Chapter 1 

FRANCIE

“You can’t wear jeans to a sex club,” Charlie says to me, like he’s the bastion of all knowledge when it comes to all things carnal.

“It’s not a sex club.” I roll my eyes. My twenty-six-year-old cousin – who happens to be younger than me by all of ten months – is scrolling through his phone the way he always does. He’s almost certainly either checking stock prices or his dating app. “It’s an exclusive, luxury adult intimacy venue,” I remind him, parroting the description they put on their members only website.

Technically, Charlie isn’t my cousin. He’s my nephew. Well, half-nephew. The son of Myles, my eldest brother. But ‘cousin’ is so much easier when talking about our relationship.

We’re sitting at a table outside the coffee shop below my apartment building. It’s a tad too cold to be sitting out here, but the sun has come out and it’s like all of Manhattan has decided this might be our only chance at summer. Like snakes shedding our skins, we’ve removed our thick parkas and replaced them with thin jackets.

And of course, I’m shivering. Thank goodness for coffee.

Charlie looks up from his phone, smirking, and I roll my eyes, because this whole situation is his fault. 

“Okay,” he drawls. “You can’t wear jeans to an exclusive, luxury, adult intimacy venue.”

“I’m not wearing jeans to the club,” I say, exasperated. I love my cousin to bits, but I wish I’d never confided in him. “But really, it doesn’t matter, does it? I’m not going there to do anything.”

“Voyeurism is doing something,” he says.

“I’m not a voyeur. It’s research.” He’s enjoying this situation way too much. From the moment I confided in him about the meeting with my potentially brand-new book editor, panicking because I have to take my writing from zero to sixty in about five seconds, he hasn’t stopped grinning.

“You should have just gone out and gotten laid,” he says. “It would have been so much easier. And you could have worn jeans.”

“Shut up.” This is the problem with growing up so close to somebody. They know you far too well. “And women can’t have sex in jeans. It’s a physical impossibility,” I point out.

He finally puts his phone down. A girl at the next table is batting her eyelashes at him, despite the fact that I’m sitting right here. He grins at her, and it makes her blush. 

“Hello?” I say to him. “Am I interrupting you?” He has this amazing ability to get along with everybody. Man, woman, child, animal. They’re all drawn to him. 

“Nope.” He brings his gaze back to me. “Where were we? Oh yeah, you were going to tell me what you’re wearing to the sex club.”

“Exclusive, luxury adult intimacy venue. And I’m wearing a dress.”

“Please tell me it doesn’t have flowers on it.” He wrinkles his nose like there’s some kind of etiquette list I have no idea about.

“It doesn’t. It’s white and it’s tight and I won’t stand out like a sore thumb.” It’s one of my only “going out” dresses. Truth is, I’m a bit of a hermit. I’m more often at home interacting with characters I’ve made up in my head than with real life people. 

“Virginal. Nice touch.”

“You’re not helping.” I shake my head, even though a smile pulls at my lips because Charlie has the same effect on me that he does with everybody else. It’s impossible to be annoyed with him for long. But the truth is, I’m terrified about going to this place. It’s so far out of my comfort zone it’s not funny.

But if I get this contract, I’ll have to write the most spice I’ve ever written in a book. Until now I’ve been self-published, and though it’s had challenges – trying to write, work with editors, cover designers, and bloggers has always been a juggling act – the only person I’ve had to please with my first draft has been myself.

But Alice Duchamps, the CEO and Publisher in Chief of Twisted Publishing is a tour-de-force in the industry. She’s swept in like a summer storm, turning the whole traditional book publishing model upside down.

She knows exactly what she wants in a book. It has to be supremely marketable, with all the characters, tropes, and hooks that modern readers love. And she’s not afraid to work with authors from the very beginning, pushing them to write their best work, and in return she markets them so hard they hit the top of every chart available.

This opportunity is huge. It’s also very scary, because if this book – which I haven’t written a word of yet – works, it’s going to catapult me into the limelight. Which isn’t the most appealing thing to an introverted, pen named author like me.

But still, I’m concentrating on the story, which we workshopped together over the past few weeks. It’s a romantasy – since that’s what I’ve been known for in the self-publishing book world – but it has more of everything. More tropes, more buttery scenes.

And way more sex. Including this one spicy group scene that has me shaking in my boots. Alice Duchamps knows this too. She’s been completely upfront regarding the steam level she wants, and has suggested I send her a first draft of the first five chapters before we sign any contracts. We both have to be comfortable that I can deliver the kind of book she needs.

Which is why, when Charlie offered to hook me up with his friend who’s the concierge at an intimate venue, I agreed for the sake of research.

