CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They walked into a softly lit corridor.
It was nothing she’d expected of the rusty old warehouse, which had been left abandoned to decay.
The air wasn’t dank or musty.
Surprisingly, it was clean and smelled faintly of sandalwood.
The corridor opened into a large area with ceilings that reached to the top of the three-story building.
Gothic chandeliers hung throughout the large space.
Well-stocked shelves of liquor were arranged in a striking array.
Its row of expensive bottles perched regally in front of mirrors and lorded over an ornately carved bar that could easily seat fifty people along its expanse.
“Whoa,” Camden murmured under his breath.
Amelia’s sentiments exactly.
Beth flipped two concealed light switches.
Running lights illuminated a portion of the bar and the chandeliers.
Whoa again. The gorgeous room was breathtaking and immense, but despite its size, the space was intimate and protective, as though the deepest of secrets could be shared within its walls.
Dark, thick curtains draped the walls and flanked oil paintings hung against the stately wood paneling, fueling its expensive, exclusive— illicit —vibe.
Beth waited until they’d soaked up the room then directed them.
“We’ll go this way.”
Their footsteps echoed as they crossed the cavernous space.
To fully appreciate their surroundings would’ve taken hours.
“What is this place?” Amelia tried to take it all in while keeping pace with Beth.
“Like a gothic country club?”
“Something like that.”
Her mind sifted through the possibilities and landed on black-market art auctions.
The Hailey who Amelia knew would never attend illegal sales.
But the CIA version of Hailey might.
If that was the case, Beth had been wrong.
A black-market art sale wouldn’t be scandalous enough to wreck her opinion of her sister.
They reached the opposite corner of the empty space and headed into the mouth of another dark hallway.
The light faded behind them as Beth surged into the darkness.
She moved through the space as though she’d done so a hundred times.
Camden walked by Amelia’s side, his hand resting at the small of her back.
She inched closer to him and imagined melting against the large barrel of his chest. He was her safe place, not just because of his size or comforting touch—it was the energy that radiated from him, the chemistry that connected them.
She felt they were meant to walk through that space together.
They rounded a corner.
A rogue strip of light crawled from under a door.
Beth strode up and knocked.
This was the point everything would change.
Amelia sensed the tension and leaned into Camden.
The back of his hand brushed the back of hers, a silent reassurance that she would be okay.
Nothing would jump out of that office door.
She’d survived men chasing her and lived through jail, innocent and trapped.
Still, her heart hammered so loudly that she was positive Beth and Camden could hear its drumbeat.
“Yes, come in,” a woman called.
Beth opened the door, and the office light momentarily blinded Amelia.
She blinked as she followed Beth into the office where everything would change.
The woman behind the desk would probably be the person to drop the bomb and destroy what Amelia understood of Hailey and Jonathan.
Amelia swallowed over the sharp panic in her throat.
“Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.” Beth gestured to Amelia.
“This is Hailey’s sister. Amelia Stone.” Then she gestured to the woman who stood on the other side of the desk.
“Amelia, this is Esme Van Alstyn.”
Amelia had never met someone that so immediately matched their name.
She shook Esme’s hand.
The woman was older and unconventionally beautiful.
Her dark eyes were as black as they were bright.
She wore deep mauve lipstick the color of red wine.
Heavy gray and silver streaks threaded her dark hair in such a distinctive way that Amelia wondered if they had been precisely placed by an expert stylist. Her handshake was strong like a military man’s yet soft, almost sensual, in the way she wrapped her hand around Amelia’s.
“Lovely to meet you.”
Esme’s velvet voice was magnetic.
Amelia inched closer even as part of her wanted to hide.
Camden didn’t seem to notice and shook Esme’s hand with his typical gruffness.
“Camden Brooks. Titan Group.”
Esme’s eyebrow arched.
“Interesting.”
Strange that Camden’s employer was interesting.
Amelia had learned what Titan did from her conversations with Camden, but Beth and Esme’s reactions had imparted what needed to be read between the lines.
Titan Group was exclusive and connected.
Amelia realized she was the odd one out.
Camden, Beth, and Esme—even Hailey and Jonathan—all had a connection and knew the stakes even if they didn’t know the specifics.
She, on the other hand, was staring over the edge of a cliff when everyone else had parachutes and was ready to jump.
Beth’s and Camden’s warnings replayed in her mind.
Her throat tightened as though someone was slowly tightening her parachute around her neck like a noose.
She tried to clear her throat.
It didn’t help.
“Camden,” Beth said.
“Why don’t we let them—”
Amelia grabbed his arm.
“No. Stay? Please.” She hated the pathetic note of begging, but the woman in front of her made Amelia’s insides shiver.
“Sure.” His confident agreement had come before Beth or Esme could shoo him out the door—though Esme didn’t seem the type to shoo.
