Chapter Twenty-Two #2
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.”