Charlie’s phone starts to vibrate – reminding him that he hasn’t checked it for at least five seconds – and he lifts it up, wrinkling his nose. “My car is here,” he says, looking up. Sure enough, a black town car is pulling up to the sidewalk next to where we’re sitting. “I gotta go.” He looks at the carry-on bag beside our table. “Listen,” he says, leaning in. “It’s going to be okay. Simone is great. She’ll take care of you.” 

His mouth twitches. And that’s when I realize that Simone must be an ex of his. I lost count of them after he turned twenty-one. The man flies through women like nobody else, and they all stay friends with him.

“She seemed nice when I talked to her,” I tell him.

“She’s the best.” He stands, running his hands through his dark, thick hair. “Message me. Let me know how it goes.” He leans down, kissing my cheek. “Love you, cuz”

“Love you too. Safe travels.” He’s off to L.A. for meetings. He works for his dad and uncle – my much older brothers – in finance. 

Grabbing the handle of his aluminum ribbed carry-on, he wheels it over to the driver, who takes it and loads it into the trunk. While he closes up, Charlie smiles at the woman sitting across from me again. 

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. I’m so going to put an overly flirtatious side-kick cousin into my next book. With a very, very dark ending. Charlie deserves it. Then he climbs into the car and lets the driver close the door, much to the woman’s disappointment.

I want to tell her she’s dodging a bullet. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t agree. So instead I finish my coffee and throw my cup into the trash, waving at Niall, the coffee shop owner who’s also a friend of mine. Then I walk through the door next to the shop, that leads into a foyer, and up the steps to the apartment that I live in alone, ever since my best friend and roommate got married.

Once situated at the tiny, beaten up kitchen table in my even tinier apartment, I sit down at my open laptop and sigh. I have two thousand words of the first chapter to write today if I want to meet the deadline Alice gave me for the first submission before they offer me a contract. But all I can focus on is the white, strappy dress that’s hanging up on the door, ready for me to put on tonight and make what could be the worst mistake of my life.

My only consolation is that the club guarantees anonymity. I’ll walk in, see what I need to see – hopefully without needing therapy – and be done.

It’s no different to the time I went to the Bronx Zoo to study the Komodos for six hours straight so I could describe the way a dragon moved, even though the one I wrote had wings and averaged about forty feet in height. 

Or the time I went to a Renaissance Faire to learn about chainmail and how it feels to run in it, because the heroine in that book was kick ass and would slay the world once she realized her power.

It’ll be fine. Nobody but Charlie and I will ever know about this particular piece of research. 

Thank goodness. 

* * *

I have a habit of being chronically early for any appointment I’ve made. Probably because my childhood was so chaotic. Coming from such a huge family, I never had any control over where I went or what I did. My dad was mostly absent – he was seventy when I was born, and though he’s in his nineties now he still travels south for the winter – and my mom was his constant companion even though she’s over thirty years younger than him. 

My brothers – I have six of them – took turns taking care of me during school vacations and holidays. They had kids of their own and they spent a lot of time at our dad’s estate in Virginia where they all have cabins of their own around a lake. I wasn’t neglected. I had a great childhood, all things considered. 

But for all intents and purposes, I was an only child with seven fathers. And sometimes it still feels that way.

My Uber pulls up outside a restaurant a block down from the club. It’s twenty minutes before my agreed arrival time, and there was no way I was typing that place into an app. The less of a trail I leave the better. But I have plenty of time to walk the rest of the way.

I add a tip to the ride, thank the driver, and climb out, grimacing because either I’ve put on a bit of weight, or this dress has gotten tighter since I last wore it.

The Ivory Rooms – the exclusive luxury adult intimacy venue Charlie arranged for me to visit – is based in a non-descript three story brownstone at the corner of the block. A simple sign, black serif script on white, is above the door. Nothing to say what it is, or who’s allowed to enter. Like Simone promised when we chatted, nobody would ever know you’re walking into an erotic club. It’s classy and discreet and it makes me breathe a little easier.

Night has already fallen over Manhattan as I press the buzzer on the door. The sky is an inky dark blue, and the streetlights are illuminating the sidewalk. 

“Hello?” A low, smoky voice echoes from the speaker.

“Hi. It’s Sylph.” I was given the code name when Simone registered me. It’s their way of giving anonymity. Every member goes through a full check – financial and security. But after that, no names are used. 

“Sylph, welcome. Come on in. Turn left and I’ll be waiting for you.” The smokiness disappears, replaced by a friendly tone. 

Sure enough, the door buzzes open and I step through, feeling the rush of a breeze as it clicks closed behind me almost immediately. I turn left as directed, into an open hallway that smells of gentle florals, like they’re piping perfume in. The floors are marble, and the walls are painted a soft ivory and the room is well lit. Nothing like I expected at all. 

