Will regarded her gently. “One of the guys who was a Chi Sigma when I was a freshman pledge…he’s hit it pretty big and has some ties to these guys who run the Club Rouge. They’re having some huge costume party there tonight, and it’s supposed to be the biggest thing going in Boston. I wasn’t feeling it at first, because when you’ve been to one supposedly hot club then you’ve been to them all.”
She snorted. “That does not sound like you at all.”
“Okay, then caught. What I meant to say was that I wasn’t really into costumes and crap. I think I can run down to this one place and grab a crappy mask, but that theme isn’t my idea of a good time. However, you tell me, oh fashion goddess sister, that you can’t just whip up something in a pinch or have a cool costume back there in your room.”
Addison blushed. She’d started getting into fashion as a teen but in an unusual way. She’d been a huge convention goer and gotten into cosplay, creating amazing designs based on comic books and anime. Then she’d taken that interest into design and other things in college. There just wasn’t a huge job market for it. Even while she slaved away for Mr. McDermott, Addison worked at night creating dresses and other fashions under her own style. She actually had something that would be great for a masquerade party, both a dress and a mask.
“I do, but I’m tired and drunk already.”
“So what? It’s only two o’clock. Crash for a bit then get prepped to go and have a party.”
“I should probably be restructuring and fluffing up my resume,” Addison admitted.
Her brother grinned and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Nah, sis, you should party and make a huge thing of it. After a day like this, the drinks should never stop flowing.”
She rolled her eyes but nodded. Drinking wasn’t her style, but it had been the worst day of her life. If she just let go a little bit tonight at Club Rouge, then what was the worst that could happen?
Chapter Three
Zahir had no idea why he’d bothered to go out to Club Rouge that night. He was still rip-roaringly pissed off from what had happened earlier that day with Clayton, and now his brain was twisting with ways to lure former employees from McDermott’s group to his own company. He should be at home with some of his best executives over Skype—damn the time difference—and figuring out exactly what needed to be done in order to finally stick it to one Clayton McDermott.
And yet…
He was frustrated and angry. In the past, the sheikh had found that the best way to relieve his stress and to get himself back into a focused mood was to find a more effective way to spend that pent-up energy. What he wanted was a good hard fuck, a woman to spend the night with, and to make the trials of the day fade away. Associated with Clayton McDermott’s friends or not, Club Rouge had a reputation all its own. He’d Googled it after the meeting that imploded and been intrigued by both the beauty and design of the club, as well as the stories about its debauched reputation.
Perhaps he’d find something here, especially under masquerade.
His wasn’t that extravagant. He hadn’t put much effort into his look. He had chosen to wear the ceremonial robes of his people. He always traveled with them should he be called on to perform official state duties for Dubai. However, the small domino mask was something he’d been able to secure at a local costume shop, a simple piece of white velvet that fit snuggly over his eyes and brow.
He was impressed with the overall look of the club, something that screamed vintage 1880s French dancehall aesthetic (and the designer had a clear love for certain Baz Luhrmann films), but he hadn’t found any women to attract his attention. It wasn’t that there was a lack of them, but he wasn’t feeling in the mood for all the bubbly blondes with the brassy, peroxided hair who kept coming up (and on) to him.
Sipping on his Scotch, Zahir looked down at his watch and realized that, as pathetic as it was, he might have to call it a night before the clock had even struck midnight. Nothing had appealed. As he took another swig, he groaned inwardly as a far too familiar person showed up beside him at the bar.
Clayton McDermott was obvious even behind his own masquerade mask. That bouffant of blond hair and that ridiculous dimple—maybe even a canyon—in his chin couldn’t be mistaken.
How lucky I am, indeed.
“Well, Zahir, you did come out after all. I thought after you stormed out of the meeting, you’d already be back to the la
nd of camels and sand.”
“That could describe many places, and we happen to have skyscrapers now. It was hard, but we came into the twenty-first century just fine,” Zahir replied drolly even as he finished his drink.
“Too true,” Clayton responded. “However, you were in such a sour mood that I didn’t expect you to come out to Club Rouge to have a good time. I guess I was half right on this. I’ve been with my frat brothers in the VIP section.”
“Of course you have.”
“But I can see you nursing drink after drink here and rebuffing all the girls. What, are they not your style? Is there something deficient?” Clayton prodded, pulling out the words on that last question in such a way that it took everything Zahir had to keep from slugging the other man.
Oh, I’ll show you deficient, idiot.
Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. There was no point in playing into Clayton’s games now. He had his strategy, and in a month or so, he’d find the dirt he needed to blackmail the other CEO into doing exactly what Zahir needed him to do. Let the ass be smug and condescending now. This victory lap wouldn’t last for long, not at all.
“I just haven’t seen a woman worthy of my attention,” he said, looking over his shoulder where a trio of at least three of those vapid so-called beauties were preening and waving toward Clayton. Well, that didn’t bother at least one man here.
“Maybe you just have too high standards. Everyone here is great, the beauties of Boston. Zahir, get that stick out of your ass and see what you can really do,” he finished, slipping back off of the stool and extending his arms, gladly accepting the tri into them.
Shaking his head, Zahir ordered and waited for one more Scotch to be delivered to him before ascending the stairs. The club was three stories with a garden rooftop. That was the part that he’d found even more interesting than all the Victorian antiques scattered throughout the dance floor and upper-bar levels. This garden was the least populated place, most of the guests seeming to want to be closer to the dancing and liquor. But up here, there were tendrils of wisteria, gardenias, roses, and gorgeous carnations, all of them swirling into a rainbow of riotous patterns. When he’d first spied it a couple of hours ago, it had maybe been home to two or three couples, staring out toward the moon and the Boston skyline. Currently, there was only one other person out here.