the service entrances, where Liam stopped us and came around to open my door for me.
One of the staff was already waiting for me when Liam walked me up to the door. A man around my age, meticulously groomed, tall and built. He wore a plain, black dress shirt and pants, gleaming shoes. He also wore an earpiece; he’d been talking into it when we pulled up. I’d met him before, many times. He’d probably told me his name. I didn’t remember it.
“Good evening, Mr. Clarke.” He greeted me, holding out a small, wooden box. I placed my phone into it and he shut the lid. Then he opened the door for me. Liam waited outside while the man in black escorted me into the house, into a hallway that led from the kitchen at the back to a service stairway.
As soon as I was safely inside, Liam would go park the car and wait for me. He never asked questions and I had no idea if he knew what went on inside this house. I never wondered about things like that. Liam was in his late forties, almost old enough to be my dad, and he had a wife and kids at home. I didn’t want to have to feel anything about making him come to a place like this.
Once the door was closed, I took off my sunglasses and followed the man in black up the stairs.
The house was beautiful by any standard. A custom built French chateau that looked old but was new, it featured panoramic views over the city, the waters of the Strait of Georgia and the islands beyond. Or so I’d been told on my first visit. I never looked out the windows.
Most of the main areas of the house were bright and airy, lots of open corridors, vaulted ceilings, iron railings and polished stonework.
But the back hallway was dark. Dark cherry paneled wood, black carpet. Amber and gold wall sconces lit the way. The hall at the top of the stairs was wider but just as dark, with the same jagged sconces in a line along the wall. Large, old-looking paintings hung between the sconces. Erotic scenes, each with a similar theme: a centaur clutching a swooning, naked woman; a satyr with a huge erection and a nymph by a stream, her breasts bared to him; an anthropomorphic wolf on two legs and a woman in chains, fucking. Scenes from some twisted mythology.
It was impossible to tell who were the gods in those paintings—the women or the beasts.
Maybe that was the appeal.
The rooms were widely spaced out, with broad, ornate doors. All closed. I could hear nothing in the silence but the slight swish of clothing and the brush of our shoes on the deep carpet as we walked. Along the way, I saw no one but the man in front of me. I never did.
Privacy and discretion were taken seriously at Bliss. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.
Three people. Sixty steps.
The man in black opened a door for me, and I walked into the room to find Nicolette waiting. She stood up, and the man behind me closed the door softly, leaving us alone.
“Mr. Clarke.” Nicolette’s mouth quirked in the slightest smile. I was pretty sure she was still waiting for the day when I’d tell her to call me Cary. I never did.
I wondered if she was happy to see me.
I felt nothing. Nothing but a dull sense of relief, maybe, that I’d made it here, and that the next couple of hours of my life were now spent.
Only thirty-five more to go.
She wore a short, cream-colored dress, tight to her curves, with a bit of cleavage. Sexy, but not over the top. Same way she always dressed when she met with me. But something was wrong.
Different.
Her shoulder length hair was a pale, ashy blonde. It was usually jet-black.
I didn’t like it.
It looked fine, but I didn’t like the change when I had no control over it.
The club was supposed to know this.
I’d never asked for a woman with jet-black hair, or with any specific physical attributes. It was the type of woman I wanted, needed, that I’d specified and Bliss had provided. I really didn’t give a fuck if she was blonde or brunette or if her hair was green, as long as she looked good. And the new blonde hair looked good.
But I did not like the change without being asked.
“Is everything okay?” she said, her smile vanishing.