There are no audible sex sounds, no people parading around in the flesh bending each other over in the corridors. It could be the entrance to any upmarket club where rich people come to meet.

At the far end is a woman dressed in black pants and a white sleeveless blouse. Her hair and makeup are exquisite. She smiles at me as I approach.

“Sylph. I’m Simone. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.” She holds out her hand and I shake it, warming to her immediately. 

“Thank you for everything,” I tell her. 

“No worries. It’s a pleasure to be able to help a friend of Charlie’s. How is he?”

Okay, so she’s not keeping complete anonymity. Not that I really mind, I’m not here for anything anonymous, after all.

“The same old Charlie. He’s in L.A. at the moment.”

A dreamy expression comes over her face. “I went to L.A. with him once. Best weekend ever.” She turns to the desk next to her, picking up a thick bracelet that has a tiny computerized screen on it. “This is your pass. You’ll need to wear it at all times. Anybody found inside the club without one is removed by security.”

I slide it onto my wrist, trying not to smile at how much this feels like going to a conference or exhibition. Maybe it’s going to be okay after all.

“There’s no photography, obviously,” she reminds me. “No saying your real name. And if you have any trouble at all, come find me, I’ll be here all night.”

I take a deep breath. “Where should I start?” I ask. She knows I’m only there to observe, not partake.

“Through that door is the main hall. It’s where people go to relax, hang out. There’s some beautiful women in there, serving drinks. Sometimes doing more.” Her lip quirks. “But it’s gentle and a good place to begin.”

Charlie has obviously warned her that I’m a novice at this. At all things, pretty much. “That sounds good.”

“And then, maybe after a couple of drinks, I’d suggest you go to room five. It’s a voyeur room. Watching is very much encouraged in rooms five through seven. You won’t stand out, and there’s always some interesting things going on in those rooms.”

Her eyes twinkle and I try not to blush. Because we both know what interesting means.

“Definitely avoid rooms one to four,” she tells me. “Unless you’re feeling brave. They’re group participation only. No voyeurism”

I nod. “No rooms one to four. Got it.” 

“And rooms eight to twenty are for private encounters. There’s a light on each door. Red means occupied, green means empty. They’re accessible with your bracelet. Each participant will need to swipe if they are using the bed.”

“I won’t be using them,” I say firmly. I’m here to research, that’s it. I’d probably spontaneously combust if I did anything other than that.

“Okay.” She smiles widely. “Any questions?”

“None right now. But thanks for answering the ones I had when we spoke last week. It was really useful.”

“Again, anything for a friend of Charlie’s.” She looks at the door and presses a button. “You’re in. Have fun.”

“Thanks.” Though I’m not sure that fun describes it accurately. Fear mixed with the need to run is how I’m feeling right now. If I get through tonight without barfing, I’ll be happy.

I take a deep breath and tell myself to woman up. I’ll wander around for a couple of hours, take in the sights, smells, and feels that I’ll need to write the scenes I’ve agreed to with my editor, and by midnight I should be home in my fleecy pajamas with a cup of hot cocoa.

Two hours, a few mental notes, and zero interaction.

What could possibly go wrong?

2

ASHER

Looking at the banks of monitors in front of me, I let out a sigh. The security room of the sex club on the corner of Stratton Street is the last place I want to spend my Friday night. And yet here I am, sitting in front of a dozen screens, my laptop linked to the club’s security system, trying really hard not to look at the dozen different real-life porn scenes playing out in their full, unexpurgated glory.

“Wow.” The owner, a suave suited, bald, sixty-something, leans over me, looking at the interface from my laptop to their security system. “That’s a lot of letters and numbers.”

The multi-million – soon to be billion – dollar cyber security company we formed straight out of college works mostly with government contracts, not with a damn erotic clubs in the middle of Manhattan, but here I am, thanks to my ex-business partner who tried to throw me down the river.

This was one of his many dodgy fucking deals. I let him run wild last year, mostly because I was neck deep in creating this new security model. But while Nathan might not be my business partner anymore – or at least he won’t once he accepts the very generous amount of money I’m offering him and signs on the line – I’m not backing out. He agreed to update their security system to make it state of the art, and that’s what I’ve done.

And as soon as we run the final checks, my job here will be done. I can’t fucking wait.

“It will really alert me before anything happens?” the owner asks me. I start taking him through how the newly designed system works. 

A woman slowly spreads her legs on one of the screens in front of me and I immediately look away. 

“The software is designed to track interactions,” I tell him. “It won’t record them, but if it sees behavior out of the norm, an alert goes off.” Along with a small team, I’ve worked for years on this software, which has never included Nathan. He was always the smooth talker, businessman, while I worked on the products.

I trusted him. And now I know better. But the events of the past year still leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Bringing my attention back to the man next to me, I give him a short nod.