She was more the type to say a command and expect it to be completed.
Esme eyed Amelia’s hold on his arm then met Amelia’s eye as though she were talented enough to read her most guarded thoughts.
The corners of her mauve lips quirked, and Esme gestured toward the chairs.
“I don’t mind if you stay.” She elegantly folded herself behind her desk.
“This shouldn’t take long. Shall I call when we’re done?”
Even the way Esme spoke was sophisticated.
Amelia heard a hint of an accent but couldn’t place it.
Or maybe she was just picking up on the primness of proper grammar and perfect posture.
She could match her: straight spine, shoulders back, chin up.
But that would require Amelia to focus her mental energy on things that didn’t matter.
Beth stepped toward the dark hallway.
“No need to call. I’ll be around when they walk out.”
So Beth would probably sit outside the office door.
Why? Amelia assumed Beth knew what Esme was about to explain.
Plausible deniability?
Or an offer of privacy?
Beth seemed like someone who appreciated discretion—a point in her favor.
The door shut with a stomach-churning click after Beth left.
Amelia scanned Esme’s office.
It was a far cry from a corporate office and didn’t match the outside of the warehouse.
But it absolutely matched the inside.
The rich, gothic vibes from the great room complimented her office’s wall color, which, she noted, feeling somewhat awestruck, matched the deep wine color of Esme’s lipstick.
This woman rocked a seriously commanding—though sexy—aesthetic.
Amelia swallowed hard and focused on the computer monitor sitting alone on her dark desk instead of her penetrating gaze.
“Welcome,” Esme offered.
“Please. Sit.”
Amelia realized she was still holding onto Camden’s arm.
She released her iron grip and forced herself to sit on a plush chair.
Their cushions were a deep purple and matched the main room’s drapes.
Everything about this place was purposeful by design.
Why did the exterior look like a decrepit old building?
“My condolences for Hailey and Jonathan.”
Amelia hated when people offered sympathies and grievances as though voicing respects was a societal checklist item that had to be acknowledged before further conversation could take place.
“Thank you.” She couldn’t help herself and added, “Though there’s no proof that Hailey’s dead also.”
The corners of Esme’s lips rose with uncommitted understanding.
“No, I suppose there’s not.”
Would Esme know otherwise?
Or was that just the way prim, proper people responded to Amelia’s hope?
She waited for the litany of reasons people offered as proof that Hailey had been murdered the same night as Jonathan.
Hailey’s bank accounts hadn’t been touched.
Her social media and emails hadn’t been accessed.
No evidence existed that Hailey had contacted anyone she’d ever met.
Not to mention, Amelia had been arrested for murder.
That was enough to convince any logical person of Hailey’s death.
“This is your…” Amelia tried not to fidget.
“Facility?”
Esme’s bright eyes danced beneath the feathery cape of her mile-long black lashes.
“Beth hasn’t told you much?”
“Beth hasn’t told me anything except that I shouldn’t be here nor talk to you because I will regret it.”
“She’s not wrong.”
Amelia pointed toward the door where Beth was likely hovering and said, “One.” She then pointed at Camden.
“Two.” Finally, she pointed at Esme.
“Three. I’ve heard that three times, but I’m not changing my mind if it helps find Hailey.”
“I’d want to know too,” Esme admitted.
“But I already live in this world.”
This world?
The world of the CIA?
Or Titan Group? Or another world that was uniquely Esme Van Alstyn ?
“It called to me,” Esme continued, “and I wouldn’t change it. But I’m somewhat immune to it now, if I’m being honest.”
That sounded more like the CIA than Titan Group.
“Immune to what?”
Esme leaned back in her chair and brushed her beautiful dark hair behind her squared shoulders.
“That’s a complicated question.”
Their conversation was a game equally annoying and stomach-churning .
Amelia fought the urge to run away or roll her eyes.
She offered a different question.
“How do you know my sister?”
Esme offered an unguarded smile.
Its authenticity pulled Amelia closer before she said, “There are very few people in this world that could hold a candle to her and Jonathan.”
The high praise stilled her roiling stomach.
Curiosity slowly replaced her annoyance.
“You knew them well?”
Esme nodded.
“Very.”
“Very,” Amelia repeated.
How had she never heard this woman’s name?
Clearly, Esme Van Alstyn was someone worth discussing between sisters who supposedly shared everything.
“ Very … considering the worlds that we operate in.” Esme raised her sharp chin and stared at the ceiling for long enough that Amelia’s heart thudded in anticipation.
“Let’s see. What can I share about your sister?”
Everything .
Esme leveled her long-lashed eyes to Amelia’s again.
“People trusted Hailey. She helped far, far beyond her reach.”
“Reach of what?”
Esme continued as though she hadn’t heard Amelia.
“Hailey was an art collector with uncommonly good sense and an eye that could distinguish between the real deal and a fraud from the highest-caliber counterfeiters. You know all that though, don’t you?”
