I would have thought it was exactly your thing.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, trailing a finger along one of the polished bannisters. I guess maybe her father must have painted the Cavendishes as hedonists, focused only on money and pleasure. That stings a bit. I like food, whiskey, and sex as much as the next guy, but I’d never call myself a hedonist, and for some reason it makes me uncomfortable that people think of me as one.
“Why is it called Midnight?” she asks.
“Because it sounds cool.”
She gives a short laugh. “It’s part of a chain of clubs, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, there are seven others across New Zealand, and one in London. They all have a similar theme to this one, with the clock on the wall.”
“All run by rich guys like you.”
“We’re a consortium. The Midnight Circle. If you want the truth, if we meet to do any business it’s not normally until after midnight. That’s how we came up with the name.”
“I’m always in bed by ten,” she says.
“So would I be if I had a girl like you.” I say the words before I can vet them fully. They earn me a glance that’s half-bashful, half-exasperated. I’m not sure whether she likes me flirting with her or not.
“What do you really think of the resort?” I ask as we go through the doors and cross the lobby, heading outside.
“Honestly?”
I squint in the bright sunlight and slide on my sunglasses. “Always.”
“I’m shocked at the sumptuousness and decadence. The wealth on display.” She gestures at the cars parked out the front. “I mean nobody needs cars as extravagant as those.”
“Wealth isn’t about having what you need,” I tell her. “It’s about having what you want.”
“And you always get what you want, I imagine?”
“See, want, take. It’s a family motto.”
“Really?”
I laugh. “No. You’re incredibly gullible.”
She pokes her tongue out at me, then returns to looking at the cars.
“Do you drive?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Do you own a car?”
“No. We have a pool of cars, and I use one of those. My favorite is a small Suzuki. It does everything I need.” She stops by a silver Aston Martin DB12 Volante. “I mean, who really needs a car like that? Look at it! Talk about over the top. All that leather. And a convertible! How ridiculous. Clearly that belongs to an arrogant poser who’s compensating for a tiny penis.”
We stand and look at it.