they
insisted.
Charlotte sighed and took the shot glass. Sasha handed her a
lighter.
Sasha and London clapped while they hopped off their stools and
stood far away. Charlotte noticed that the commotion had not just gotten the
attention of most of the nightclub patrons, but had alerted Kingsley Edge as
well. He stood next to a column and leaned against it with one eyebrow
raised.
Charlotte inhaled deeply, swigged the liquid paraffin, pursed
her lips, flicked the lighter and pushed air out so hard her ears popped. A
fireball blew out several feet in front of her and set everyone in the nightclub
screaming and clapping. She kept blowing even after the fire went out, knowing
she had to exhale anything left in her mouth. Hopping off her bar stool, she
gave a small bow before turning back to her drink. She’d already had five
tonight. One for each nice boyfriend she’d dumped in the last five years.
Two hours later she lay on the floor in the VIP section. She
heard two male voices talking above her. One sounded like Steele’s. The other
sounded almost melodic…deeply male and as intoxicating as all the alcohol she’d
imbibed.
“It’s last call, chief. What should I do with her?”
“I’ll take care of le petit
dragon .”
“You sure about that?”
She was close to passing out but she remembered the laugh. A
warm, low laugh, she felt it more than it heard it. It rolled down her body from
her neck to her ankles.
“Quite sure,” the voice said in an accent her addled mind
recognized as French. “I like a woman with a little fire in her belly.”
* * *
Charlotte woke up in the fetal position. Groaning, she
opened her eyes and saw a pair of knee-high leather riding boots. The boots
belonged to a pair of long legs crossed at the ankles and using her back as a
footstool. Looking up she saw Kingsley Edge lounging on the VIP sofa with a
dainty teacup and saucer in his hands. Sipping at his tea he smiled down at
her.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying this, chérie , but you need a new hobby.”
It took her much longer than it should have to process his
words.
“Hobby?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am. And I know who you are.” He held up her
driver’s license and studied it with his dark eyes. “Charlotte Brand. Steele
tells me your friends call you Char. Shameful. I’ll call you Charlie, if you
don’t mind.”
“I might mind.”
“Twenty-seven years old,” he said, still staring at her
license. “A good age, Charlie.”
“You’re really going to call me Charlie?”
“ Oui. I love women with men’s
names. It satisfies a certain deviant side to me.”
“Is your boot on my back part of your deviant side?” Charlotte
sat up, and Kingsley lifted his feet off her back with a graceful air.
“What can I say? When I see a beautiful woman so drunk she ends
up passed out on the floor, I assume she’s there because she wants to be walked
all over.”
“Nice guilt trip. I heard you were a pimp. Are you a priest,
too?”
“ Non. But I have a priest on speed
dial if you need one,” he said with a wicked grin on his sculpted lips. “Would
you like to come home with me now, Charlie?”
“What are you going to do to me?” His face came into focus for
the first time. She’d heard he was French…or half-French, something like that.
He was rich and had half the judges and cops in town in his back pocket. She’d
also heard he was handsome, but handsome didn’t do justice to the man in front
of her.
“Breakfast and a shower are in order. Perhaps then we can
discuss a certain business opportunity.”
The phrase business opportunity triggered a memory from last night. Steele said that Kingsley Edge wasn’t a pimp
but a talent scout. Talent scout—she had a feeling she knew exactly what this business opportunity might entail.
“The shower and breakfast might work. But I can save you the
trouble— no to any business opportunities.”
“You say that now…but wait until
insisted.
Charlotte sighed and took the shot glass. Sasha handed her a
lighter.
Sasha and London clapped while they hopped off their stools and
stood far away. Charlotte noticed that the commotion had not just gotten the
attention of most of the nightclub patrons, but had alerted Kingsley Edge as
well. He stood next to a column and leaned against it with one eyebrow
raised.
Charlotte inhaled deeply, swigged the liquid paraffin, pursed
her lips, flicked the lighter and pushed air out so hard her ears popped. A
fireball blew out several feet in front of her and set everyone in the nightclub
screaming and clapping. She kept blowing even after the fire went out, knowing
she had to exhale anything left in her mouth. Hopping off her bar stool, she
gave a small bow before turning back to her drink. She’d already had five
tonight. One for each nice boyfriend she’d dumped in the last five years.
Two hours later she lay on the floor in the VIP section. She
heard two male voices talking above her. One sounded like Steele’s. The other
sounded almost melodic…deeply male and as intoxicating as all the alcohol she’d
imbibed.
“It’s last call, chief. What should I do with her?”
“I’ll take care of le petit
dragon .”
“You sure about that?”
She was close to passing out but she remembered the laugh. A
warm, low laugh, she felt it more than it heard it. It rolled down her body from
her neck to her ankles.
“Quite sure,” the voice said in an accent her addled mind
recognized as French. “I like a woman with a little fire in her belly.”
* * *
Charlotte woke up in the fetal position. Groaning, she
opened her eyes and saw a pair of knee-high leather riding boots. The boots
belonged to a pair of long legs crossed at the ankles and using her back as a
footstool. Looking up she saw Kingsley Edge lounging on the VIP sofa with a
dainty teacup and saucer in his hands. Sipping at his tea he smiled down at
her.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying this, chérie , but you need a new hobby.”
It took her much longer than it should have to process his
words.
“Hobby?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am. And I know who you are.” He held up her
driver’s license and studied it with his dark eyes. “Charlotte Brand. Steele
tells me your friends call you Char. Shameful. I’ll call you Charlie, if you
don’t mind.”
“I might mind.”
“Twenty-seven years old,” he said, still staring at her
license. “A good age, Charlie.”
“You’re really going to call me Charlie?”
“ Oui. I love women with men’s
names. It satisfies a certain deviant side to me.”
“Is your boot on my back part of your deviant side?” Charlotte
sat up, and Kingsley lifted his feet off her back with a graceful air.
“What can I say? When I see a beautiful woman so drunk she ends
up passed out on the floor, I assume she’s there because she wants to be walked
all over.”
“Nice guilt trip. I heard you were a pimp. Are you a priest,
too?”
“ Non. But I have a priest on speed
dial if you need one,” he said with a wicked grin on his sculpted lips. “Would
you like to come home with me now, Charlie?”
“What are you going to do to me?” His face came into focus for
the first time. She’d heard he was French…or half-French, something like that.
He was rich and had half the judges and cops in town in his back pocket. She’d
also heard he was handsome, but handsome didn’t do justice to the man in front
of her.
“Breakfast and a shower are in order. Perhaps then we can
discuss a certain business opportunity.”
The phrase business opportunity triggered a memory from last night. Steele said that Kingsley Edge wasn’t a pimp
but a talent scout. Talent scout—she had a feeling she knew exactly what this business opportunity might entail.
“The shower and breakfast might work. But I can save you the
trouble— no to any business opportunities.”
“You say that now…but wait until
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