Page 16 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“Obviously he’s staying. He just got here. Right?” goads Naomi.

With a subtle nod, Khalohn agrees, “I can stay for a drink or two.”

Being a man of his word, Khalohn nurses two orders of scotch for the next hour and fifteen minutes. The majority of his time is spent in conversation with Naomi. As they sit at the bar, they discuss her travels, the two of them reminiscing about their shared habit of allowing their jobs to prohibit them from honestly experiencing the foreign places they frequent. All the while, in spite of his earlier comment, Porter loses interest in their chosen topic of conversation when he finds a woman he deems worthy of his attention.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving so soon,” Naomi demands as Khalohn closes his tab.

“I’ve got someplace to be,” he states simply, standing to his feet. “It was good to see you—but I have monopolized your attention for long enough.”

Rolling her eyes, Naomi replies, “Porter came to play, and it looks like he’s found a willing opponent. You’re not monopolizing anything I haven’t offered freely.” She reaches for his wrist, her touch as delicate as her plea when she murmurs, “Stay.”

Khalohn pauses for a moment—not because he has any intention of staying; not even because he feels regretful he’s not the slightest bit enticed by her beauty. While he’s confident one night with Naomi would bring them both pleasure, he is equally as certain there would be no value in their exchange. To sully their cordial relationship would be unnecessary. In an effort to maintain their easy rapport for future encounters, he takes a second to calculate the appropriate response to her request.

“You and I both know you’ve had eyes on you all night. The seat I vacate will be occupied before I reach the door. Goodnight, Naomi.”

He turns, slipping out of her hold with ease as he makes his way toward the exit. When he emerges into the warm, humid air of night, he stands on the curb and waits for Atzel. Upon his driver’s arrival, he doesn’t bother waiting for the man to get out in order to open his door and fold himself into the backseat.

“Lower Manhattan,” he instructs, adjusting the watch on his wrist.

In truth, while Naomi could never persuade him into her bed, the feel of her hand still lingers on his skin. It stirs within him the desire to touch and to be touched. Khalohn stares out the window, his thoughts racing back to the last time he’d heard a woman moan for him. A frown pulls at his brow when he realizes he can hardly remember anything other than contracts, lawyers, and meetings consuming his time over the last few weeks. This awareness, coupled with the memory of his last visit to Clandestine’s, fills him with an impatience and a hunger he’s not willing to deny.

The fifteen minutes it takes to reach their destination does not pass quickly. Upon their arrival, Khalohn pauses long enough to allow Atzel to exit the vehicle in order to perform his due diligence and open the back door. Taking advantage of the quiet, empty space of his Maybach, Khalohn draws in a deep breath in an effort to will his mind into a state of calm submission.

“I won’t be all night,” he tells Atzel as he steps out onto the curb.

“Understood, sir.”

Smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket, Khalohn relaxes before he journeys into the building. He doesn’t pay any mind to his surroundings as he walks through the store into the back. When he enters the grand foyer of the underground establishment, he offers Stefano no more than a nod of acknowledgement before collecting his key.

As he finally enters his room and sets the key down on the side table by the door, he immediately searches for the woman. Unlike his last encounter, he finds her seated in the wing-backed chair in the sitting area to the right of him. She sits up straighter when their gazes meet, and he knows right away he’s never had her before. He can sense the uncertainty of her breath as his eyes travel down to her chest. Her breasts, held in the sheer black lace of her bralette, heave with her short, shallow breaths.

Without a word, he eases his way out of his jacket and hangs it on the rack beside him. She doesn’t look away from him as his eyes drink her in while he loosens his shirt cuffs and rolls them up his forearms. The promise of what awaits him ignites his arousal, and his pants become uncomfortable as he tugs at his tie. Enlivened by the sensation, he slowly begins to make his way toward her.

“You may call me Godrik.”

Effortlessly, Nathan spinsthe cocktail shaker around his palm. Catching it when it’s right-side up, he discards the cap and pours the sweet, apple martini into the glass in dramatic fashion. He slips a thin slice of apple on the rim and pushes it toward the woman on the other side of the bar, all the while entirely engrossed in his own thoughts.

The woman thanks him, but her words are lost in the same airwaves as the music which resounds throughout the room, Nathan’s attention focused on the man three stools down. The bar hand doesn’t know his name, but he doesn’t need it—he knows the man’s drink. Old fashioned, made with the finest bourbon they’ve got. It’s the only thing he’s ordered in the two months Nathan has been keeping tabs on him. Yet, in an establishment such as this, his taste in bourbon isn’t what catches the bartender’s attention. The exclusivity of this particular underground sex club, on the banks of Hell’s Kitchen, all but guarantees the crowd is made up of only the elite, which means he pours top shelf liquor all night.

It’s not attraction which causes him to study Old Fashioned discreetly. While Nathan can appreciate the cut of the man’s suit and the cool way his eyes seek out his prey each visit, the bar hand surmises he and Old Fashioned have more in common than the stranger knows. Above all else, it’s his awareness the stranger doesn’t quite belong which causes him to study his subject.

Fortunately for Old Fashioned, Nathan knows a place more likely to suit the man’s tastes. If he was the jealous type, he would keep his mouth shut, knowing the information he has will never be beneficial for himself, in light of his significantly inadequate pocketbook. But he isn’t—and he reminds himself of the commission which will come his way with the referral. Even more, as a man not without compassion, Nathan decides it would be better for his karma to put Old Fashioned out of his misery. If their roles were reversed, he’d be indebted to his subject for offering him another way to find what he so desperately craves.

Noting Old Fashioned’s drink is nearly gone, Nathan goes about fixing him another. When he’s finished, he grabs a cocktail napkin and a pen. After scribbling down the address and the necessary code word, he grabs the old fashioned and walks the short distance to the stranger’s place at the bar.

Aware of Nathan’s presence, his cool, blue gaze turns away from the dance floor. His eyes fall toward the drink Nathan pushes his way, the glass gliding across the bar atop the cocktail napkin. Shaking his head slightly, he lifts a hand and insists, “No, thank you.”

Not deterred, Nathan props his elbow against the bar and leans toward the man, inching the drink closer. He then brazenly admits, “I know your game. I’ve seen the calculated way you pick your women. I know you like them as sober as they come, and you’re not one for small talk.” Lifting the glass from the napkin, he drops his eyes, implying the stranger should do the same. When he does, Nathan goes on to say, “I know a place. Lower Manhattan. It’s private. It’s immaculate. It’s easily ten times more than you’ll pay here, but there is no hunt; no foreplay—only business transactions that get you to your end game, if you’re willing to pay the price.”

Old Fashioned’s pure blue eyes stare at Nathan, his mind obviously at work as he processes what he’s just heard. He looks down at the napkin once more and then asks, “Beatrice?”

“Clandestine’s Madam.”

Old Fashioned quirks an eyebrow at Nathan, causing a smirk to tug at the corner of the bartender’s mouth.

“Like I said, no hunt. No foreplay. No games.”

The stranger shakes his head, the expression on his face one of suspicion. “I don’t—”

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