30DaystoSyn (31 page)

“Wow,” she whispered.

In the far corner of the room was a
waterfall backlit by a silvery light that made the black rocks surrounding the
cascade glitter and the water itself sparkle. The water fell into a rocky basin
that gave off a faint blue glow. The sound of the tumbling falls was very
pleasant and gave the room a tropical feel.

There were no more than two chairs at each
of the tables and the cushions of those chairs were upholstered in the same
fabric as that which covered the walls. Polished silver place settings adorned
the tables—the silverware gleaming in the light from the black tapers standing
in the three-armed candelabras. The stemware was a smoky gray crystal that
reflected the flickering light.

But if the accoutrements of the room
inspired her, the people within the room overwhelmed her. From the waitstaff to
the diners, she realized everyone in the restaurant was dressed entirely in
black and every woman there was wearing silver heels similar to the ones on her
own feet.

“This way, please,” Justin said after giving
her a moment to take in the sumptuous yet eerie beauty of the room.

She had to shake herself to put her feet
into motion to follow him. The soft melody changed and she recognized the song.
It was one of her favorites—a haunting Celtic ballad titled
Red Is the Rose
.
She wondered if the Kiwi knew she dearly loved the song.

“Of course he does,” she said under her
breath.

And then she saw him.

He was sitting at the back of the room in a
sheltered alcove. The shimmer of the candlelight lit his face to accentuate the
brutal beating he had taken. She could not help but speculate on what the
wealthy patrons of the supper club thought of his battered face. Surely they
knew what had happened. News of it had been all over the television and radio
and newspaper but no one was looking at him.

Or at her as she passed among the tables.

As she drew closer, he pushed back his
chair and stood. There was a slight welcoming smile—perhaps a tad
nervous—tugging at his lips.

She knew an expensive suit when she saw
one. It was most likely Alexander Amousa for she had read that was the designer
he preferred. The black silk shirt and tie alone would have paid her rent
payment many times over. The cufflinks at his wrists flashed red in the
candlelight as he held his hand out to her. The ruby-red stones in the teardrop
settings were the only color amidst the unrelieved black of his attire.

She slipped her hand into his. “You clean
up nicely,” she said as he leaned down to brush his lips fleetingly against her
temple.

“I done gone and took me a bath too,” he
said as Julian held the chair for her.

“I could tell the stink was off’n you,” she
responded and heard Julian chuckle.

When she was seated and Julian had plucked
the linen napkin from the table then snapped it open before placing it in her
lap, he took his seat.

“You look lovely,” he said in that deep,
nasally voice that never failed to gain her attention.

“Thank you. How are you feeling?”

“In other words, you look like shit, Kiwi,
but I’m trying not to stare at your ugly mug,” he said with a grin.

“There is nothing ugly about you, Kiwi, and
unfortunately for most women you know it,” she said. She looked up as the wine
steward came to stand beside him.

“Good evening, Drummond,” he said. “We will
start with Clos Du Mesnil 1995 then I believe the 1997 Domaine Romanee Conti
with our meal.”

“Very good, sir,” the wine steward said
with a slight bow then faded back into the shadows.”

“Are you a wine connoisseur?” she inquired.

“I know what I like. The wine we’ll be
having with our meal is a rich red burgundy that is as smooth as silk. You’ll
get a taste of plum and currant along with a touch of tar and smoke.”

“And it goes well with eels’ toenails and
jujubes?”

“It goes well with prime rib with wild
mushroom risotto,” he replied.

“Which you have already ordered,” she said.

“Naturally.”

“I guess a hamburger and fries aren’t on
the menu here,” she quipped.

“Actually, you can have most anything you
want,” he told her. “Club Triumph caters to the wants and needs and desires of
its members and their guests. The management wants those who come here to
thoroughly enjoy the experience.”

“It is an experience, that’s for sure. Who
owns it?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Liar,” she said and he smiled. “You would
never join anything until you knew all there was to know about it. So what did
you find out about Club Triumph?”

“That it’s run through a holding company in
Dubai.”

