Claiming Cleo (Masters Club 2)

”Yeah,” Cleo admitted. “And so far, there hasn’t been a false step—nothing to make me think he’s just getting his jollies before he heads back to his real life.” She flashed a nervous grin. “He said he wants to talk over a few things at dinner. Maybe this is where he gets down on bended knee and begs me to be his slave girl/wife, and the violins play an uplifting tune and we sail together into the sunset.”

Jess laughed.“Hey. You never know, girlfriend. Stranger things have happened. But here’s the real question. If he asks, what’s your answer?”

Cleo started to respond, but the words caught in her throat. It would be a dream come true to get together with Master Jack beyond the confines of the Masters Club, a dream she hadn’t believed was attainable. But did she dare take the risk?

After all, she’d made a good place for herself in New York. She was, if not precisely happy, certainly content. Now Jack Hartford, the man she’d pined for, had swooped back into her life and turned her world on its head. What happened if he swooped out again, just as abruptly?

“I honestly have no fucking clue,” she finally replied with a wry laugh. “I think I’ll stick to some easier decisions for now, like where I’m going to take him for dinner.”

Chapter 19

“Oh, look. A parking spot right in front. That never happens,” Cleo enthused as she directed Jack down a small, side street just off MacDougal. After checking that Jack did indeed like Indian and Pakistani food, Cleo had suggested this place. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything in either London or New York, where gems were often hidden in unlikely places.

The parking space was barely big enough for his rental car, and would take some expert maneuvering to get into. Used to driving in New York and London, he managed to parallel park without banging the cars already on the curb in front and back of him, with only inches to spare at either end.

“Bravo,” Cleo cried, clapping her hands and making him laugh.

Climbing out of the car, he moved quickly to the curb to open Cleo’s door. She took his offered hand as he helped her out of the passenger seat. She looked extremely elegant in her silky top and narrow-legged black pants, her feet Barbie-doll perfect in high-heeled sandals. Her long, shiny hair swished against her bare back as she preceded him up a narrow walkway to the unprepossessing space with a small sign over the door that read: Ghandi Café.

The place was small, with only eight tables in a long, narrow room, four of them already occupied by other guests. The aromas of exotic spices and fresh naan bread permeated the space. The walls were painted a deep burnt orange, hung with pictures of kohl-eyed young men in turbans gazing lasciviously down at plump women in elaborate saris sprawled at their feet. Patterned cotton fabrics embellished with gold and silver thread, beads and tiny mirrors covered the low ceiling, billowing down to give the space an at once opulent and tacky feel.

“This is the best Indian food I’ve found during my occasional forays out of the Masters Club,” Cleo explained once they were seated at one of the small tables. “I miss the Indian takeaway and Pakistani street food in London more than anything, but this place comes close. They make the best kebabs and lamb dishes. Oh, and the biryani is first rate. The curries are spicy, so watch out.”

“I love spicy,” Jack replied with a smile. “Why don’t you order your favorite things and we’ll share?”

“Perfect,” Cleo agreed with her dimpled smile.

An older Indian woman dressed in a beautiful crimson silk sari, a red bindi on her forehead, appeared at the table. She set down a plate of hot, crispy papadum still shiny with the oil it had been fried in, along with a tray of tiny wooden bowls with different sauces, including plum, spicy mint, and chili paste.

After Cleo ordered for them, the woman swished away. She returned almost immediately, bearing a brass pot of steaming masala chai tea and two small cups, along with glasses of water.

They made small talk as they nibbled the crispy lentil crackers and sipped the sweet, spiced tea. They compared their favorite ethnic restaurants in London versus New York. It felt odd, but also wonderful, to be out in the vanilla world in a purely vanilla setting having such a vanilla conversation with Cleo, whom he associated so strongly with the Masters Club and BDSM.

It brought home even more clearly how little he actually knew about her, and how much he wanted to know. It was both strange and terrifying to admit to himself that he’d fallen in love with someone who wasn’t Annette. He kept waiting, on some half-conscious level, for guilt and remorse to overwhelm him and shut down his emotions, but, so far, it hadn’t happened.