Page 585 of Hell Hath No Fury

“What’s on Friday?” I ask. The words slip from my lips before I can choke them back. What am I doing?

“Guests are allowed to come to the club. Take a look around. I think you’d enjoy it.”

“I’ll consider it,” I say with a smile. “It was nice talking to you,” I add.

“You too.”

As I walk out the door, the woman who extended the invitation smiles warmly. “If you are interested, we welcome you to join us the day after tomorrow. We open the club to guests. It’ll be somewhat like today, unless you’d like to take it further. The man you were speaking with can serve as your reference when the hostess asks.”

Not trusting myself to comment, afraid I’ll blurt out my eagerness and embarrass myself, I nod and accept the card she extends.

Filing out after the rest of the crowd, I fumble with my purse, stuffing the card inside and pulling out my phone to keep my hands busy. If living in New York for the past four years had taught me anything, it was how to look busy and important in any social situation.

The phone rings in my hands as I walk out the front door of the restaurant and head to my car. Glancing at the caller I.D., my stomach flips a little when I recognize Mikhail’s number.

CHAPTER THREE

“Hello,” he says.

Needing the solitude, I duck into my car. I clear my throat and respond breezily, “You better not be calling to cancel again.”

An undeniably male chuckle washes over me like silk, turning my already heated blood molten from the sound alone. Clearly, I needed to get laid, or invest in some sort of battery-operated relief. My eyes catch on the white outline of the card in the darkness.

His voice distracts me from an imagination fraught with images of The Sanctum. “Not a chance,” he says. “I hope I didn’t ruin your first night back.”

Already knowing I won’t be able to resist the invitation to their guest night, I bite my lip to contain the hum of anticipation that bubbles up in my throat, then focus on my response to Mikhail. “Is it rude if I say no? It was a great restaurant. Good choice. Would have been better with your company, but I managed to enjoy myself.”

“Glad to hear it.” In the background, I note the low murmur from the radio, then the silence from his engine turning off, followed by two beeps from his car. I try to imagine him based on the sound of his voice alone. Mom mentioned he’s good looking. As I conjure an image of a tall, broad man cloaked in shadows, he says, “Does six work for you Saturday?”

“It does,” I say as I start my own car and pull into traffic for the short ride home.

He yawns heavily into the phone, and then laughs at himself. “I don’t make a habit of cancelling on beautiful women, then boring them to death.”

Feeling more at ease, I join him in laughter. “Long day?”

“The longest.” His groan is deep and conjures even more heated images.

God. I flick on the air conditioning, hoping it will help alleviate the scalding lust inside of me.

“Epsom salts,” I suggest after a few seconds. “Mom always says they work wonders after a long shift.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Yes,” I say bluntly, then we laugh again as I pull into my drive. “And I’ve seen it many times before. She always said night shifts were the hardest.”

“You don’t want to hear about my night,” he says over the click of ice in a glass. I picture him pouring a couple fingers of whiskey. He’d be wearing slacks, a crisp, collared shirt unbuttoned at the top, his tie hanging loosely on either side of his neck. “It wasn’t one of the good ones.”

“Sometimes we need the bad to appreciate the good,” I say, still sitting in the quiet dark of my car. The lights inside the house are still out; Mom hasn’t made it home yet. Much as I love her, I’m glad. Way too much has happened tonight for me to process without her probing questions added to the mix.

The ice in his drink clicks against the glass and I hear him swallow. “Do you really believe that?” he asks.

“Sometimes.” I give a self-depreciating laugh. “Not so much right now, considering I’m couch surfing at my mom’s and accepting her advice on my love life. But normally, yes. A year from now, I imagine I’ll look back and be grateful for the low points. It’s all about perspective, right? Well, at least that’s what they say.”

“Hard to think that way when you’re wrist deep in the stomach of a shooting victim.”

Concern softens my response and I wince. “Definitely Epsom salts. Your back must be killing you.”

Leather creaks and fabric rustles as he shifts in his seat. My breath catches in my throat as the sounds echo in the closed quarters of my car. “Now that you mention it, yeah. Maybe I should have come to dinner after all. You are a regular fount of information.”