Chapter 3
three
ANTHONY
From what I’ve seen thus far, it’s no wonder The Garden is the hottest ticket in town. It’s not just the top-secret, salacious, borderline-unattainable nature of membership that has the Who’s Who of New York dying to step through those big ebony doors.
The club is simply…perfect.
It somehow manages to be both grand and cozy at the same time. From the jaw-dropping period luxury of the bar to a library fit for a lord’s manor in the Scottish Highlands, I see how it could become a place you would never want to leave.
And I haven’t even been downstairs yet…
Twyla insisted on giving me the full tour herself later this evening, as soon as she finishes an intake appointment with a potential client.
The clientele is as impressive as the club itself. Wall Street movers and shakers mingle with elites from the theater and fashion world, international businessmen and businesswomen, and a handful of socialites. There’s a fair amount of diversity, but all of Twyla’s members have one thing in common—they’re offensively wealthy.
Maybe it isn’t offensive to most people, but for a man raised in Red Hook, Brooklyn, who never knew if there would be money for fruit or a school field trip on a given week, the amount of wealth most of these people have is obscene. The amount of wealth I have is obscene, but I do my best to spread my good fortune around.
I’ve worked incredibly hard for everything I have, but I’m not na?ve enough to think that hard work is the only reason I achieved success.
I also got very lucky.
I won the genetic lottery in the brains department, had a loving family who stepped in to care for me when my drug addict mother left me on my grandmother’s doorstep, and joined the banking world in between financial crises. I had time to solidify my position when so many other young geniuses were scapegoated when the housing market tanked a few years later.
I’m very aware of my privilege, a thing that sets me apart from many of the people sipping hundred-dollar-per-shot whiskey in oversized tumblers or ordering appetizers off a menu where a fifty-dollar Ceasar salad is the most affordable option.
Still, I’m not a fish out of water.
I’ve been a millionaire for a long time and a billionaire for three mind-boggling years, my net worth ballooning as the longest bull market in recent memory lifted the tech stocks in my portfolio to new heights.
As strange as it seems to the struggling kid still alive inside me, I belong here.
But this girl…
This young woman, with the glossy brown hair partially tied back in a black velvet bow, plush, bow-tie lips, and big blue eyes that dart around the club like she’s looking for snipers hidden in the bookcases…
I have no idea what she’s doing here. Her lightly scuffed shoes and worn vintage dress make it clear she doesn’t have the financial means to be swimming in these waters, but it’s her expression that makes me ache to get her out of here. She looks like a five-year-old on her first day of kindergarten—intimidated, terrified, and certain the older kids are going to eat her for lunch.
I’m making a mental note to ask Twyla to make sure someone looks out for this kid while she’s here, when her wide-eyed gaze shifts my way.
Our eyes lock for a brief, electric moment—a moment during which the woman’s perfect mouth parts and heat flashes in her eyes. Instantly, she’s transformed from a fish out of water to a siren, luring men to their deaths on the sharp rocks at the edge of the sea.
She bites her lip, arches her full brow the slightest bit, and I’m suddenly certain that she’s thinking of all the ways she’d like to devour me.
All the ways she’d like to be devoured…
And then, the moment’s over.
She turns to follow one of the hostesses through the secret door to Twyla’s inner sanctum, and I’m left staring at the wooden panel through which she disappeared, thinking more unexpected thoughts.
I hadn’t planned to engage in anything salacious tonight. In my head, I thought maybe I’d end up watching. Or more likely, spending the evening with Twyla in the library, catching up.
But I’m here and already way outside my comfort zone…
Maybe it would be okay to approach the girl with the ocean eyes, to ask her why she’s at The Garden tonight, and see if I can’t be the man to fulfill every one of her carnal fantasies.
I turn my attention back to the book I pulled off the shelves, but Great Expectations has lost its appeal.
The only expectations I’m concerned with are the ones the woman in black velvet is detailing to Twyla right now.
What I would give to be a fly on the wall of my old friend’s office right now…
I finish my scotch, keeping one eye on the panel, but when it opens again, it isn’t my girl on the other side, it’s Twyla. She spots me and crooks a finger my way, playfully beckoning me to follow her.
I rise with a smile and cross the room.
