Gloved Secrets (Billionaire Bikers #2)

Chapter 1

Vivienne

I stood outside The Orpheum's imposing glass doors, my reflection wavering in the dark surface like a question I wasn't sure I wanted answered.

The building rose above me in sleek lines of steel and shadow, all sharp edges and expensive restraint.

Through the windows, I caught glimpses of warm light and moving figures—beautiful people in beautiful clothes doing beautiful things I had no business attempting.

What the hell am I doing here?

I smoothed my hands down the black satin corset Melissa had bullied me into buying, the fabric clinging to curves I usually kept hidden beneath loose cardigans and A-line skirts.

The high-waisted slacks were supposed to be ‘sophisticated,’ according to my old college roommate, but I felt like I was playing dress-up in someone else's life.

"You have to stop hiding your body like it's something to apologize for," Melissa had said during our shopping expedition that afternoon, dragging me through boutiques I'd never have entered alone. "We're going to be seen tonight, Viv. Trust me on this."

It had been a whirlwind of a day since Melissa flew in that morning—brunch at an overpriced café, the impromptu shopping trip, then the FaceTime session earlier this evening where Melissa had insisted on approving the final look from her hotel room while she got ready herself.

I had trusted her, even spent forty minutes trying on different combinations while Melissa critiqued each one.

I splurged and bought new lipstick—a deep wine shade that made my mouth look fuller, and made me look more confident than I felt.

Now, standing alone on the sidewalk while well-dressed couples glided past me into the club's warm embrace, I wondered if trust had been a mistake.

I pulled out my phone. Still no response to my last three texts:

I'm here.

Where are you… Running late as usual?

Mel, please tell me you didn't forget.

The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the city and the soft jazz bleeding through The Orpheum's doors each time they opened. I checked the time. Eight-thirty. We'd agreed to meet at eight.

Melissa was always running late—it was practically her signature move. But thirty minutes? That was pushing it, even for her.

A group of women in designer dresses laughed as they passed, their heels clicking against the pavement in perfect synchronization. One of them glanced at me—a quick, assessing look that somehow managed to catalog everything wrong with my outfit, my posture, my very presence outside this place.

I should leave. The thought came with a wash of relief so strong it surprised me.

I should call a cab, go home and grade papers and pretend this never happened.

But I'd already paid the cab fare to get here. Had already spent money I didn't really have on clothes I'd probably never wear again. Had already psyched myself up for an evening of catching up with the girl who used to be my closest friend before life pulled us in different directions.

And somewhere deep down, beneath the anxiety and the voice that whispered I didn't belong, was a tiny flame of curiosity.

When would I ever get another chance to see inside a place like this?

I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and walked through the doors.

The interior hit me like a wave of sensory overload.

Warm amber light pooled from fixtures that probably cost more than my annual salary.

The air smelled of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, with an undertone of something rich and smoky I couldn't identify.

Jazz played softly from hidden speakers.

Music that suggested sophistication and secrets.

The hostess—a striking woman with platinum hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass—looked up from her podium. "Good evening. How may I help you?"

"I'm on the guest list," I said, proud that my voice came out steady. "Vivienne Ellis. I'm here with Melissa Torres."

Manicured fingers scrolled down a tablet. "Ah yes, Ms. Ellis. Welcome to The Orpheum. Ms. Torres hasn't arrived yet, but you're welcome to wait at the bar or I can seat you at your reserved table."

Of course she's not here yet.

"The bar is fine, thank you." I manage.

The hostess gestured toward the far end of the room, where a curved bar of dark wood gleamed under pendant lights. "Miguel will take excellent care of you."

I made my way across the room, hyperaware of every step, every glance that might be directed my way. I couldn’t even remember the last time I sat at a bar anywhere, let alone somewhere as fancy as the renowned Orphium.

The space was larger than it had appeared from outside, with intimate seating areas separated by flowing curtains and strategic lighting. It was the kind of place that whispered rather than shouted its exclusivity.

The bartender—Miguel, presumably—looked up as I approached. He was older, maybe fifties, with kind eyes and a professional attitude that suggested he'd spent years putting nervous patrons at ease.

