A Lover's Mask (5 page)

Anson and Graham inhaled and then stepped into the lion's den—literally.

Stefan Lyons was one half of the team that operated Dark Squires Communications. The privately owned company had remained so because the two partners had no desire for a board or stockholders overseeing and dictating their every move. That was especially true since the moves were often risky, usually ruthless and frequently dangerous.

Seated behind his desk, Stefan puffed on a long cigar. It was his favorite pastime and a habit that made him seem far older than he was. He waved for the two men to have a seat and enjoyed several more puffs of his cigar.

“Do you two have the contract for Contessa House?” he asked them.

Graham leaned forward. “Stef, we tried, but we—”

“Do you two have the contract for Contessa House?” Stef voiced the question once again.

Anson folded one hand over Graham's arm. “No,” he answered.

“Let me explain why I send two men on sales trips,” Stef said after enjoying a few more puffs from his cigar. “Two men ensure that the pitch will be thoroughly understood by the client. A second man points out valuable facts to the client—facts that his partner may've failed to mention—thus providing the client with a deal they can't refuse. But you
two
failed. Now what do you think I should do about that?”

Anson and Graham exchanged glances and knew it was time to pull out all the stops lest they be fired…or worse.

“Can we at least explain?” Graham raised his hand to ask.

“You didn't close the deal. That's all I need to know.”

“No, it's not, Stef.”

The room went deathly still. Graham closed his eyes, knowing a few of his friend's teeth were about to be strewn across the Oriental rug that covered half the floor.

Instead, Stef seemed interested and came to sit on the edge of his spotless pine desk. “What do you think I need to know?”

“We didn't have a chance to complete the pitch because we were told to leave,” Anson shared quickly.

Stef rolled his eyes. “That's what the client usually does when they deal with piss poor salesmen.”

“No Stef, it was Fernando,” Graham said.

“Fernando?” Stef repeated, curious and mildly stunned. “I'm surprised he even decided to attend the meeting.

“He didn't attend the meeting,” Anson clarified.

“He was there meeting with two centerfolds for one of his Chicago magazines,” Graham added.

Stef took a long drag from his cigar. “So my partner just happened to be there, huh?”

“He arranged it,” Graham confessed.

Stef nodded. “Go on,” he urged, leaving the corner of his desk.

“We'd been talking to Ms. Warren for a while, when he gave a nod signaling that we should leave,” Graham continued, “we didn't think it'd be wise to argue.”

“You thought right,” Stef agreed, losing some of his anger. “You guys go on home, relax, take a good shower and the rest of the week off,” he instructed.

Very relieved, Anson and Graham thanked their boss and hurried toward the door.

“Guys?” Stef called, before their hands touched the knob. “Tell me about Contessa Warren.”

Anson's and Graham's smiles were the epitomes of male satisfaction.

“You should see her Stef, a real dime,” Anson appraised.

Graham nodded. “Incredible body and an even more incredible face. Plus, she's smart. Quick, outspoken, She's no fool.”

“Yeah, if I weren't sitting across from her, I'd have sworn I was dealing with a man,” Anson shared.

While his men flattered Contessa, Stef nodded.
He's sleeping with her, or planning to,
he realized. “Thanks guys, get home and get some rest.”

“Are you gonna forget the House, boss?” Graham wanted to know.

“No, just taking a different route,” Stef confided.

Alone in the office, Stef finished off his cigar. Reaching for the private phone directory on his desk, he browsed the gold-trimmed pages until he found what he was looking for. He dialed the number and waited for the connection.

“Hey, it's Stef. I got a job for you. In Chicago. Contessa Warren. I want to know everything about her.”

T
he Spot was an upscale gentleman's club located several miles outside of Chicago. To an average passerby, the place looked like an elaborate mansion. A tour inside the dwelling, however, showed it was far more than that.

County was in awe. She had never seen the inside of such a club, in spite of what many of her friends believed. Fernando strolled through the house noting several points of interest. County was especially surprised to find women dancing in both dark and well-lit rooms.

“I believe in giving my patrons a choice,” Fernando said as they strolled the mammoth-sized establishment. “I found that many prefer the well-lit rooms to the dark ones.”

“It's such a huge place,” County cited, her eyes wider as they scanned the high ceilings and tall windows lining the corridors and upper levels. “There's dancing in all these rooms, huh?” she inquired softly.

Fernando chuckled at her candor and was about to provide her with an explanation when they were interrupted. County tried not to stare at the man who was as massive as Fernando, but looked as though his life had been much rougher—much deadlier.

Fernando nodded, and then drew the man over to where she stood. “Contessa Warren, this is Mbeki Carpenter, one of my partners here in the club.”

