Chapter 8
Gen
‘Arrogant twat,’ I huff to myself in the hallway’s mirrored wall after I’ve ushered him out and watched him saunter into the back seat of a sleek black car waiting outside.
I cannot believe the hubris of that man.
I feel odd. A little breathless. He’s rattled me, and I resent it.
It was all that chat. That predatory stance of his. Being alone in a bedroom with him was bad enough without him saying those things and ranging that big body of his over me like that.
‘So?’ Maddy asks with a saucy wink as I march back into the office towards the rear of the building.
The reception room where I hosted Anton Wolff and the area where our desks are would originally have been an enormous double drawing room.
The two rooms are still interconnected thanks to huge double doors that I made sure remained firmly shut throughout my meeting just now.
I sigh and make a beeline for the Nespresso machine before redirecting to my desk. I’m all over the place, which is frankly ridiculous. ‘He is a piece of fucking work.’
‘Yay.’ She shimmies her shoulders in pleasure. ‘Tell us more.’
Rather than take a seat, I plonk my backside on the desk and survey the others.
We sit in a horseshoe arrangement that allows for informal chatter when we’re all around.
It’s a full house today, which is unusual, given Cal’s always out and about and Rafe and Zach also run a kind of hedge fund with some of their mates.
‘Is he in?’ Rafe asks, surveying me over his mug.
‘He is,’ I admit.
Maddy squeals, and Zach shoots mock daggers at her.
‘Did he give you any shit?’ Rafe continues.
‘Nothing I couldn’t handle. He’s entitled and persistent, which is always an irritating fucking combination, but I have no reason to believe he’d cause problems in the club. I suspect he tries it on with everyone.’
‘So he tried it on with you?’
I cross my arms over my chest. ‘Yes. I’m sure he was just being opportunistic. Look, he’s fine. He’s as expected. Charming, persuasive, smug as fuck and clearly entirely too used to people rolling over for him.’
I regret the final few words as soon as they leave my mouth.
‘Are you going to roll over for him?’ Cal asks with his trademark cheeky grin.
I shoot him a look I hope adequately communicates how deeply beneath me it would be to rationalise that question with a response.
‘We’ve got bigger problems,’ Rafe says brusquely. ‘Ciara snuck into Rapture last night and said the place was on fire.’
My shoulders slump. That is a big problem.
Rapture is a new sex club that opened up around the corner from us last month in a prime Mayfair position. Whereas we’re discreet, classy, it’s showy and tacky.
But make no mistake, it’s going after our clientele.
We’ve already had so many members, mostly male, pulling us aside or texting us images of the hot-pink invitations from Rapture that have landed on their doormats. Some are amused, others outraged or indifferent.
But some are interested.
Some are checking it out.
And a handful of people have even given notice on their Alchemy membership.
Rafe managed to get one of our hosts, Ciara, smuggled in last night. God knows how.
‘What else did she say?’ I demand now.
‘Sounds gimmicky,’ he says. ‘While they’re ramping up their membership, they’ve forked out for a lot of hosts. I mean, a lot. Ciara said most of the actual members there seemed to be men, which fits with what we knew anecdotally.’
‘So they’re going after the guys and throwing women at them,’ I muse. ‘Sounds more like a brothel than a sex club.’
‘I suspect they’re blurring that line,’ Cal chips in. ‘She said there were a lot of dancers, too. They have to make the place look busy. Overall, they’re going for a very gaudy, Golden Age vibe, as far as I can tell. But it’s sticking for some people.’
‘I’m all for people having places they can let loose,’ Rafe says. ‘You know that. And we’ve made our name on discretion, which a lot of our members value. But these guys are going large.’
‘Who the fuck is funding them?’ I wonder aloud.
‘It’s a group of guys from various hedge funds,’ Rafe says. He reels off the names of several major funds based between here and Berkeley Square.
‘Shit. So they’re proper insiders,’ I say.
‘Yeah. And they have an insane network. Obviously, all their brokers from the City will go to them to curry favour. It’s a total fucking shit-show.’
Jesus.
First Anton Wolff and now this.
I push myself off the desk.
I need a camomile tea to soothe my frazzled nerves.