“Which is owned by…?”

“Somebody?” he countered.

“All right, be that way,” she said. “How
long have you been a member?”

“Nine years.”

“And how long has the club been in
existence?”

His slow smile told her everything she
needed know.

Including the name of the owner.

He stared at her a long time then slowly
exhaled. “You have a question, love?”

Before she could answer, the wine steward
returned with a bottle of champagne and two champagne flutes. A young man
accompanying him carried a wine bucket on a stand.

“Clos Du Mesnil 1995, sir,” the wine
steward said, holding the bottle, label out, with one hand on the bottom and
one on the top. “May I pour, sir?”

The Kiwi nodded.

They were silent as the wine steward went
through the elaborate process of opening the bottle of champagne and pouring a
small amount into the Kiwi’s flute.

A small sip, a nod, and the wine steward
poured champagne for the two of them, put the bottle in the ice-filled bucket,
bowed then left.

He lifted his flute. “To the days to come,”
he said.

She clinked her flute to his. “To the days
to come,” she repeated and felt her womb clench.

The champagne was excellent and it flowed
over her tongue like nectar. She closed her eyes and smiled to let him know it
was heavenly.

“Glad you like it,” he said. “You were
about to ask a question?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, setting her glass on
the blood-red tablecloth. She lowered her voice. “Is the initial membership fee
for the club really a million dollars?”

“It is but there is more to the membership
than just fine dining twenty-four hours a day,” he said. “On this floor are the
dining facilities, a nightclub and the offices. Above us is a large
multi-functional facility open to all members. On the second floor is a full
gymnasium complete with steam rooms, hot tubs and saunas, as well as
racquetball and handball courts. There is a huge library, one hundred-seat
screening room, smoking parlor, game rooms, computer rooms and solarium on the
third floor. Suites of private rooms—individually owned by the members who
purchase them from CT—are located on floors four through seven. On the roof is
an infinity swimming pool complete with a waterfall.”

“Holy moly!” she said.

“That’s just above ground. There are four
sublevels below us, two for private use and two for parking.” He took a sip of
his champagne then set the glass aside.

“That’s quite an operation,” she said. “I
don’t imagine there’s anything like it but that was the idea, wasn’t it?”

“It’s not the first of its kind.” He leaned
back in his chair, swiveled the base of the flute on the table. He was looking
at the swirling wine as he asked, “You’ve heard of the Hellfire Club?”

“Where the wealthy rakes of
eighteenth-century Britain worshipped Satan?” she asked, her stomach suddenly
churning.

“That would be the one,” he said, taking a
sip of his wine. “It was dedicated to Bacchus and Venus. Booze, boys and bawdy
broads,” he stated.

“I take it this is Atlanta’s version of the
Hellfire Club?” she questioned and was beginning to be very concerned.

“It is. The motto of Club Triumph is the
same as that of the Hellfire Club—
Fais ce que tu voudras
.”

“Do what thou wilt,” she translated the
Latin from her Catholic schoolgirl days. The concern was rapidly escalating to
deep disquiet.

He nodded slowly. “Very wealthy men come
here to engage their more prurient natures. They bring their mistresses or…” He
looked to his right. “Their lovers.”

She followed where his attention had gone
and was astounded to see a very well-known older politician sitting with a very
handsome young man. The elderly gentleman had his hand in the younger man’s
lap.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He is a deacon in
my church,” she exclaimed. “He was just inducted into the Order of St.
Gregory.”

“He’s a lot of things, baby,” he said
drily. “Godly ain’t one of ‘em. He’s the raunchiest poo pusher in the room.”

She looked away, vastly disappointed in a
man she had voted for many times. She forced her mind from a mental picture of
the man and his wife of sixty-odd years standing in front of St. Teresa’s with
their brood of nine children and slew of grandkids and great-grand kids.

“I had no idea he was a Satanist,” she said
and nausea lurked in her throat.

“I’m sure he’s not. We don’t worship Satan
here, Lina,” he said, amusement crinkling at the corners of his expressive
eyes. “Nor do we sacrifice animals or maidens or babies. There are no blood
rituals performed and murder isn’t on the list of services provided.”

