We rode the elevator down in silence and stepped out into the lobby. Tonight it was busier, with men in suits and women dressed from semi-formal to formal roaming about. I suddenly realized I was miserably underdressed and hunched my shoulders defensively, worried about standing out.
“What’s the matter?” Bahlin asked. He put his hand on the small of my back and directed me with the slightest pressure toward the restaurant. I could feel his fingertips like a brand, and I fought the urge to rub against his hand like a cat. Instead I arched my back away from him.
“Oh, I don’t know.” My voice was caustic. “You’ve encouraged me to come to dinner in the Friday night equivalent of my jammies. Why would that bother me?”
He chuckled, dark and sexy. “I’m in jeans and sneakers. Not to worry.” He winked at me. “I think they’ll let us in.” Bahlin approached the tuxedo-clad maitre d’, and without a word the man picked up a pair of menus, pulled open the heavy doors and escorted us into the quiet hush of the restaurant. He led us straight to a private booth in the back without any verbal exchange, which I found odd given the foot traffic in the lobby. The booth was a high back, deep cognac leather and the table was the same mahogany color as the wood in the lobby. The walls were a gray so dark they seemed to absorb the light offered by the individual chandelier over our table and the candles held in the wall sconces. There were sliding brocade curtains to close off private booths intimately, lending a false air of privacy to the seating arrangement. It was romantic and slightly eerie at the same time. In fact, the vibe the place gave off left me with the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, and it took all my self-control not to rub the back of my neck in an attempt to dispel the feeling. I didn’t like that the entire encounter with Bahlin left me jittery with nerves. Maybe food would help.
“I guess the hotel likes its color schemes universal,” I said, settling into the booth. I tucked my feet on the bench to hide my battered shoes from the high-heeled crowd. The maitre d’ casually laid a napkin across my lap first, Bahlin’s second.
“Don’t you care for it?” He settled in and stretched one arm across the back of his side of the booth.
“Sure. Who wouldn’t?”
The maitre d’ bowed and backed away. “Enjoy your meal, sir.” He closed the curtains behind him as he left. Bahlin inclined his head in a very regal way, seemingly at ease in the environment. I was cowed, and disappointed in myself for it.
“So, let’s get this out of the way. Money,” he said, “is not a problem.”
“Did you not hear me earlier? I don’t do charity.” I ground it out between my clenched teeth.
“Do you have a job?”
“No.”
“Have you had a job before?”
Was he kidding? “You took a waltz through my mind. You tell me,” I snapped.
“Having had a job before,” he continued, as if I’d answered him politely, “you should recognize the characteristics of one. The primary being commitment. You’re considering committing to being the Niteclif for the next ten to twelve years. What makes you think you wouldn’t be paid for it?”
“I have no idea what the hell this job entails, Bahlin. You’ve been vague and ambiguous at every turn, answering my questions with your questions and giving me snapshots of weird shit that’s supposed to make me feel better.” I vibrated with energy. Fear? Anger? Frustration. Yes. “Why would I think it pays? And if it pays, I’m sure I’ll be expected to…”
He arched a brow at me. “Stay here” went unsaid.
“Sure you will. How can you conduct inquiries into cases here in the Isles from across the pond?” He toyed with his knife, spinning it on point on the table. “So let’s set this to rights. The High Council has always taken on the salary requirements of the Niteclif. What would you think to be a reasonable amount per annum?”
I mentally scrambled, then shot off a ridiculous salary six times greater than the job I’d left. Maybe I could get fired before I got started. Fired was better than dead, and it sounded like dead wasn’t out of the question.
“Done.”
Now I was the one gaping. “Plus housing,” I added. Why not? “And a private car so I don’t