User and Entity Behavior Analytics is a cybersecurity solution that combines analytics and machine learning to analyze behavior and identify potential threats within systems in real time. We’ve taken it a step further and made it applicable to human movements. 

A place like this is where it could work perfectly. Alert the security team to potential bad actors before they even do anything wrong. It can allow this control room to put the right people in the right place before they’re needed.

Most of all, it can protect those who are the most vulnerable. 

I look down at the laptop in front of me. The continuous script that I uploaded is running and analyzing. One name keeps coming up.

“Room five.” I nod at the screen. “There’s a guy there worth keeping an eye on. Code name Panther.”

This place only uses code names within their servers. If an investigation was needed, they could track back and find real names, but if you work in this control room or on the floor, you don’t have that level of access.

Despite my wishing I wasn’t here, I’m pretty impressed by the set up. From a purely professional point of view, of course. If I ever wanted to go to a club to have sex – which I don’t in case you were wondering – this place would probably be it. It’s exclusive, anonymous, and full of beautiful people. Like the ones coming up on the screen.

There’s a huge bed at the center of the fifth room, which is lit by red lights, giving it an edgy vibe. And on the bed, there’s a group of naked people. Three guys, one woman. None of them are Panther though.

According to the analytics, he’s in the room. “Zoom in by the door,” I tell them.

They do, and there he is, his eyes narrow, focused. But not on the bed. He’s staring at a woman across the room, like he’s trying to decide if he wants to make his move. She’s standing by the wall, though all I can see is the back of her head. She’s wearing a tight dress, accentuating every curve. Her legs are long, her arms bare, and her hair is dark, the lighting making it look almost red, as it hangs in a glossy curtain down her back.

“Do you have another camera in there?” I ask, leaning forward.

“On it,” the man monitoring the cameras says. 

“Should I call security?” the owner asks me. “I don’t want to spook anybody.”

“Just ask them to wait outside the door,” I say. 

He murmurs into his radio as the camera operator changes the view, giving me a full, face-on view of the woman Panther is so fixated on.

She’s beautiful. High cheekbones, wide eyes, and lips that are slightly parted as she watches the sex going on in the bed in front of her. Her chest rises as she inhales and exhales rapidly. Like she can’t take her eyes off the scene playing out.

But her eyes aren’t what makes my mouth drop open. Nor is the way she looks so stupidly innocent and attractive in that dress. It’s the fact that I recognize her.

I know exactly who she fucking is.

Francie Salinger. My baby sister’s best friend. What the hell is she doing here?
 

* * *

FRANCIE

I’m debating whether I can leave the room without anybody noticing. What’s the etiquette? Do I say thank you as I leave? Do I say nothing? Nobody prepares you for how to be polite in a club like this.

It’s actually been hugely educational. In a sexy kind of way. When I first found out I had to write a group scene before Alice gave me the contract, I’d tried watching porn – another one of Charlie’s helpful suggestions. But there’d been nothing sensual about any of the videos I watched. It was all wham, bam, thank you for pretending to orgasm, ma’am.

But this room is different. There are four people on the bed, one woman and three men. And they’re worshipping her. It’s actually breathtaking, the way they’re so intent on her pleasure. All of them are beautiful. From the moment they walked in – the woman wearing a gorgeous gold silk dress, the men wearing suits and ties that made them look like they’d just come in from a day commanding their businesses – a feeling of sensuality took over the room. 

It was in the way they touched her, kissed her, slowly undressed her while making sure she was the center of their attention. For men who looked so powerful, they were determined to serve her.

I’ve seen enough now. I know I can describe a scene like this without feeling like I’m writing an instruction manual – fit part A into part B, twist part C…

But just as I turn to leave my eyes clash with a man standing in the corner, his face partially shadowed, the rest of it glowing red from the overhead lights. He looks almost devilish, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at me. It’s unnerving.

Okay. I’m going to go. Without saying thank you. Maybe I’ll just mouth it. My mom brought me up to be polite, after all. But before I can reach for the switch that unlocks the room from the inside, the door flies open, making everybody in the room stop what they’re doing.

Including the poor foursome on the bed.

Whoever it is, they don’t quietly step in and close the door softly behind them, like I know is the etiquette for this room. Instead light floods in from the hallway, ruining the whole ambiance of the room. 

It reminds me of the time my oldest brother stormed into my bedroom when I was making out with a pillow to practice my kissing.

He’d assumed I had a boy in there. The memory of him frowning in confusion, then turning around and walking out without saying a word still makes my cheeks pink up.

“Can you close the door please?” one of the men on the bed says, his voice unexpectedly high pitched. “We’re busy here.”

My mouth twitches. I wonder if I can put this in a book. 

But instead of closing the door, the rude intruder walks the rest of the way inside. And that’s when my heart stops beating. 

