Much like the roguishly handsome, rebel artist himself.
“The Gramercy Park project you told me about tonight. The bid for the boutique hotel and gallery your firm recently landed? Jared Rush is the client?”
Daniel slants me an amused glance. “Don’t sound so shocked. He doesn’t seem that bad, actually.”
I know I look skeptical. It’s impossible to live in New York City for any length of time without having at least heard of the arrogant artist and his work.
Or about his rumored carnality.
It is that reputation I can’t seem to ignore now, no matter how hard I try.
All the words I’ve ever heard used to describe Jared Rush fly at me in the dark of the vehicle as Daniel drives us deeper into the posh area of the city near Central Park.
Depraved.
Debauched.
Deviant.
Dangerous.
In the seat beside me, Daniel continues talking, oblivious to my growing unease. “You know, I’d heard Rush was a real asshole beneath a facade of good ol’ boy charm, but landing his account has been one of the smoothest deals we’ve negotiated at the firm. He practically handed the project to me when I met with him in person for the first time last month. Apparently, he’s investing some of his sizable fortune into entertainment ventures these past couple of years. Dance clubs, hotels, that sort of thing. Sounds like he knows what he’s doing, too. He just opened a new club in the Meatpacking District a few weeks ago and it’s been turning big profits from day one.”
“Muse.”
Daniel grunts. “What’s that?”
“The new club is called Muse. I went there with Eve and Paige one night while you were in Las Vegas.”
“Did you?” He seems taken aback by the news. His dark brows furrow slightly. “This is the first you’ve mentioned that.”
I offer him a smile, but it feels tight on my face as I toss his words back at him. “I guess it never came up.”
And as we turn onto East 63rd Street and continue toward the 19th century, five-floor brick-and-brownstone mansion at the address on the invitation, my sense of foreboding deepens.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m approaching the edge of a deep abyss. We haven’t even stepped foot inside the door and I’m already desperate to leave.
Because something tells me if I’m foolish enough to enter this place tonight, I may not find my way out.
3
MELANIE
“Didn’t I tell you we’d have a good time?”
Daniel’s voice is a low, confident whisper beside my ear as he and the other players take a short break after the second round has ended.
And he’s right. I am having a good time.
If I had imagined myself walking into a cavernous, multi-million dollar BDSM dungeon filled with half-naked women and coarse, leering men hunkered over a poker table in a gloomy, smoke-filled room, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
After being welcomed into a warmly lit, opulent foyer by a polite doorman in a black tuxedo while a similarly dressed valet took the Jag and whisked it away from the curb, Daniel and I were brought into an elegant second-floor salon. Inside nine other men and a handful of their beautiful companions—male and female—had gathered for cocktails and fancy hors d’oeuvres before the start of the game.
I’d nearly choked when the urbane, silver-haired man in charge of the private gathering presented Daniel with twenty-five thousand dollars in chips, instructing him that he may settle the credit whenever he wished to leave the game.
Twenty-five grand.
Even now the idea makes my stomach clench. It’s more than I make in a year working part-time at my office job in between classes and waiting tables at my neighborhood diner.
The staggering sum hadn’t seemed to faze Daniel in the least. “It’s all right. Only a drop in the bucket compared to the commission I’ll pocket from Rush’s project. Besides, I’m going to win at the table tonight, I can feel it.”
And so he is winning.
Running the table, in fact.
In the hour and a half since we arrived, he’s more than doubled his original stake. I have to admit I’m impressed. Daniel plays like a seasoned professional. Bold moves and clever bluffs. Steep bids that have me holding my breath in my seat behind him.
After the brief pause between rounds, we head back to the table with the others. I’m relaxed even without the cocktails everyone else is drinking, and as I exhale some of my earlier apprehension, I take a moment to soak in the sumptuousness of our surroundings.
Strains of classical music drift quietly through the mansion. High above our heads a massive chandelier sparkles like diamonds. The air is rich with the mingled fragrances of the oiled and polished mahogany millwork and the large arrangement of freshly cut flowers that graces the center of a gleaming Louis XVI table complementing the rest of the luxurious furnishings in the spacious salon.
Everywhere I look I see refined, Old World style and class.
What I haven’t seen so far tonight is the host of this exclusive evening.
I’ve only seen a photo or two of Jared Rush on society websites and gossip pages. Still, I find myself scanning the small group of men, searching for the features I recall with surprising clarity now. Shoulder-length waves of thick, sandy-brown hair. Broad shoulders on a tall, muscular frame. Suntanned skin, sharp brown eyes, and a cocky smirk that always seems a little too amused, a little too insolent, despite his handsome looks.
But he’s not in the room.
I’m not even certain he’s in the building.
I don’t know why I should feel so relieved.
The riffle of shuffling cards draws my attention back to the table as the first new hand is dealt. I settle in and watch the game pick up where it left off during the break. The men who’d been chatting over drinks and small bites a few minutes ago are silent now, faces schooled into unreadable masks as the cards fly
