seemingly tried to protect my innocent fiancée back at the St. Regis last night.
I gave a casual shrug. “The pendant was a gift. She had no idea.”
“Damien, I know what I saw.”
“What was that?”
“A Vanguard clavis.”
“Now’s not the time.”
He moved closer. “She knows you’re a member.”
“When did you talk with her?”
“Half an hour ago. You invited her here. You had a car bring her over from her parents’ place.”
“Where is she?” I asked.
“The kitchen. She wanted to know more about Vanguard.”
“What did you tell her?”
“To discuss it with you.”
“What’s she doing in the kitchen?”
“She knows the chef. This isn’t her first time here.”
Cringing, I recalled all those times we’d sat together here during our family functions over the last few months, while I mostly ignored her. Having treated her that way felt abhorrent to me now.
My annoyance softened. “If and when I decide she’s ready for Vanguard, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”
“Not all the fun’s at Vanguard.”
“True.”
And I had been thinking of exploring more of her erotic side. I’d told her that this morning.
“Tell me what you need,” he said, seeming to read my mind.
No wonder he had women lining up to be his subs. A slew of wannabees never to be sated by the bad boy of Vanguard. He was just too selective.
I walked backwards offering him a grin of mischief to rile him up.
“Seriously?” he asked, grinning back at me, his interest piqued.
Damn it, I was stressed out and Pandora was desperate to begin her erotic awakening. If not now, when? My life had derailed. I needed to play dirty like I needed oxygen.
“Think you can deliver?”
He gave me a quick nod of conviction. “The Ritz-Carlton. 7:00 P.M. Black-tie. Private suite.”
My brows arched in interest. “Text me the room number.”
With that confirmed, I walked away.
And reality returned to punch me in the gut.
Helen King was offering my father more than money for his campaign. She was probably promising him access to influence, too. That wily bitch wanted to build a shopping mall or high-end apartments on the site that was mine. She had set her sights on a billion-dollar profit.
God, this town was ruthless.
Turning this around seemed impossible—but I had to do it.
It was an interesting state to be in—I was filled with wrath for Helen King and lust for tonight’s willing victim.
I headed off to find the lovely Pandora.
Placing the thinly sliced Swiss chocolate rolls around the edge of the mousse, I showed the Godman’s chef, Thomas Davenport, how this dessert was finished off—a mouthwatering chocolate torte I’d learned to create back when I’d attended those intense cooking classes at school for ladies who intended to entertain.
The Godmans’ master chef had sat on a barstool at the kitchen counter watching me with his chin resting on his hands. He could see I was whipping up something super special for him.
Thomas’ dreadlocks were the mark of his proud heritage, the gray at his temples adding wisdom to his joyful eyes. This wasn’t the first time I’d snuck down here during a visit to see him. I was always guaranteed to be welcomed with kindness—and enjoy a good laugh because he was as funny as hell.
Having once worked at the White House for the President, Thomas had a bunch of riveting stories to share. He’d grown up in New Orleans and taught himself to cook before talking his way into a job at The Ponchartrain Hotel, an historic gem in the Garden District.
Being with him was a welcome break from all of the stuffiness upstairs—an escape from the staffers coming and going and the tension that went along with the daily running of a senator’s office.
Damien strolled in with a serious expression on his handsome face.
An hour ago, Theo had told me Damien was on his way in from downtown and was hoping to get a meeting with his dad. I wondered how it had gone.
Memories flooded in again of what we’d done together in his dungeon last night, and I had to tear my gaze away from his.
“Hey.” I pointed proudly. “Look what I made.”
Thomas straightened up from the countertop. “Ms. Bardot’s teaching me some mean tricks with Swiss chocolate, Mr. Godman.”
“You can call him Damien,” I said.
“Sure can,” Damien said as he reached for the dessert knife. “You do realize that Mr. Davenport is a Michelin chef?”
“Of course I know.”
Damien threw him an apologetic smile. “I’m sure Thomas can top this any day.”