"What can I get for you this evening?"

"An espresso martini, please." It was Melissa's drink of choice, and it seemed like the sort of thing someone would order in a place like this.

"Excellent choice." His hands moved with practiced efficiency, and within minutes, a perfect cocktail sat before me, garnished with three coffee beans floating on a layer of foam.

I took a sip and tried not to wince at the intensity. How does Melissa drink these?

"First time at The Orpheum?" Miguel asked, polishing a glass with careful attention.

"Is it that obvious?"

His smile was gentle. "Not at all. You just have the look of someone taking it all in. It's a beautiful space."

"It really is." I glanced around again, noting details I'd missed in my initial rush of nerves. The artwork on the walls looked original. The patrons moved with the easy confidence of people accustomed to luxury. "I'm waiting for a friend. We were supposed to meet at eight."

"Traffic can be unpredictable this time of evening," Miguel said diplomatically.

I nodded and took another sip, letting the warmth of the alcohol ease some of the tension in my shoulders. Around me, conversations flowed in cultured tones—discussions of art openings and theater premieres, weekend trips to places I'd only seen in magazines.

Three men in expensive suits had claimed the bar stools to my left, their voices growing progressively louder as they worked through what was clearly not their first round of drinks.

I was nursing my second espresso martini and starting to seriously consider abandoning ship when I felt eyes on me. Not the casual glances I'd been getting all evening, but something more focused.

I glanced over towards the men under my lashes and the youngest one—maybe early thirties, with the kind of aggressive confidence that too much money and time often bred—was staring in my direction.

"Excuse me," he said, leaning closer than was strictly necessary. "I don't think I've seen you here before."

I offered a polite smile. "First time."

"I'm Ryan." He extended a hand with the expectation that I'd take it. "This is Lucas and James. We're regulars."

I shook briefly, noting how his grip lingered. "Vivienne."

"Beautiful name for a beautiful woman." The line was delivered with the smoothness of someone who'd used it before. "What brings you to The Orpheum tonight?"

"Meeting a friend."

"Lucky friend." Ryan shifted closer, and I caught the sharp undertones of his cologne mixed with a little too much whiskey. "Can we buy you another drink while you wait?"

"That's very kind, but I'm fine, thank you."

But Ryan had already signaled Miguel, who approached with the practiced neutrality of someone who'd navigated these waters before. "Another drink for the lady."

"I really don't—" I started.

"Come on," Lucas chimed in, sliding off his stool to move around Ryan and step closer. "We're just being friendly. Where's your friend, anyway? Seems rude to keep someone like you waiting."

The question stung because I'd been wondering the same thing. Where was Melissa? And why wasn't she answering her phone?

"They'll be here soon," I said, though my confidence was wavering.

"Will they?" James joined the conversation, coming around to the empty stool on my left, effectively boxing me in at the bar. "Because it looks like you've been sitting here alone for a while."

The observation felt too sharp, too focused. Had they been watching me this whole time?

"Maybe your friend had something better to do," Ryan suggested, his hand finding my lower back. "But that just means you're free to hang out with us."

I stiffened at the unwelcome touch. "I'd rather wait, thank you."

"Don't be like that." His voice was cajoling, seeming to think I had any desire to be near him or his friends. "We're just trying to show you a good time."

Miguel the bartender had moved to the other end of the bar, serving a group of women who'd claimed his attention with imperious gestures that suggested they tipped well. The space around us had grown busier, conversations louder, making it harder to catch his eye.

"I appreciate the thought," I said, trying to keep my voice level, "but I'm really just waiting for my friend."

"Your friend who stood you up?" Lucas stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Come on, gorgeous. Live a little."

The endearment made my skin crawl. I looked toward the entrance, hoping to see Melissa's familiar figure, but found only strangers. My phone remained stubbornly silent.

Okay. Time to go.

"Excuse me," I said, reaching for my purse. "I think I should—"

"Should what?" Ryan's hand pressed more firmly against my back, keeping me in place. "The night's young. We could show you around, introduce you to some people."

"I don't think—"

"There you are."