Page 16 of Locked in Wonderland

“A Cardiac Carnage. Would you rather I make you a Bleeding Heart?”

I took a careful sip. It was sweet and fruity. It wouldn’t be my usual first choice. I was more of a lager man, but it would do. “No, this is fine. How alcoholic is it?”

“Not very. I haven’t seen you in here before.”

“I haven’t been in here before.”

He leaned his hip against the bar. “You mean here as in the club, or here as in Wonderland?”

“Both.”

He held out a hand. “Omar.”

“Lysander.”

I shook it, absurdly pleased to meet someone who seemed normal. No mouse ears. No cryptic bullshit. “I’m actually looking for someone.”

“We’re all looking for someone.”

I sighed internally. I’d obviously spoken too soon.

“Warren White,” I said, realizing that a bartender should have been first on my list of people to ask. “Platinum blond hair. Blue eyes. About six-foot. Handsome. Have you seen him?”

Something in Omar’s expression closed off instantly, casual friendliness replaced by a neutrality too polished to be genuine.

“You should stop looking for him.”

“Should I?” I frowned. “Why?”

Just as he looked like he might answer, the music died and the lights came on. I blinked hard, my eyes watering after so long in the dimness.

“Shit!” Omar muttered.

“What?” I asked. “Fire alarm?”

“I wish.”

“Then what?”

“The Harts are here. Strange. They hardly ever make an appearance.”

“Right. I heard about them. They own this club, don’t they?”

“The club.” Omar snorted. “Try all of Wonderland. Nothing happens here without their say-so.”

A nervous tension swept through the room, with no one immune to it. Conversation didn’t stop completely, but it reduced to whispers. Even I’d unconsciously lowered my voice.

The sharp click-clack of high heels sounded from the corridor, everyone turning that way.

Omar rested his elbows on the bar. “Brace yourself.”

Chapter Eight

Brace myself for what?

There wasn’t time to turn the thought into an actual question before the door flew open and a tall, willowy blonde woman swept into the room. A fitted black sheath dress clung to her curvaceous figure. The severe elegance of the dress was broken only by the violent splash of scarlet heels so high I was amazed she could walk in them. White fur draped her shoulders, gold glittered at her throat and wrists, and every inch of her radiated money.

“Queenie Hart,” Omar whispered, apparently deciding my ignorance required commentary. “Stone cold bitch. If she looks at you, look away.”