I lean against the marble surround, knowing the gesture will irritate her. “It’s funny. I’ve paid more than the cost of a second home to be a full member of this club. I don’t remember anyone telling me when I was forking over my monthly nut that I’d need to stay downstairs.”
“Don’t be an ass. You’re the one who trained Rachel. You let her fall in love with her Master. I told you not to let a house bottom get emotionally attached.”
“Sante’s her Master now,” I say and am amazed at how evenly it comes out. “I should be nothing more than a memory.”
“Well, you’re not. Get your head out of your ass and have a little consideration.”
That grates. Rachel had damn little consideration when she was forcing me to compete with Sante for her. “Still not my mother, Maude. Keep your nose out.”
“If you’d stop leaving your shit around to stink up the place, I wouldn’t need to stick my nose in. Now do fuck off, dear. Your date is waiting. Don’t screw up with her. She looks sweet.”
I think so, too, but I’m not giving Maude the satisfaction of agreeing with her about anything at the moment. “Good-night, battle-axe.”
“Good-night, reprobate.”
I tap my fingers on the top of the surround to let her know I heard the fondness in her tone, even though she’s busting my nuts.
I catch up with Emily on the other side of the security door. She’s waiting by herself in the large central corridor of the club, looking small against the huge central staircase and neo-classical sculptures. She smiles when she sees me come through the security door. I beckon her and when she comes to me, put my arm around her and tuck her to my side.
“Did the others go down into the nightclub already and leave you all alone, baby doll?”
She nods. “I told Manny it was okay, sir.”
“Did you? Didn’t you want to poke your head in and see what’s going on?” I tip my chin at the stairs down into the nightclub. Even through the heavy door, I can hear a pounding beat.
She shakes her head. “Nightclubs aren’t really my thing, sir.”
That works for me, since they’re not mine, either. In fact, the only times I’ve been to Blunt’s nightclub are when I’ve brought guests like Rick.
“How about a dinner and a scene? More your thing?”
“Yes, sir.” Her grin finally reappears. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see it again tonight.
“Good. Let’s go enjoy ourselves, baby doll.” I lead her away from the noise, down the hallway toward the club’s restaurant.
* * *
Even if it wasn’t part of my club, I’d eat at the Trattoria at Blunts. Our chef, Kells, makes her own mozzarella and if I had to take one food to a desert island, it would be her osso bucco. As always, the outer restaurant is crowded, but they never let it get so packed that there’s a long wait for the food. I reserved a table in the conservatory, which is for members only: a huge glass enclosure that juts off the club’s main building into the walled yard, so we can watch the sunset. The maître d’, Jenna, shows us to our table and tells Emily the specials. Jenna takes our drinks order, then smiles at me and says, “I’ve already had the chef start your osso bucco, Master Logan.”
“Thank you, Jenna.”
Emily picks up her menu. I watch her flip back and forth through it, and wonder if sushi would have been a better choice after all.
“Nothing catching your eye, baby doll?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, it’s not that.” She flips a page again and looks up at me. “Sir, would you mind if I check something on my phone? I don’t want to be rude.”
“Go ahead. Good girl for asking.”
With a shy smile, she pulls her phone out of her backpack, swipes and taps. I sip the mineral water Jenna’s brought while Emily’s been menu-surfing and watch her unobtrusively. When I see 548 calories pop up on her screen, I realize what she’s doing.
Having seen all of her—twice now—I know there’s no way she needs to be counting calories. Quite the opposite. But I don’t say anything. I’ve dated enough women to know that things you do not mention on a first date include her hairstyle or her possible eating disorder. I have to play this extremely cool.
“Sorry,” she says, tucking the phone away and closing her menu. “I just wasn’t sure what some of these contained.”
“Do you have any food allergies?”
There weren’t any listed on her medical records.
Her smile returns. “I’m not allergic to peanuts.”
“Lucky for me.” I grin at the reminder. “Anything you are allergic to?”
“Raw honey. It’s the pollen or something. It’s not bad, though. I just get a rash. I can eat honey in cooked things. I also try to limit dairy.”
And calories, but again I don’t say anything. Maybe there’ll come a time when I can address this with her, but it’s not now. “What have you decided on?”
“The tortellini in brodo. I love veal.”
“Me, too. Sure you don’t want to try the osso bucco? It’s desert island food.”
“That good?” she asks, but she doesn’t open her menu to look at it. Or take out her phone to check the calorie content.
“That good. I have it every time I come here. Have a few bites of mine. I don’t mind sharing.”
“Really?” She lifts an eyebrow. “A man who shares his food.”
“It’s the only thing I share.” At least when it comes to her. “So don’t get any ideas.”
She giggles. “Would you order for me—“ She looks around to make sure no one’s listening. I’ve already assessed the situation and, although I don’t particularly care if we’re overhead, I’m comfortable no one is earwigging. “Daddy?”
Fuck, yes. “Would you like an appetizer, sweetheart?”
“Yes, please. The fennel insalate. I fell in love with fennel while I was Italy. I swear, it