Amelia nodded.
“What don’t I know?”
“She was…” Esme’s eyes glittered.
“A ghost.” Another unguarded smile curled onto her lips.
“Hailey could get into any building, through any security, and do so without leaving a trace of DNA.”
Her spine straightened.
“Hailey?”
Esme nodded again.
“Mm-hmm. Jonathan also.”
Amelia tried to picture her boring sister and brother-in-law doing anything sneaky.
She couldn’t. When she imagined their involvement with the CIA, her thoughts had been more of analyzing information from a computer or attending professional conferences to evaluate works of art for forgeries.
Maybe they even authenticated stolen goods that real spies, the kind who sneaked into buildings and kept all their DNA, had found.
“Some people are born with intelligence and cunning. They were.” Esme’s expression faded to something more nostalgic and perhaps even proud.
Amelia bit her lip. That was a lot to take in, but it hadn’t explained how the three of them worked together.
“Do you sneak into places too?”
Esme chortled.
“Absolutely not.”
Amelia’s eyebrows arched as she wondered what Esme wasn’t saying.
She hummed and gave Amelia another once-over as though still trying to decide how much to share.
“That’s not why Beth brought us here,” Amelia urged.
“No,” Esme answered playfully.
She lifted her hands as if to say, “What the hell?” “Hailey and Jonathan had an electric connection. They used that as part of their cover and effortlessly folded into my world. It brought them places their day-to-day lives couldn’t.”
This was the bomb.
Amelia’s stomach toed its way to the edge of the cliff and readied to dive over the edge.
She swallowed hard. “Your world is not the art history world, is it?”
Esme tipped her head back and laughed.
“No.”
“Do you work for the CIA?” Amelia wondered if she should be picturing Esme as James Bond or Jason Bourne.
Her laughter continued.
“Does anyone just work for the CIA? Or are we all out there, living the best we know how?”
Amelia glanced at Camden then back at Esme.
“Was that a yes?”
Esme sighed.
“It’s a complicated answer that doesn’t have to do with why you’re here.”
“It sort of does.” Hailey and Jonathan outwardly worked with art but were involved with the CIA.
Esme was that connection.
So Esme was a spy? “What do you do?”
“This place…” She held her arms out and eyed her office as though she could see through walls and was proud of everything in her view.
“…is my club.”
What kind of club operated out of a broken-down warehouse?
Even if the expansive bar was beautiful, it was inconvenient to get to and didn’t look like any of the swank establishments where DC movers and shakers milled.
Not to mention, Amelia’s company threw—objectively—many of the most exclusive parties in the DC metro area.
She’d never heard of Esme.
The place wasn’t on her radar.
“It’s one of a few clubs I own across the globe,” Esme continued.
“I spend the most time here.”
This was supposed to have been the big bomb that would ruin Amelia’s memory of Hailey and Jonathan.
Esme had a club. So what was the catch?
Drugs? Did Hailey and Jonathan use their work in art sales to find international drug dealers?
Did the CIA deal with those types of crimes?
“Okay.” Amelia blinked and looked at Camden for his two cents.
His jaw ticked, and he swallowed hard.
But he didn’t meet her eye or impart any understanding of what she was missing.
Amelia moistened her lips.
“What do you do at your clubs?”
“I help my clients find their true selves. I help them find peace.”
“So… you’re not a drug dealer?”
Amusement danced in Esme’s eyes as she glanced at Camden.
Amelia really didn’t like how everyone seemed to know everything except for her.
She’d never buried her head underground, yet Jonathan and Hailey somehow had secret lives, and Esme and Camden understood each other without speaking.
“No. Not in the way you’re thinking.”
“Then what do you do ?”
“I take away responsibilities and teach my clients how to shoulder burdens. It really depends on what they need. Everyone needs a release. I help figure out what kind and facilitate it.”
What the hell was all of that?
Washington, DC, was home to thousands of corporate consultants who charged thousands of dollars an hour to give opinions, streamline decision making, and optimize solutions.
Amelia’s job had brought her face-to-face with every variety and type—or so she’d thought.
They always name-dropped and offered business cards.
None were poetic in describing their occupations.
None offered peace and tranquility.
Amelia stood up. “Okay, I’m done.” She shook her head.
“I came here to get answers, and all you want to do is play games.” Amelia should have known that was how dealing with the CIA would be.
“I don’t play games. At least, not the kind you’re thinking of.” Esme stared as though Amelia should have been able to understand.
Camden didn’t stand up.
He nodded for her to sit down.
Amelia wavered but relented and perched on the edge of the thick cushion.
The more she tried to understand what they weren’t saying, the foggier it became.
“I don’t get it.”
Camden did.
“What am I missing?”
“Ms. Van Alstyn is a Dominatrix.”