“Beautiful, as always,” I murmur as we cheek kiss, a custom from Twyla’s native France that’s stuck with her long after her accent faded away.
“Thank you,” she says, pulling back with a wink. “And you look like you’ve been through the wringer. Come, tell Auntie T all your troubles.”
She turns and I follow her up the stairs. Her Italian leather pumps click lightly on the marble, their supple brown perfectly completing an outfit my ex-wife would have killed for.
Erica had a fashion addiction equaled only by her addiction to cheating with people I unknowingly passed on the street every day. After the debacle with the doorman, I hired a private investigator to see what else my wife had been up to while I was working too hard. Turns out she was also involved with the UPS man, one of her trainers at the gym, and the kid who cut deli meat at the upscale grocery store down the street.
When I told Twyla as much, she insisted I have my “meat” tested for diseases, refusing to tolerate the idea of me giving Erica everything she wanted in the divorce if my soon-to-be ex had saddled me with some exotic STD.
Luckily, my “meat” got the all-clear, and I emerged from my marriage without any lasting physical damage.
Emotionally, I’m not sure I can say the same.
I’ve told myself I’ve just been too busy at the office to get involved with anyone since my divorce, but deep down, I know fear is part of it, too. I’m afraid to open my heart, afraid of being deceived and betrayed all over again.
But I’m suddenly not afraid of running my hands over a woman’s velvet-covered curves in a dark corner…
As we step into Twyla’s office, I glance around, disappointed to find that we’re alone.
Where has Velvet gone and how can I ask without sounding like a creepy old man? The woman had to be at least fifteen years my junior, maybe more, but that look she shot my way makes me think she wasn’t bothered by our age difference.
“Another scotch?” Twyla asks as she crosses to the wet bar.
“No, thank you,” I say, taking a closer look at the décor now that it’s clear we’re alone. The office is what I’d expect from my old friend—elegant but provocative, with leather-bound books lining one wall and erotic art adorning another. The view of the East Village through the window behind her large desk reveals that the snow is still falling outside, swiftly covering the trail I left on my way here.
New York is a city that excels at keeping secrets in all seasons, but especially in winter. In the early darkness amid softly drifted snow, New York seems to whisper that it’s okay to loosen your hold on your self-control, to ease into the shadows and indulge the longings you’ve kept hidden through the glaring summer and wholesome fall.
“Just for me then,” Twyla says, settling behind her desk with a glass of amber liquid sloshing around one giant round piece of ice. “The great and prudish Anthony Pissarro finally graces my naughty establishment with his presence.” She swirls her drink with a grin. “Should I mark the occasion by naming a playroom after you? Perhaps commission a plaque for the men’s room?”
“Very funny.” I sink into the chair across from hers, the leather butter-soft against my back. “This is actually the least unexpected thing I’ve done in the past two hours.” I pull in a breath as I loosen my tie, my pulse picking up again as I speak the words aloud for the first time, “I quit my job.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“I quit, effective immediately,” I repeat. “To be specific, I walked out in the middle of a board meeting and told my assistant to pack up my office because I wouldn’t be back.”
“Holy shit.” Twyla leans forward, drink abandoned as her perfectly manicured nails drum against her desk. “You finally lost it. I knew you would, sooner or later. You’re too tightly wound for things to end any other way.”
I exhale a tight laugh. “I’m not tightly wound, and I didn’t lose it.”
She arches a challenging brow.
I drag a hand through my hair. “I mean, I don’t think I did. The what-the-fuck-did-I-do is setting in now, but at the time…I was calm. It suddenly became clear to me that I was done with it. All of it. With private equity and board meetings and maximizing profits at all costs.” I sigh. “The game doesn’t feel worth playing anymore. That part of my life is over.” As I say the words, a certainty deep in my bones assures me they’re true. “Now, it’s time to figure out what comes next.”
Twyla nods, her gaze sharpening with interest. “Hell, yes, my friend. This is how we level up! This is how we evolve and become the people we’re meant to be. Tell me everything.”
So, I do. I tell her about the hollowness that’s been growing inside me, a numbness that crept in so slowly I didn’t realize how pervasive it had become until I looked into the mirror in my private bathroom this afternoon and was shocked by the flat, empty look in my own eyes. I tell her how the moment sent me down a rabbit hole, struggling to remember the last time I felt truly excited about anything aside from my morning run, deepening the suspicion that this was more than my usual winter blues.