Because he’s striding toward me, his lips pressed together, his expression full of fury as he reaches for my arm.

It’s Asher Fitzgerald. Fuck my life. What are the chances of this?

“Francie?” my best friend’s much-older brother says, his voice ominously low. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

His fingers wrap around my wrist. Not hard, but firm. They’re warm, almost possessive. It’s the kind of touch that shoots heat up my arm and settles low in my belly, even as my brain screams danger.

I blink at him, my heart hammering. Because this isn’t the friendly Asher I remember from childhood summers. He looks like someone else entirely. Taller, broader, sharper. His face is hard and beautiful, his jaw flexing as he stares at me like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

Neither can I.

His fingers burn into my skin, strong and tight as I try to get control of my mind, because currently I can’t think. I can’t speak. I can’t do anything, I’m frozen in place.

“I…” My mouth opens and closes like a fish. “We aren’t supposed to use real names.”

The tension in his hand tightens just a fraction. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, his voice low.

“Neither should you.”

His brows rise. His eyes are ice. But I see the flicker the second he realizes I’m not backing down. And maybe, just maybe, I’m not the little girl he remembers anymore.

“Can you take this outside?” the high-pitched naked man asks from the bed. “This really is doing nothing for my libido.”

Asher shakes his head, like he’s as dumbfounded as I am about this whole situation, which is only a small consolation, because pure, unadulterated embarrassment is starting to rush through me.

Oh. My. God. Why does this kind of thing always happen to me? I’m going to kill Charlie, I really am.

“Seriously, I was so close,” the woman says, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry.” I shoot what I hope looks like an apologetic look at her. Not that I can bring my eyes to the bed right now. “I was just leaving.” I pull my wrist from Asher’s grasp. “Feel free to continue. Hope you have fun.” I pause for a second and then it comes. “Thank you!”

Mortification causes me to practically run out of the room into what is thankfully, an empty hallway. A second later I hear the door click shut, and the sound of footsteps behind me.

“I’m leaving,” I huff at him. “I told you that.”

“And I’m making sure you’re safe.” Asher’s voice is low. He still sounds pissed. “Francie, will you just slow the hell down?”

I turn around and my gaze clashes with his stupidly piercing blue eyes. In the cold light of the hallway, I see he’s wearing a suit, just like the men who walked into room five. Is that his kink? Does he like men as well as women? My face flushes, because right now I’m imagining his broad, muscled, six-two frame completely naked, pleasing the woman on the bed along with the other men.

My thighs squeeze together.

“We’re not supposed to use real names in here,” I hiss at him, because I don’t like the way my whole body heated up at his closeness. I’ve known this man for half of my life. Autumn – his sister – and I have been best friends since we both ended up fully clothed in a lake at summer camp as kids, thanks to an initiation prank. 

Every summer we’d gone back to the same camp, growing up together. She would invite me to stay with her family in their huge house on Liberty Island, right off the east coast, and I’d invite her to my dad’s equally huge house in Virginia.

And yes, Asher was sometimes around, just like Autumn’s other brothers – she has four of them – and her younger sister, Eden. But her brothers were older than us. Grown men.

Sure, I had a little crush on each of them in turn. Especially Asher, because like me, he was always reading books. He normally wears contacts, but I remember tiptoeing into the library one night in search of something to read, only to see him at the desk, leaning over a book, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

I was eighteen then. He was twenty-eight. He was my first grown-up crush. But he was too old, had a girlfriend, and I knew he never noticed me. Which was fine, because I think Autumn would spontaneously combust if I ever dated one of her brothers. She thinks they’re all assholes.

“What on earth possessed you to come here?” Asher growls, his jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be in a place like this. It’s not for you.”

My jaw drops open. Seriously, he thinks he has the right to say that to me? “I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions,” I point out. “And maybe you should tell me what you’re doing here?” Because I’m not big on double standards. “Did I just ruin your fun?”

He blinks, like he’s taking my words in.

“Were you about to join in?” I ask him. “Because you can go back in if you want. I’m sure Princessa would love an extra man on the bed.”

He looks appalled. “Princessa?”

“The woman with the three men. That’s her code name.” I reach for his security bracelet, determined to find out what his is. But there’s no name on there. “Why’s your pass different than mine?”

“It doesn’t matter. You need to leave. Now.” He reaches for my arm, but I step away. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I protest. “I already have six brothers. I don’t need another one.”

His mouth twists at that. 

“Do they know you’re here?” he asks, and a shiver rushes down my spine. If they ever found out I’d have to flee to a convent. And black isn’t my color.

“Does your girlfriend know you’re here?” I counter.

