I return his smile, “Thank you, it’s perfect.”
I inhale the sweet scent and look up at him through my long lashes.
I’m starting to like you.
“You’re very welcome. I’m glad you called me.”
“So am I.”
I hand Patrick the V.I.P ticket and he places his hand on the small of my back as we make our way to the tall, burly bouncer. After scanning a barcode and telling us to keep out passes with us at all times, the mammoth of a man unhooks the velvet rope, allowing us to walk inside, but not before we see all the frowns that were waiting in line.
CHAPTER EIGHT
We walk into a large lavish room that is furnished with U shaped, white couches and low lounge tables with small modern lamps. The lamps on the tables and few chandeliers above us are the only source of muted light, providing a very dim and sensual environment. The walls are deep burgundy, mixed with panels of dark wood. The busy bar is to our right, and the music is already pumping in my ears, in my stomach. It’s igniting me, flowing like hot lava in my blood. We walk further into the lounge, following a hostess who’s wearing, a black tube dress and six-inch heels. She leads us to a staircase, blocked by a burgundy velvet rope.
She unhooks it and says, “Just go down the stairs, there will be another host to show you to your spot.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder and smiles.
We thank her and head down the dark stairway. Hidden LED lights are embedded into the stairs glow softly, illuminating the sturdy stairs. As I descend, the music changes abruptly into a song I know, ‘I Belong To You’ by Lenny Kravitz. With each step that I take, the bell in the song rings.
Damn Mark and his ‘setting the mood’ music.
The floor is almost identical to the one above, except the dance floor is bigger and the couches are wider. Every couch is occupied by groups of people, all dressed in luxury. The dance floor is not as busy as the one above us. Thank God. If there is one thing I hate, it’s the feeling of being suffocated while trying to dance.
After showing our tickets to the new host, he leads us to the couches in the far right end. Just as Mr. Kravitz sings that she’s the ultimate star, we reach our corner. Mr. Miller is sitting with Eliza, drinks in hand. He’s wearing a black suit with a dark grey shirt, no tie and the top two buttons undone, allowing me a glimpse of his smooth skin.
Mr. Miller lifts his head and notices me first, but then his gaze falls on Patrick. Mr. Miller’s eyebrows furrow a moment before he rises, leaning his head closer to mine. “I didn’t know you were going to bring a date.” Mr. Miller whispers.
The air escaping his mouth tickles my ear, sending goose bumps down the rest of my body.
I bring my lips to his ear and say, “It wasn’t planned, sort of last moment thing.”
Mr. Miller smells so intoxicating, pure male, fresh soap and a faint trace of cologne. His heady scent makes me want to spend the rest of the night glued to his neck. I inhale as deeply as I can before I force myself to lean back and face him. Mr. Miller’s striking face is not giving anything away, but in his eyes I see the fury raising, like blue flames in the inferno.
“Hello Eric, and who is this lovely lady?” Patrick speaks up and looks at Eliza.
She’s still sitting on the couch, nursing her Dirty Martini. Clad in scarlet-red mini dress with cutouts at the sides and cleavage so deep, it barely holds her boobs in.
“Eliza Montgomery, an old friend of mine. Eliza, this is Patrick Green, an associate.” Mr. Miller says calmly, but I can feel that he’s anything but that.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Montgomery.” Patrick reaches for her hand, and places a kiss on her knuckles. A forced smile spreads on Eliza’s lips, “Ditto.”
We settle down on the comfy couch and order drinks. Eliza asks for another Dirty Martini, Mr. Miller sticks to his Buchanan’s En Las
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