“I tried to power through the meeting, but I couldn’t,” I finish. “I had to go. Right then. At the time, it felt like there was no other choice. But now…” I huff out a tight laugh. “I should have stayed, given at least six weeks’ notice,” I admit. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have everything I ever wanted—a challenging job, the money to take care of my people, power, safety, the ability to change the world for the better, but I’m still…”
“Bored out of your brilliant mind,” Twyla finishes for me. She rises gracefully and moves back to the bar cart beside the bookshelves. “You need that second scotch. Don’t fight me, just tell me if you want it on the rocks or straight up.”
“Rocks, please.” I watch as she pours a generous measure of the peat-and-woodsmoke scented liquid into the glass. “I kept thinking it was just the holidays. It’s two years to the day since I walked in on Erica with the doorman.”
“Don’t blame this on Erica.” Twyla hands me a crystal tumbler and perches on the edge of her desk, crossing her arms. “Catching her in the act was a gift from the gods. Fate was looking out for you that day, my friend. You were bored to tears in that marriage long before she started sleeping with the doorman.”
I wince. “I wasn’t bored.”
“You were ,” she doubles down, as allergic to bullshit and lies as she’s always been. “A part of you realized you’d been tricked into marrying someone who wasn’t nearly as ‘perfect for you’ as she seemed.”
I frown, hating that she’s right. Erica played me from the beginning, but I was too na?ve, too new to being a very wealthy man to realize I was being hunted like a trophy, not pursued by someone who truly cared for the person I am.
“I never liked what being with her did to you,” Twyla continues. “She took the shine out of your eyes. You were living a lie with her, Anthony. A posh, high society lie, but a lie all the same.” She takes a sip of her scotch. “And that’s not acceptable for someone like you. You need more than that. You’re like me. You need authenticity and truth and challenges that keep you on your toes.”
“So, what’s your prescription, oh wise one?” I gesture around her office. “Should I open a rival sex club across town? Give you a run for your money?”
“You could try, but I’d have to kill you.” She adds with a grin, “And you wouldn’t be good at running a club, anyway. You’re too American. You have to have at least a little French in you to excel at running a business based in hedonistic pleasure. That’s why all the best restaurants in the city are French.” She winks. “But I do have an idea for you. Your timing is perfect actually. It’s like Fate arranged for you to be here tonight. Maybe Fate loves you on Christmas Eve.”
My brows lift. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes.” Her expression grows thoughtful—and a little wicked—as she studies me over the rim of her glass. “I just had a rather fascinating meeting with a brave young woman looking for something…specific.”
My heart squeezes in my chest.
Velvet…
I’m not one to believe in fate or signs from the universe, but the fact that Twyla brought the girl up without any prompt from me has my latent superstitious side perking up and taking notice. Still, I have to play it cool. I don’t want to let on that I’m interested until I’m sure what Twyla’s getting at. “Oh yeah? And that concerns me because…”
“Because you need a project,” she says without missing a beat. “Something meaningful to keep you busy while you meditate on what comes next. Something that will prove to you that your brilliant mind excels at things aside from numbers and raising a bloodthirsty private equity firm’s bottom line.”
“You were a fan of that bloodthirsty firm when it helped you open a second location in London,” I remind her.
“Don’t change the subject.” She sets her glass down with a decisive click. “This is perfect. For both of you. You need a distraction and some fun in your dreary, all-work-no-play life, and she needs someone experienced. Someone safe. Someone who can show her pleasure without taking advantage.” She bites the edge of her lip, her eyes dancing. “And you happen to be exactly what she asked for.”
“What did she ask for?” The words are out—swift and eager—before I can remind myself to exercise caution.
Twyla exhales a victorious sound. “I knew it! I knew you would have noticed her on her way in. She’s a diamond in the rough, isn’t she? A stunning, unspoiled beauty, just waiting for the right circumstances to help her step into her power. Her passion…” Twyla leans closer, adding in a softer voice, “but she didn’t come here looking for a club membership. She came as one of my more…discreet clients.”
My brows shoot up. “She wants to hire a prostitute?”
