Page 8 of Reveal Me
I pluck my Charlotte Tilbury high gloss crimson lipstick from my handbag and touch up my lips, then feel around for the miniature brandy I slipped from the sideboard earlier. A bit of Dutch courage is just what the doctor ordered. I unscrew the cap, knock it back, and shove the empty bottle back into my bag. The burn makes my eyes water, but it offers me the ability to strut across the asphalt with the confidence of a woman who’s meant to be here—because something inside me is convinced of exactly that. Whatever secret society is going on underground—Ineedto be a part of it. I need something to entertain me until I can get back to the buzz of London.
The cold wind whips around me, sending goosebumps scattering over my skin. There are more cars here tonight than I’ve seen before. Hopefully that’ll make it easier to sneak in. At the entrance, the tinted glass doors open automatically. I step inside and into the lift like I’ve watched so many others do. My pulse pounds through my ears, but outwardly, I don’t so much as tremble—a testament to six months in an exclusive Swiss finishing school.
The interior finish is expensive—chrome and black marble with tiny silver veins racing through it. Apparently, Sean Beckett and I have similar taste—impeccable—that is.As I plummet underground into the unknown, the thought is oddly reassuring.
When the lift slows to a stop, I suck in a deep breath. The doors part to display one word painted on the black marble in elaborate silver italic font—Reveal.An interesting and evocatively sensual name for a nightclub. I like it. Excitement skitters over my spine.
The second I step out, two burly, suited bouncers pounce on me.
‘I.D.’ one demands gruffly.
I fumble with my tiny clutch, making a show of opening it and digging around past the cash, lipstick, and miniature brandy bottle like I might actually have some with me. I’m wracking my brain for a plausible excuse when a woman marches out from what looks like an office. ‘Number three?’ she barks, scrutinising me through thick-rimmed glasses. Her voice is as sharp as her haircut, a crimson-coloured bob that matches the frames of her spectacles.
‘I…’ This is my one opportunity.
The only chance I’m going to get.
I have no idea who number three is, but a voice inside my head screams at me to pretend to be her.
Saliva floods my tongue. ‘Yes.’ I nod vigorously. ‘I’m… number three.’
‘You’re late. He’s waiting for you.’ Her beady gaze drinks up the Valentino dress with mild approval. ‘In fact, everyone is waiting for you.’ She might approve of my outfit, but disapproval radiates from her tone. ‘We’ll sort your credentials out later—when you’re not holding up every single one of our one hundred and fifty members.’
My stomach somersaults. This is… weird.
Maybe I should go? Admit I lied—that I’m not number three and make a run for it.
But no.
My body doesn’t get the warning screaming from my brain. I’ve come too far. If I walk out of here tonight, I’ll never get another chance.
I step forward and wet my lips, trying to think of an appropriate excuse for my apparently poor timing, before deciding the less I say, the less chance I have of giving myself away. ‘Sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘You’re damn right it won’t. Mr Beckett doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ She swats a long-painted fingernail at my dress. ‘Take it off. I’ll put it in your changing room for you. There’s no time now.’
‘Off?’ I repeat like a moron. My jaw swings open. It’s about an inch from hitting the gleaming marble floor.
Her eyes narrow. ‘Is that a problem? You did read the contract? The dress code was clearly stated.’
What have I got myself into?
It’s clearly something debauched. Degenerate. Decadent even. And something deep in my core begs me to go with it.
Taking my dress off in public would be the most rebellious, and oddly erotic thing I’ve ever done, or will ever do in my life. The idea thrills me, as much as it shocks me.
‘I’m not wearing a bra,’ I blurt.
The redhead tuts impatiently. ‘Well, that will save you taking it off then, won’t it?’ She makes a rolling motion with her hand, signalling me to hurry up, then turns to the bouncers. ‘Lock the doors. No one in or out until the show is over.’
Show?
What the hell is this place?
One thing’s for sure—I’m about to find out.
I unzip my dress, and it slithers to the floor. My breasts, and the expensive lace nestled between my legs, are on full display to the bouncers and to this Madam, or whatever she is. I battle the urge to cup myself, instead flexing my fists atthe side of my body like this entire depraved scenario is normal. My chin juts out, and I hold my head up high.
‘Well, pick it fucking up then,’ the redhead snaps, motioning to the Valentino. ‘Who do you think you are? Some sort of fucking princess?’
