Dirty Aristocrat

‘The Dirty Aristocrat is a sex club,’ he said, his lips twisting upwards so sexily, and darn it to hell, but I wanted to lick that dirty smile right off his face. Men like him should be

kept locked up in special places to be used purely for copulation purposes.

‘I know what it is,’ I said coolly. ‘I asked if they will let me in dressed like this.’

His jaw twitched. ‘Baby, there isn’t a bouncer born who’s going to turn you away from anywhere.’

‘Good,’ I said calmly and walking to my bed, collected my coat from it. ‘Because we’re going there later.’

His eyes glittered. ‘We are?’

‘Aren’t we?’ I asked innocently.

‘They don’t play country music there,’ he said, helping me into my coat.

I tilted my head to one side as if I was processing the information. ‘They don’t?’

I turned around and he shook his head gravely.

I put on my best I’m-so-country-sticks-fall-out-every-time-I-open–my-mouth’ expression. ‘You mean to say nobody in England ever thought to have sex to Dolly Parton’s songs?’

He kept his face straight. ‘Afraid not.’

‘It seems to me the English are missing out.’

‘It would seem so,’ said the slick weasel, hiding a smile. ‘Nevermind, you wouldn’t have liked it, anyway.’

I looked up at him through my eyelashes. ‘Why honey, you’re so full of shit it’s surprising your eyes ain’t brown.’

He grinned. ‘You’ll get on well with my mother.’

‘Good, it’s all settled then. The Dirty Aristocrat it is,’ I said.

‘This should be an interesting night,’ he said, a twinkle in his eye.

I buttoned up my coat.

‘Shall we?’ he murmured.

We went out into the street. It was only a little cold. I lifted my collar against the wind and snuggled down into the warmth of my coat. His car was parked down the road and we strolled

down to it. He walked close enough for people to realize that we were together, and I immediately appreciated the fact that I loved being with Ivan. Every woman we passed looked at him

with hungry eyes first, then at me with wishful envy.

He drove us to a very exclusive restaurant. Stopping the car at the entrance he turned to me. ‘Here we are?’

‘Very fancy,’ I commented.

‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ he replied and hit the button that worked the car’s wing doors.

I swung my legs out and put them on the pavement, then someone held a gloved hand, palm up, so I could put my hand into it. As soon as I did, he gently and expertly tugged me so I

floated upwards as if we were part of an immaculately choreographed dance.

I thanked his impassively polite face and saw that Ivan was already waiting for me. I linked arms with him and we went up the stairs into a grand, green, marble foyer. Staff came to help

us with our coats, and show us into a high ceilinged room. It was all white with recessed mirrors on the ceiling and eggplant leather seats. It was all very civilized. People in fine

clothes and that deliberately languid air of very fat cats were seated at the white tables sipping at their drinks. It seemed as if some of them knew Ivan. There were waves and nods in

our direction. The women reminded me of different versions of Chloe. Ugh.

‘Would you like a drink at the bar?’ Ivan asked me.

‘No, I’d like to go straight to the table, please,’ I said.

‘Of course, Madam,’ the courteous man hovering at our elbows said.

He took us through a vibrantly emerald corridor hung with extraordinarily complicated and clever light-staircase chandeliers made out of bronze plumbing pipes.

The corridor opened out to a truly unique and marvelous dining area. A rectangular room sculptured out of a variety of materials to give you the impression that you had entered a glass

box. It was decked out with hoop-shaped lights suspended from the ceiling, pink leather banquettes, and futuristic looking diagonal brushed steel panels with lighted butterflies on them.

The waiter showed us to our table. I remembered reading that every restaurant had golden tables, ones that were kept for their best customers, their most famous, or their best-looking.

Well, we were being seated at their golden table. It was actually elevated as if we were on a stage holding court.

I looked at Ivan.

‘Is this table OK with you?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ I said, and let the waiter pull a chair out and carefully push it back as I bent my knees so I was perfectly seated without having to pull my chair towards the table.

They brought us menus, we made our selections, and they bowed, smiled, approved of our choices, and respectfully withdrew. There was no music in the place, only the subtle murmur of

polite conversation. I looked up at Ivan and he was watching intently.

‘Do you come here often?’ I asked.

He leaned back and put his wonderfully shaped hands on the table. ‘Sometimes. The food is generally superb.’