Twyla lets out a hissing sound and swats lightly at my shoulder. “Escort, my friend! I work with escorts. Very high-class, accomplished, well-vetted escorts.”
“Escorts who sleep with their clients,” I shoot back.
I’m no prude, but I’ve never been entirely comfortable with this part of Twyla’s business. I know the state and federal governments both tend to look the other way when it comes to the misdemeanors of the very wealthy, but all it would take is a morality-minded law enforcement agency on a mission and Twyla could be headed to prison.
I trust that she’s done an excellent job of shielding herself from prosecution, but no plan is foolproof when it comes to evading the long arm of the law.
“But I do have a vacancy in my roster of impressive companions that I didn’t grasp until this evening,” she continues, ignoring my fears as she always does. “I have several beautiful, kind, talented men on offer, but no one over the age of thirty-five. And my client specifically asked for an older man.” She arches a pointed brow my way. “Someone close to forty with a strong, steady way about him. Someone smart, compassionate, and patient, who won’t make her feel embarrassed when she asks too many questions or doesn’t know exactly what to do.”
“Is that right?” Heat threads through my core. I tell myself it’s the scotch, but I know better.
I would never make Velvet feel embarrassed, and I can’t imagine anything sexier than helping a beautiful young woman feel empowered to ask for whatever gives her pleasure. She already knows what she wants, that look we shared left no doubt about that in my mind.
She just needs to trust her instincts, her desire…
“Her name’s Maya,” Twyla continues in a soft, seductive voice, luring me like a hunter dropping bait along a woodland trail. “She's twenty-four. A successful real estate manager with an eye to build an empire of her own. Beautiful. Smart as a whip. Sweet. Stronger than she knows, and…completely inexperienced. And I do mean completely .”
“She’s a virgin?” I ask, a little embarrassed by the way my cock stirs at the thought. I’m not one of those guys who gets off on the thought of “deflowering” young women.
Or so I thought…
But the idea of being Velvet’s first, Maya’s first…
It does something to me. Something that could get embarrassing if I don’t get control of the way my blood is suddenly rushing south.
“She is. Just a shy babe in the woods starting to wonder if she’ll ever learn the ropes in the bedroom.” Twyla’s smile turns wicked. “Sound like anyone you know?”
I arch a brow. “I wasn’t a virgin at twenty-four.”
“But you were at twenty.” She laughs. “I still remember the look on your face when Jane dragged you into her bedroom at that Halloween party. You looked like you were about to be eaten alive.”
“I don’t remember things that way.”
“Well, I do. And I have a much better memory than you do.” She stands and moves back behind the desk, glancing out at the snowfall growing thicker outside the window. “You were a lot like her once. The child prodigy with a dozen degrees, who didn’t know how to talk to girls. Who thought physical pleasure was a distraction from his intellectual pursuits.”
“I remember,” I admit. “But I didn’t think physical pleasure was a distraction. I just didn’t know how to make the transition from being in my head to being in my body. It took practice.”
“Exactly, but now you’re on the other side,” Twyla says. “Now, you’re the kind of man who can dampen panties with a look.”
I choke on my scotch, while Twyla laughs.
Once I’ve cleared my sinuses, I laugh with her, shaking my head as she eases back into her big chair. “You’ve taken things too far. As usual.”
She grins her typical, shameless grin. “Never. I take things just far enough. You’re a lightly silvered fox, my friend, and exactly what Maya needs. You can show her that pleasure and control aren’t mutually exclusive. That it’s possible to have both.”
I nod. “Perhaps, but I’m not an escort.”
“Not yet. But all you have to do is say the word and you’re hired.” She pushes on as I start to protest, “She’s still here. I asked Raven to give her a tour of the playrooms, so she could see what else we have on offer while I looked for an escort to meet her unique needs.” She reaches for her cell. “I can message Raven now, ask her to show Maya to a private room for a meeting with a potential match.”
My jaw falls open, but the “no” on the tip of my tongue goes unspoken.
I could see her again. Right now.
Not just see her, but talk to her, maybe even touch her…
“Just take the meeting,” Twyla cajoles. “In private. We could even have you both go in masked, if you’d like, for extra anonymity. Then, if there's no chemistry, there’s no risk of exposure on either side. But if there is…”
“This is insane,” I say, but I don’t sound outraged or reluctant. I sound like I’m looking for a reason to forget all the reasons I shouldn’t consider this. In an effort to make sure I don’t forget, I add, “She’s half my age, and I’m not the professional she came here for. I don’t like lying to people.”