County smiled and extended her hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” she greeted, clearing her throat when the man's hand practically smothered her own.

“Very nice to meet you,” Mbeki replied, his light brown eyes trailing her face appreciatively. “This won't take long, Fern,” he said, before leaving County with another smile and nod.

“Will you be all right on your own for a few minutes?” Fernando asked her, his concern evident.

County waved her hand. “I'll be fine. Go handle your business,” she urged, already turning to study a few of the portraits that lined the walls. Of course, she was covertly studying the two giants down the hall.

Clearly something was wrong. When Mbeki uttered only a few words, Fernando's expression turned murderous. The two spoke for several minutes more, and then shook hands and parted ways. County figured their date was over, but she was mistaken.

“Are you really sure about eating here County?” he asked, a furrow settling between his brows.

“I'm positive. Unless…there's a problem? Your conversation seemed pretty serious.”

Fernando shook his head and stroked his hair roughened jaw. “Just a few personnel issues,” he explained.

“Would you like to discuss them?”

“No, I would not,” Fernando replied promptly, grinning at the cool, airy manner she posed the question.

“Well, you never did answer my other question anyway,” she pointed out.

“And that was?” Fernando queried, folding his arms across his chest.

“About all the rooms in the house.”

“What about them?”

County's mouth fell open. “You're kidding? You really don't know what I'm asking?”

“Just what do you
think
goes on in all these rooms?” he asked in a quiet voice.

County smoothed her hands across the wool knit fabric of her coat. “I'm sure
you
know very well what goes on in them.”

He took a step closer to her. “As far as I know eating and dancing.”

“There're many ways to dance, Ramsey.”

“Don't I know it.”

“So?”

“So as far as I know everything that goes on here is strictly professional and legal.”

“As far as you know,” County rephrased, her wide brown eyes suspicion filled. “Is that your way of saying that you don't know how the ladies make…extra money?”

Fernando's expression went deadly serious. “That's my way of saying I make infrequent unannounced visits to the club at least three times a month. In all those times, I've never witnessed anything happening under the table or between the sheets. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

County only pressed her lips together and nodded.

“Good,” he said, taking her upper arms in a light grasp. “Now can we please eat?”

 

County's gasp seemed to echo when she and Fernando entered one of the upstairs rooms. It was an exquisite area illuminated by soft lighting and warmed by a gorgeous fireplace. Relaxing classical jazz swirled throughout.

“Is this just for us?” County breathed, her brown leather boots disappearing into a rich burgundy carpet.

“All the rooms look this way.” Fernando seemed to take great pride in sharing with her. “My guests come to dine here.”

“So they have dinner along with their private dances,” County noted, casting Fernando a suggestive look as he held her chair.

“There's no
private
dances,” he informed her after taking his place at the table. “Only dances for private
parties
of ten or more plus security to ensure my rules are followed.”

“So strict,” Contessa drawled, leaning back in the chair she occupied. “It's a wonder you're able to keep girls, or clients for that matter.”

Fernando toyed with the silverware on the table. “Rules ensure I have the most beautiful and intelligent girls and gentlemanly and intelligent clients,” he schooled her.

County propped her chin to her fist. “Some might find that boring.”

“Precisely why I wouldn't have to worry about them working for me or becoming clients,” Fernando said, his translucent brown gaze firm and steady. “These men come to unwind after a vicious corporate day. They want to conduct
boring
business and find that having a beautiful woman in the vicinity makes the task far more enjoyable.”

County tilted her water glass in a mock toast. “Smart,” she commended.

“Thank you.”

“Profitable?”

“Very.”

A side door opened in the private dining room and a very handsome young man walked in. He greeted Fernando in his heavy Spanish brogue and then kissed Contessa's hand before asking if they'd like to order drinks.

“Whiskey sour,” County ordered, returning his dazzling smile with one of her own.

“Scotch neat. Thanks Manny,” Fernando said.

“Is he part of your dance troupe?” County asked when they were alone.

“One of my chefs,” Fernando informed while reaching for a menu, “I thought you'd approve.”

“Oh, I do,” she replied softly, perusing her own menu. “So why do you do it?” she asked, after they'd been studying the dining selections for quite a while.

“What?” Fernando asked.

“Run your club this way? It's out in the middle of nowhere,” she reasoned when he fixed her with a curious look. “Clearly your clients are men of power. No one would ask questions. No one would know.”

“I'd know,” he immediately returned. “It's taken me a long time to go legit, County. It's difficult when you go it alone.”

“Your friends didn't approve?” she asked, keeping her eyes focused on the menu.

“I lost a lot of friends when I told them I didn't want that life.”

“Admirable. That you'd cut them all off.”

