birth, height, and weight. My gaze met Patrick’s. “I think the weight is a bit off.”
His head shook. “Mrs. Kelly, this piece of paper won’t stand up in court. You need the real card. Reid has that now. It all arrived this afternoon, including a Social Security card and passport.”
“A passport? I guess I can now travel anywhere in the world.”
“Only with me.”
“You’re bossy.”
Patrick cupped my cheek and brushed his strong lips against mine. “He also has the paperwork for me to claim paternity.”
“What do you have to do?”
“I would like her to agree. If she does, it’s a matter of filing an affidavit of paternity. We have the tests to prove it. Once that’s done, we can change her name to Kelly.”
My smile returned. “I’ve always wanted that.”
He tipped his chin toward the door. “Go get them, Mrs. Kelly.”
“I will.” Outside our car, Sterling and Mason were waiting. “Will you stay close?”
“Soldered together, Maddie girl.”
A smile came to my lips as I peered down at my hand.
Yes,
I could do this.
“Madeline Miller,” I heard Sterling say to the man at the entrance.
“Yes, we’ve been expecting you,” the doorman said, opening the gate and gesturing us inside.
Another thing I’d learned while researching this tournament was that Boston Club had strict rules about secrecy. It was even joked that Fight Club’s rules were first established here. To that end, there were no pictures of the interior of Boston Club online.
Walking beside Patrick, we entered.
The entry was one large room filled with men and women all dressed to perfection. Above us shone a Louis XV chandelier.
“There is a bar in the back,” the doorman said. “And the tournament will be held upstairs.”
I smiled at the men and women as we moved deeper into the room. The atmosphere was very similar to Club Regal and other venues that favored the old-school charm of dark paneling, old fashioned lighting, and blood red carpets. My steps stalled as a painting upon the wall caught my attention. Gilded in heavy gold frames and spotlighted, the painting was an erotic piece. The woman appeared to be positioned for pleasure. By the look upon her face, she was in the throes of an orgasmic state.
As we walked, the paintings continued, each with women in a variety of poses.
Patrick’s eyes met mine, widening as he grinned.
“Yes, I noticed them,” I wanted to say.
Holy shit.
The farther we moved into the building, the more risqué the paintings became. The artist or collector was a fan of a BDSM theme.
“I guess they take the gentlemen’s club title seriously,” Mason said as we all climbed the red-carpeted winding staircase.
“Welcome to Boston Club,” a woman greeted at the top of the stairs. “I’m Elizabeth, and my ladies are here to make your visit memorable.”
Sterling’s neck straightened as did Mason’s.
“We’re here for the poker tournament,” Sterling replied.
“Of course. We’re here if you change your mind.” She gestured down a hallway. “The tournament is in the room on the right. Good luck, sir.”
Sterling turned back to us. “Actually, my sister is the poker player.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “Then good luck to you, miss. This is highly unusual at our establishment. And I’m rooting for you.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth.”
“I hope to see you all tomorrow and Saturday.”
I nodded. “It is our plan.”
With each step along the hallway, I gripped tighter and tighter to Patrick’s hand. My trepidation wasn’t over the other thirteen players I would encounter. It was the older man with blue eyes and the belief that he’d purchased me who I wasn’t anxious to see again.
“Madeline Miller,” Sterling said to the man guarding the door. “Plus three.”
With a nod, the gentleman wearing a similar uniform to the man downstairs opened one side of the double doors. My breathing caught as I took in the room. There were three tables, each with five seats, set up in the center of the room. Around the walls were chairs for spectators. All fifteen of the seats were empty and would be until our names were drawn.
Patrick squeezed my hand and tilted his head toward Marion.
With a cowboy hat in place, his cowboy boots, and bolo tie, Marion looked the part of Texas oilman.
“Madeline,” a deep voice called.
Turning, I saw Julius Dunn, the poker tournament circuit’s resident playboy. He’d been in the Chicago tournament. “Julius,” I replied.
He came to a stop before Patrick and me as he eyed Patrick up and down. “Don’t I remember you from Club Regal?”
Patrick offered his hand. “Patrick Kelly, Madeline’s husband, and yes.”
Julius’s eyes widened. “Husband.” His