“But it is a place where illicit acts are
carried out.”

“You could say that, yes. It is a private
men’s club. Whom the members bring with them is their business.”

“And if they don’t bring someone with
them?” she asked. “Does the club provide…?”

“This isn’t a whorehouse, Melina,” he said.
“The club doesn’t offer or provide prostitutes or bum boys for its members.”

She unconsciously licked her lips. She
thought she already knew the answer to her question but had to ask. “Are the
private levels below us like the caves beneath the club in Britain? Does funky
stuff go on down there?”

“Yes. There is a system of chambers where
the patrons can go to experience every vice known to man.” He frowned. “Well
not every vice. The lines are drawn at bestiality and pedophilia.”

“By vices you mean such as BDSM and the
like? Whips and chains and…”

“There are chambers for those who indulge
in that sort of thing, yes.”

“And have you yourself indulged in those
chambers?”

“On occasion,” he replied.

Once more she licked her lips and saw his
eyes zero in on them before lifting slowly to hers.

“Do that one more time,” he said, “and I
will stretch you atop this table and have my way with you while everyone
watches.” He leaned toward her. “And believe me, baby, they would.”

Tears scratched at the back of her throat.
“Why did you bring me here, Kiwi?”

“For dinner?” he countered.

“And that’s all?” she demanded.

“No, that’s not all.”

“Then why?”

His blue eyes glittered. “Because tonight’s
the night I take you, baby.”

She went completely still, staring at him
as though he had just informed her he was going to string her up in one of the
dungeons in the sublevels.

“I thought you said Thursday night,” she
said, swallowing.

“I rearranged the timetable,” he said then
finished the champagne in his glass.

“Not Thursday,” she said. Her voice was
small, filled with something akin to fear.

“Not Thursday,” he agreed. “Tonight.”

“Oh,” she said and her face turned red.
“What changed your mind?”

“The way you look in that dress,” he told
her.

The headwaiter was standing discreetly in
his view. He nodded to indicate the meal should begin. She turned her head to
see to whom he’d made his silent signal.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said, looking down,
fiddling with her napkin.

He braced his elbows on the table and
threaded his fingers together, rested his chin on the back of them. “Look at
me.”

She didn’t.

He made his voice more authoritative.
“Melina, look at me.”

Again she licked her lips before raising
her eyes to his and he had the wild desire to leap across the table and trap
her against him, ravage her mouth in full view of all the members who were so
studiously trying not to stare at them.

“Yes?” she queried in a mousy voice.

“I want you to eat everything that will be
in your bowls and on your plates,” he said sternly. “Do you know why?”

“Because you grew up hand to mouth and
living on scraps from restaurant dumpsters or fruit you nicked from vendor
stalls in the market so you have this maniacal, irrational penchant for not
wanting food to be wasted?”

He had to school his lips not to twitch
with amusement at her little show of pique.

“Yes, that too, but mostly I want you to do
so because you are going to need your strength.”

That caught her full attention. Her lips
parted and her eyes flared—just a little but enough to tell him his words had
put a shiver down her spine.

“Why?” she asked. “Are you going to take me
down below?”

He knew she didn’t realize how provocative
that question was or how he had interpreted it. A wicked part of him wanted to
rattle her cage.

“Do you want me to take you to the
Dungeons?” he asked.

Her answer came too quickly. “No!”

“I will, though,” he told her. “Not
tonight. Tonight is a time for gentleness but we still have four more days to
make the journey to the rooms below.”

Their waiter arrived with the first course,
cutting off whatever protest he was sure she’d been about to make.

Throughout the meal he engaged her in small
talk—mostly about her brother or what was going on at her job—in order to put
her at ease. He watched her push her food around on the plate and said nothing
more about her cleaning her plate. Her hand was trembling and he knew she was
nervous, unsure of the night ahead of her. By the time dessert—a mouthwatering
crème brulee that was her favorite—arrived she was fidgeting tensely in her
seat.