He grinned. “I didn't cut them all off, but they know and have accepted that they'll have to go straight if they expect to have my assistance.”

County brought her wide brown stare to his face. “And you're sure they've gone straight?”

“As far as I know,” he said, chuckling when she burst into laughter.

 

“This whining of yours has gone way past pissin' me off, Houston,” Marcus growled, rubbing his bloodshot eyes as he paced behind the bar in his office. He groaned, cursing himself when his words set off another pitiful rant from his younger brother. “Houston!” he roared finally, ordering himself to calm when he obtained silence. “This has got to stop Hous. It's wearin' the hell out of me and I'm sick of it. All this damn complaining…you know how many men would kill to be where you are?”

“Hmph. So that's how I got here.”

“Get over it Houston and just count your lucky stars that you're not sittin' up in some jail.”

“Don't you try that crap on me Marc,” Houston snapped, his voice taking on a strength all of a sudden. “You got just as much to lose here as I do. Maybe more.”

“Weak bastard. Don't you dare threaten me,” Marc ordered, not about to let the man know how true his words were. “Hell, you can have and do anything your heart desires.”

“Anything?” Houston pouted. “Anything like see my wife?”

“Please,” Marc spat, slamming a beaded glass to the bar. “Since when? Since when do you care about spending time with your wife? Certainly not while you were out screwing all your daughter's friends.”

“Damn you.”

“Damn
me?
” Marc retorted with a chuckle. “I don't think you want that, my man. After all, I'm your only damn friend. I think even Daphne would turn your ass over to the cops if she knew where you were.”

Houston knew it was true, his hand clenching and unclenching as he stared over the beautiful Hawaiian sky without really seeing it. He thought of all the months he'd been on the run with no word to his family. He wondered if they even missed him with the shame he'd cast their way. “Just get me out of here, Marc,” he begged quietly. “I'm sick every day and—”

“Please with the complaining, dammit,” Marc interrupted, sloshing more bourbon into his glass. “I'll work everything out and I'll be in touch, all right?” he said and slammed down the phone just as Houston began to speak again.

 

The crystal goblet hit with a loud shatter. Josephine watched glass and liquid stream the wall of her reading room. After lounging in bed until mid-morning, she came to lounge down there until late afternoon. It was her daily ritual and it was pathetic. Today, a trip down memory lane was the cause of the glass of vodka being smashed against the wall.

Josephine pushed her hair from her face and looked through eyes blurred by tears at the pages of her wedding album. Even on that day, the bride in those pictures had eyes filled with uncertainty, shame and fear.

Marcus Ramsey had literally swept her off her feet. She was the youngest in a family of five girls. Of course, her older sisters believed they'd be the ones to catch the eye of the gorgeous second son of Quentin and Marcella Ramsey. When Josephine caught his eye, they were stunned and she was giddy with delight over their displeasure.

It was like a dream and Marc spared no expense where she was concerned. He knew that she was innocent to the ways of men. Josephine couldn't help but smile in memory of the gentle and attentive manner he treated her in the early days. Unfortunately, she learned too late that he wanted her innocent—dumb to a man's true motives. She was a trophy, an arm piece to give him a pristine public appearance that would shield his true nature.

He hadn't even the decency to wait until after they were married to show his true colors. Josephine slammed her palm to the photo of the bride and groom, cursing herself for not having sense enough to run as fast as she could. She had a ton of pride, though, and quickly learned the meaning of the bible verse “God hates pride.” Pride made a person do, say and behave in the most heinous fashion. Josephine realized that she simply didn't want her jealous sisters to know that her prince charming was a toad of the most evil sort.

 

“You didn't enjoy your meal?” Fernando asked, setting aside his napkin as he studied the expression on County's face. He tilted his head inquisitively when she finally smiled.

“The meal was great,” she assured him in a soft voice.

“Then what's wrong?”

County clenched her hands atop the intimate round table and regarded him with uneasy eyes. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Fernando was stumped. “Apologize?”

“I gave you such a hard time when you told me there was nothing shady going on here at the club,” she clarified. “I know you were offended and I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said with a wave of one hand.

County shook her head. “I have to. Especially since I know what it's like to have people think the worst of you.”

“You know what that's like?” Fernando asked, a soft chuckle mingling with the words. “I have a hard time believing that, since everyone you meet seems to love you.”

Contessa grinned. “That's part of the problem,” she said, taking a sip of her refreshed drink. “Men love me because they're taken by my demeanor—seductive, boisterous, challenging—
easy,
” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Then they find out that last one isn't so accurate and the seductive element turns to a tease, boisterous and challenging are labeled as bitchy. And we won't go into what the women think.”