“We’re not talking about me,” he huffs. “I’m a grown man.” He pauses. “And I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“And I’m a grown woman.” I lift a brow, trying to ignore the rush I feel from knowing he’s single. The last I heard he was practically living with somebody. “If I want to go to a sex club, I can. If I want to have sex, I can do that too.”

His lips part. “Francie…”

“Sylph,” I correct. “No real names, remember?”

His jaw ticks. “What the hell are you wearing?”

My cheeks heat. The white dress had felt daring earlier, a little dangerous. Now, under his burning stare, it feels... wicked. His gaze drops to my legs, then flicks back up, a second too slow. Just enough to make my pulse skip.

“You need to leave,” he tells me. “Now. I’ll call my driver, he’ll take you straight home.”

“No thanks.” I shake my head. “I’ll get an Uber.”

His face hardens, like I’ve just told him I’ll catch the subway naked. “No you won’t.” His voice is low. Commanding. I bet he’s a load of fun in this club.

“My driver will be here in five minutes,” he says. “Black town car.” 

The door to room five opens, and amid the loud sounds of moans and grunts – I guess they managed to get back to things quickly – somebody walks out. It’s only when Asher manages to look even more pissed that I realize it’s the man who was standing in the corner with his eye on me. 

“Actually,” Asher murmurs. “I’ll walk you out.” Without any advance notice, he slides his arm around my waist, his touch so soft it sends a shiver down my spine. “Darling.”

It’s my turn to frown. Darling? Seriously. And yes, the way he presses his palm against my stomach as he pulls me close is making me tingle in all the right kind of ways, but still.

The man who came out of the room stops in front of us. “You’re a very beautiful woman,” he murmurs. There’s an accent to his voice that I can’t quite place. He looks at Asher. “Do you share?”

Asher shoots him the dirtiest of looks. “No, I don’t. Fuck off.”

“I’d pay good money.”

“You couldn’t afford her.”

Oh my God, they’re talking about me like I’m some kind of deal to be made. Like I’m for sale.

“Excuse me,” I tell the man. Panther, his security card says. “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on Earth. That’s not how you get a woman. Not by offering to pay for her. I expect at least a nice dinner and a foot rub before I put out.”

Asher coughs, like he’s trying not to laugh. So I turn around and fix him with a dark stare. 

“I’m leaving,” I tell him.

I turn on my heel, but I don’t get far. Because his hand catches my wrist again. Gentler this time, but no less firm.

“Francie,” he says, his voice low, rough.

I look over my shoulder. Panther has gone, thank goodness. There’s only Asher behind me, his gaze dark, focused. I can’t read his expression at all.

“Dinner and a foot rub,” he murmurs. “Good choice.”

My breath catches, and then he lets go. “Stay safe.” This time his voice is demanding. And I hate the way it makes my skin flush.

So I walk away, my heart racing, absolutely certain of one thing.

I’ll never look at him the same way again.

​

3​

ASHER

“Did somebody piss in your cornflakes this morning?” West asks. “You’ve had a face like a baboon’s ass ever since you walked in.”

I knew I shouldn’t have come here, despite Hudson and West’s insistence. My brother and his best friend are both in Manhattan for the night – for their respective businesses. I’d turned down dinner with them because I had to complete the contract at the Ivory Rooms. And to be honest, I didn’t want to come to this club to drink with them either.

But the alternative – going home – doesn’t feel appetizing anymore. 

After making sure Francie got into my car, despite her vow to Uber, I waited until the driver confirmed she was safely inside her apartment before I strode back into the club and demanded that Panther be removed and banned from the place.

Thankfully, the owner agreed.

And then I made a couple of phone calls to our security team, before I left the Ivory Rooms and climbed into the car that came back to pick me up.

“I’m fine,” I say to West, taking another sip of whiskey. “It’s just been a long day.”

“Did you get it done?” he asks. He’s aware of my business problems with Nathan. He’s the one person I was able to talk things through with when it looked like I was about to lose everything. I know Hudson would have helped, but he has his own problems to deal with. His daughter, Ayda, has had a whole lot of issues after a massive custody battle with his in laws. The last thing he needs are my problems too.

“All done.” And that’s all I want to say about it. There’s no way I’m telling them that I saw Francie Salinger in a sex room.

And I definitely won’t be telling them that she looked like trouble in heels. A walking contradiction with her innocent eyes, filthy setting, and her smart mouth that made my blood pressure spike. 

God, I need to stop thinking about the way she looked.

The hostess walks over and fills our glasses with the expensive bottle of twenty-five year-old Macallan that West must have bought.

“Thank you,” he says, winking at her. She smiles back at him and he leans forward to whisper something in her ear, making her giggle.

Unlike Hudson, who’s so straight laced it isn’t funny, West is laid back. He lives in L.A., and although officially he’s an entertainment lawyer, he’s more of a trouble shooter. And his clients get in a lot of trouble.