“What are a few white lies for the good of two people in need?” Twyla asks, brushing aside my worries with a wave of her hand. “And yes, she’s young, but she's a grown woman who knows what she wants. And she wants you.” Twyla cocks her head, her expression serious for once. “Think about it, Anthony. When was the last time you did something purely because it felt good or would make someone else feel good? When was the last time you made a real connection?”
“It wouldn’t be real. It would be a performance,” I insist. “Pretend.”
“But beautiful pretend,” she whispers. “Life-changing, life-giving, dreams-can-come-true pretend. I, for one, think you both deserve that.”
I pull in a breath, holding it as my conscience does battle with the wild curiosity pumping through my veins.
In the end, curiosity wins.
I’m dying to know more about this girl, and agreeing to a meeting doesn’t mean I have to agree to the rest of the job.
Though I should probably know what that “job” would entail, just in case.
“A week of playing the attentive, passionate boyfriend, that’s it," Twyla says when I ask, a smug grin on her face that makes it clear she thinks she’s already won this game. “She’s from Maine and is only in the city for a week, specifically to learn about romance and pleasure from someone patient and trustworthy whom she’ll never have to see again.”
“Never is a long time. I do have a public presence, Twyla. She might see pictures of me online at some point, and learn who I really am.”
Twyla shrugs. “Perhaps. But I doubt she’ll be upset to learn that her sexy older escort was more than he appeared to be at the time. Hell, she’d probably be thrilled. Either way, she can’t expose you without exposing herself. You’d be safe.”
“Right,” I mutter with a roll of my eyes, but my thoughts are already racing ahead.
One week. No strings.
No expectations beyond teaching a beautiful young woman about pleasure, making her feel good, sexy, worshipped between the sheets…
Fuck me, but I want that.
I want her , and it looks like my logical mind is once again on the losing side of the table.
“I’ll take the meeting,” I say, adding in a firm voice as Twyla exhales a soft sound of victory, “but I can’t promise anything beyond that. Not until I’ve talked to her.”
“Of course,” she stands, pausing before she adds, “but don’t be afraid to do more than talk. That’s what she’s here for and you look gorgeous tonight.”
“I thought you said I looked like hell?” I challenge.
She shrugs. “Even hell looks good on a man like you, darling.” She motions to her left, where another hidden panel is slowly opening, revealing a friendly-looking young man in an elegant black suit. “Theo will show you to the dressing room and help fit you for a comfortable mask.” To Theo she adds, “Anything he needs, make it happen. Anthony isn’t just any new hire, he’s a dear friend.”
“I haven’t said I’ll take the job yet,” I remind her as I rise from my chair. “And even if I do, I don’t want to be paid. I’ll take the job pro bono.”
Twyla rolls her eyes. “You’re not a lawyer, and this isn’t Wall Street. Go. Have fun. Forget to be bossy and in control for once in your life.” She bites her lip before adding with a husky laugh, “Or be bossy and in control in a different way. I think Maya might like that. You might, too. There are worse things than a beautiful woman telling you ‘yes, sir’ when you ask her to unbutton her blouse.”
I pause at the exit, turning back to point a warning finger at my friend, “Stop.”
“Why?” she asks, still grinning. “Don’t like it when I give you delicious new ideas.”
“I don’t like making private things public,” I say. “If I decide to spend the week with Maya, what we do behind closed doors will be between her and me.”
Sobering, Twyla nods. “Of course. I understand. And I respect that.”
“Good,” I say, unable to resist adding as I grip the door handle, “and I’m not as tightly wound as you think. I know how to take control when control is what’s called for.”
“I knew it,” Twyla hisses. “I knew you had a bossy daddy side. You should embrace it. Women love that kind of thing. I can give you a few tips for establishing guidelines and safe words, if you’d like.”
I shut the door on her offer.
I don’t need that kind of advice.
More importantly, I don’t have time for it.
I have a meeting to prepare for, and a beautiful, intriguing young woman I don’t want to keep waiting…