Page 5 of Theirs to Desire (Club M: Boxed Set)

FIONA

A na Sophia Morales, the woman who loosely functions as the administrative assistant in my private investigator practice, looks up as I walk in.

As usual, she’s knitting. “Who’s pregnant?

” I ask, noticing that she’s beginning a new project.

Mrs. Morales knits baby sweaters, and judging from the number of times she’s cast on in the office, someone in her circle is always ready to pop a baby out.

Still, it keeps her entertained, and let’s be honest, I’ve been the recipient of her knitting generosity more than once. Hand-knit socks in the winter? Amazing.

Normally, Mrs. Morales would use this as an excuse to launch into a long and entertaining story about her very large family, but today, she inclines her head toward my office.

“There’s a new client waiting for you. A man.

” With a shake of her head, she adds, “You’re going to want to do something about that stain on your blouse before you walk in, Fiona. ”

I ignore the loving rebuke, focusing instead on the client in my office. I’m not expecting anyone. I just wrapped up a case this morning, and all I have on tap this afternoon is mountains of paperwork. “Did you get his name?”

She looks down at her yellow legal pad. “Xavier Leforte,” she reads out. “He didn’t have an appointment but…”

But, especially with the security firm moving next door and potentially encroaching on my business, I can’t really afford to turn away walk-in clients.

“No worries, I’ll see him now.” Speaking of security firms…

“Mrs. Morales, do you happen to know the name of the company that just moved into the building?”

“Lockhart & Payne,” she answers promptly.

Butterflies tumble and whirl in my stomach. That explains why I saw Adrian Lockhart and Brody Payne in the atrium. They’re going to be working in my building.

Why does that bother you so much?

I push that thought to the back of my mind and focus on the walk-in client waiting for me in my office.

New client. My spare blouse is hanging on the back of the door, inside my office. I’m going to make a great first impression with my marinara-stained shirt.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

I walk in, polite words of greeting already on my lips. “Welcome to the Clarke Agency.” Then I stop to take him in.

The man seated in my office is extremely good-looking.

Dark hair shot with an occasional strand of grey, salt-and-pepper stubble, and eyes as black as coal.

He’s wearing a tailored suit that probably costs more than I pay in rent each month—and I pay an obscene amount of money for my three-hundred-square-foot space—and I would swear in a court of law that his leather shoes are handmade.

None of that makes me freeze in the doorway. No, what makes me pause is the self-assurance rolling off him in palpable waves.

In the atrium, I’d hidden behind a fountain to avoid running into Brody and Adrian.

Evidently, it’s raining dominants today.

It’s my thirtieth birthday, and I’ve been restless all day.

Samara, my best friend in Maine, who believes in astrology and karma and other such things, would probably tell me that the universe is giving me a sign.

The man rises to greet me. His gaze flicks to my stained shirt, but he doesn’t comment on my marinara mess. “Ms. Clarke,” he says with a courteous smile, extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Xavier Leforte. It’s good to meet you.”

His voice is faintly accented. Each word is clearly enunciated, the result of some very expensive schooling, no doubt, but underneath, there’s an accent that he can’t entirely conceal. European of some kind. The easy answer is French, to match his last name, but my gut tells me that’s not quite it.

I shake his hand warily. Moving around the over-sized battered wooden desk, I settle in my chair and lean forward. “How can I help you, Mr. Leforte?”

He regards me expressionlessly. “I run,” he says, “a private club.”

“What kind of club?” I ask.

He hesitates for a split-second, and I catch myself. People spill their innermost secrets so often in my office that I sometimes forget how difficult it must be to pour out your problems to a complete stranger. “I treat all our conversations as confidential,” I assure him.

“Of course.” He steeples his fingers and meets my gaze squarely. “It is a club where consenting adults come to live out their sexual fantasies.”

He pauses to take in my reaction. I have none—none that’s visible to him, at any rate. Keeping a poker face is an elemental part of my profession. Inside my stomach though, the butterflies have multiplied a hundred-fold.

You’re making a big deal of nothing, Fiona.

“It’s called Club M,” he continues. His lips turn up in a half-smile. “Though that’s not what the M stands for, some of the regulars have nicknamed it Club Ménage.”

“What does the M stand for, then?” I ask, my curiosity aroused. I have a fairly good idea what his problem is. It’s a sex club, and we live in a time where cameras are everywhere. Someone’s probably blackmailing someone else with exposure.

But why approach me? Sex clubs aren’t my area of expertise.

He doesn’t answer my question. “One of our new members had a photo mailed to her.” He opens a folder, takes a large photo out and slides it across the table toward me.

I take a look. The photo is one of a young blonde woman, tied to a Saint Andrew’s Cross, fully naked, her face blurred out. An uncomfortable tingle of arousal shoots through me when I see her restraints. Damn it, Fiona, not now.

“Let me guess. There are no phones or cameras allowed.”

He nods. “Members are scanned when they enter, and they leave. It should be impossible to get electronics into my club.” His gaze hardens. “I’d like to hire you to investigate this.”

I steeple my fingers, unconsciously copying his gesture.

Something’s not quite right here. Xavier Leforte is far too calm about this blackmail attempt.

I debate tiptoeing around the issue and then decide against it.

I’ve only just met Leforte, but my instincts tell me that being direct is the best way to handle him. “What are you keeping from me?”

A faint smile creases his face. He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I have my suspicions about this photo,” he says. “But I’d like you to conduct your investigations without being influenced by me.”

“Why pick me?”I lean forward, pushing the photo back toward him. “This isn’t my area of expertise.”

“I disagree, Ms. Clarke.” His lips twist into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and he drops his bombshell.

“You’ve dipped your toe in the world of dominance and submission before.

For three months, two years ago, you were Raymond Downing’s submissive.

Since you ended that relationship, you’ve eschewed your darker desires for more vanilla offerings, but you will still remember enough of the protocol to fit in. ”

Shock blankets me. My time with Raymond wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t exactly public knowledge either. I keep my voice steady with an effort. “I don’t see how my past has any bearing on this conversation.”

“Your past is the reason I’m in this room,” he replies.

“A submissive will not arouse suspicion. People will talk to you frankly, in a way they won’t talk to me.

I need to keep this investigation discreet.

” Unlike me, he sounded perfectly relaxed.

“Our membership dues are astronomical, in part because we take the privacy of our members very seriously. If you take this job, you’ll be given a cover story.

You’ll pose as a new member, eager to explore every aspect of the club. ”

He’s right. My prior experience with BDSM would serve me in good stead. I speak the language. I know the rules. I’d be able to blend in.

My palms are damp with sweat, and my skin is covered with goosebumps. Pull yourself together, Fiona. It was a long time ago. Stop being such a wuss.

Then he plays his trump card. “I’ll pay a hundred thousand dollars for a month of your time.”

The money is tempting. I do okay, but at the same time, I don’t have much of a cushion. If business went to hell—and with the arrival of Lockhart & Payne, there’s a good chance that it might—an extra hundred grand in the bank would be really, really nice.

Come on, Fiona. This is a no-brainer.

“Okay.” My voice is loud in the quiet room. “I’ll do it.”