He’s also got the gift of sweet talking. He’s never without company. And from the looks of the way the hostess is nodding at him, he won’t be tonight, either.

“Asher,” West says when the hostess leaves with a promise to meet him later, “you’ll be delighted to know that Mindy has a friend. We’re meeting at my penthouse in a few hours.” He grins at me and I wrinkle my nose.

“That’s okay,” I say. “I need to go home and do some work.”

“After midnight?” West looks skeptical. “What the hell are you going to do that late?”

Review the security tapes for the Ivory Rooms from the last few months to see if Francie is a regular. “It’s been a long day,” I tell him. “I’ll be sleeping. Alone.”

And I absolutely won’t be thinking about long lashes and innocent eyes.

“Well you’re about as much fun as your brother,” he says, wrinkling his nose at Hudson.

“Keep me out of this.” Hudson shakes his head. “I’ve had enough headaches today, thank you. Did you know Eden lost her passport in Peru?” He glances at me, clearly pissed. “I had to pull some strings to get one urgently provided at the consulate.”

I roll my eyes, because that’s so like our youngest sister. “Yeah, I heard.”

West frowns. “Wait, is she okay? 

Hudson gives him a sharp look. “Yeah, she’s fine. Why?”

West shrugs, too casually. “Just making conversation.” But he takes a slow sip of his whiskey, like he’s hiding a smile.

“Anyway,” West says. “I’ve bigger fish to fry. Like how to deal with an extra woman coming to my hotel room.” He lifts his brow at me.

But my gaze meets Hudson’s. We both try not to smile because that doesn’t exactly sound like a problem for West. 

And that makes me think of Francie again. Of the way she looked in that tight white dress, her dark hair cascading down her back, her hazel eyes large and full of desire.

When the hell did she grow up? My mouth feels dry as I try to remind myself that she’s ten years younger than I am. But all I can think about is the way she looked at me through those thick, long lashes.

How soft her skin felt against my palms.

I blink that thought away. She’s off-limits. And I don’t need any more problems right now.

Especially not ones involving my little sister’s best friend.

* * *

FRANCIE

Hysterical laughter echoes down the phone as I recant the sorry tale of my night at the Ivory Club to Charlie two days later. It’s midnight here, which means it’s only nine o’clock in L.A., and my cousin is getting ready to go out to a bar, that requires clothing.

I, on the other hand, am right out of the shower and ready to get into my pajamas because I’ve spent the last two days in a writing whirlwind, despite my complete embarrassment at my confrontation with Asher Fitzgerald.

I’m stupidly annoyed with him. But I have to submit these chapters to Alice soon so I need to buckle down and write them. So rather than letting my fury fester, I decided to throw myself into the new world I’m creating.

The anti-hero, the annoyingly sexy War Legate Thane Arcor, is all iron muscle and battlefield calm. One quiet ‘Enough’ and entire battalion obeys him. He blocks onslaughts with his shields, drags the heroine behind him to protect her, despite her annoyance, and then growls at her for being reckless.

He’s controlling, overprotective, and maddeningly hot. He’d be perfect if every time I write a scene with him I didn’t see Asher Fitzgerald growling at me to ‘stay safe’. 

“Why didn’t you just tell him you were there for research?” Charlie asks me, sounding delighted at the turn of events. I’m glad I’m entertaining him with the most humiliating night of my life.

“Because he doesn’t know I’m a writer,” I remind him. When I first started self-publishing I made the decision that I didn’t want anybody except my closest friends to know. That’s why I chose a pen name and swore to never tell my big brothers about it.

“So you’re just going to let him think you’re a deviant?” Charlie asks. “Oh this is so delicious. No, sweetheart,” he says. “Ten minutes.”

“Are you with somebody?” I ask him.

“Just a friend. It’s all good.” He lowers his voice. “Are you going to tell Autumn about this?” he asks.

“No.” I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. The towel becomes loose and I have to tuck the end back in. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because then she’ll know her brother goes to sex clubs.”

“I think you’ll find it’s an exclusive, luxury adult intimacy venue,” Charlie says, before he guffaws again. 

And I wrinkle my nose because I’d never thought that somebody like Asher Fitzgerald would frequent a place like that. I’m really trying not to think about what he does there.

And yes, I’m completely failing.

“Listen, I have to go. Try not to do anything stupid until I’m back to witness it,” Charlie says. “It’ll be okay. It sounds like you both have something to lose if this gets out. If he tells anybody he’s seen you there, he’ll have to explain why he was there, too.”

It’s a good point. And another reason why I love my cousin. 

He hangs up and I slump back on my bed, not feeling any better about the other night. All I can think about is the humiliation I’ll feel the next time I see Asher. And I will have to see him. Autumn is my best friend after all.

Before I can think about what the hell I’ll say to him, I hear a thud against the door. I tip my head to the side, trying to figure out what it was, since it’s after midnight and the only neighbors on this floor are Mr. and Mrs. Penny, a lovely old couple who are both slightly deaf and go to bed at nine o’clock sharp.

After a minute of being on high alert, I start to relax. I’m going to brush my teeth and go to sleep, because tomorrow I have more words to write. It’s only as I quietly pad across the hall that I hear the tinny voice. Like somebody talking through a radio. 

My heart starts to hammer against my chest. 

In bare feet, I tiptoe as quietly as possible, praying the floorboard in the hall doesn’t squeak. Because if I’m about to be bludgeoned by a serial killer, I’d like to at least draw my time out on earth for as long as possible.

It’s only a short walk through the tiny living room, slash kitchen, slash dining room to the front door. This is Manhattan, after all, and the rent per square foot is stupidly high. When I get to the door, I roll onto the balls of my feet and press my right eye against the peep hole, only to see an eye on the other side trying to stare in.

“Shit!” I shout loudly, almost falling over in my attempt to back away from danger. My heart starts to pound as I steady myself, putting my hand against my chest to try to control my breathing. A knife, I need a knife. I look around, trying to remember if I’ve emptied the tiny dishwasher.

I’m going to die with my face in dirty dishes. Nobody will find my body for weeks. It’ll be all over social media, what a loser I am, even in death.

“Miss Salinger?” a voice calls softly. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

He knows my name. Is this targeted? Maybe he’s not here to kill me but kidnap me. He’ll send a note to one of my brothers demanding a huge ransom, and I’ll never hear the end of it.

“Who are you?” I call out. 

“My name’s Shaun. I’m a security guard.”

“How do I know that? You could be anybody.” 

“I’m putting my ID up against the door. You can look through the peep hole and see it.”

“And let you shoot me through the door? Oh no.”

“If I shot you through the door it’d make a huge mess,” he points out, annoyingly reasonable. “It’d be much simpler to make a fake ID and have you open the door so I could use a silencer.”

“You’re not making me feel any better about this, Shaun.” 

“I understand. And you’re not supposed to know I’m here. I’ve only worked for this company for a few weeks,” he says. 

“So why are you here?” If it isn’t to kill me, that is.

“I’ve been asked to guard your apartment after an incident the other night. I’ve been mostly outside keeping watch on the building. But my boss asked me to make a check inside tonight.”

“How long have you been here?” I ask him, frowning.

“The last couple of nights. After the incident on Friday.”

The incident on Friday? I frown, because there was only one thing happening on Friday. “Did the club send you?” I ask him.

“What club?”

A little tingle snakes down my spine. “What company did you say you work for?”

He clears his throat. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Then I’m calling the police.” I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. I’ve always thought I’d be calm in a situation like this, but my mind has turned to mush. Still, I pull out my phone and lift it to unlock with facial recognition.

“Don’t do that. I’ll lose my job. It’s Fitzgerald Security, okay?”

I pause for longer than a beat.

“As in Asher Fitzgerald’s company?” I finally ask, my voice tight.

“That’s correct. Please don’t tell him you caught me. My instructions were to be discreet. I really need this job. My wife’s having a baby next month.”

Letting out a sigh, I stride to the door and wrench it open. 

On the other side, a man in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie is standing there. He’s in his early thirties, I think, and he’s looking at me with puppy dog eyes.

“Miss Salinger.” He nods at me.

“Shaun.” I sigh.

He looks at my body and then I remember what I’m wearing. It’s hard to look tough in unicorn pajamas.

“Listen,” I tell him. “I don’t need protection. I’m fine. You can go home, or go get a coffee somewhere.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t disobey orders.”

I take a deep breath. “Thank you for making sure I’m safe, but everything is fine. I’d like to go to sleep now.”

He nods. “I’ll be outside for the rest of the night. I won’t disturb you again.”

I blink, a sudden thought coming into my head. “What if I left the apartment?” I ask him. “What are your orders then?”

“I’m to keep you under surveillance at all times. Until I’m told otherwise.”

“So do you have a car?” I ask him.

He frowns. “Yes.”

“Great. You can give me a ride.” I grab a denim jacket from the hook on the wall, and slide my feet into my sneakers.

“You’re going out in your pajamas?”

“Yep.” I nod. Because I don’t have time to think this through. 

I storm down the hallway, Shaun following close behind, and when we get outside I give him the address and insist he drives me there in his car. 

And less than ten minutes later, I’m in Asher Fitzgerald’s very opulent, shiny condo lobby, still in my unicorn pajamas. And ready to tell him exactly where he can stick his protection.

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