Page 37

It’s there, that spark of familiarity. Home. I’m not crazy for seeing it, feeling it myself. “Well, thank you again. For the food.”

“You take care, Carly James.”

My heart aches when I exit the changing room. It wasn’t the plan, coming to see her, and damn fate for throwing Marcelle and her ridiculously cute son into my path.

The bouncer stands beside the door, staring down his nose at me, like he’s waiting for me to give him the secret password to cross the bridge.

“My knife?”

“Don’ have it.”

A zing of panic spirals up my neck. I had a bad feeling about this, and now, it seems, it’s coming to pass. “Who does?”

“Mr. Bergeron.”

“And where might I find Mr. Bergeron?”

“In his office.”

Clamping my eyes shut, I roll my shoulders back to calm the irritation, because punching this guy is a bad idea.

Bad idea.

“And where might one find his office?”

“One? Or you?”

Patience wearing thin, I curl my hand into a fist. “Me.”

“Down the hall. Through the club. Up the staircase on the other side.” He points down the hallway, and at a flicker of purple and red lights, the club flashes into view. “See that window across the way there? That’s his office.”

The light flickers to darkness again, and I exhale an exasperated breath.

Through the damn club. I’m going to have to walk through a sea of horny men, just to retrieve that godawful knife.

I hate you, Russ. I really hate you right now.

Spinning on my heel, I tromp in that direction, trying to imagine myself coming up with a better insult than hooker when I’m standing in front of the guy. I exit the hallway, down a short staircase along the stage, and even if the main attraction is putting on one hell of a flashy show, I can feel the eyes on me, watching me, as I weave through crowded tables. Tingles snake beneath my skin like a thousand tiny bugs scattering over me, and I mentally will myself not to look at anyone, until I finally reach the back of the club.

The iron, spiral staircase winds up to the second floor, spitting me out into a dark hallway with two doors--one on the left, and one on the right. I opt for the one on the left, the direction in which I saw the wide glass window from across the club. My muscles shudder, as I hold my fist up to knock.

“Come in,” a voice says, before my knuckles even hit the wood.

I swing the door open onto an expansive office, a fairly masculine one, decorated in gray walls, dark gray carpeting, sparse furniture with sharp corners and non-reflective surfaces. Everything screams quality. The scent of leather and cigars hits the back of my throat, as I pad toward the center of the room.

Kicked back, with his feet up on the desk, Bedroom Eyes holds the knife in one hand, tapping the blade against his opposite palm.

“I’m leaving now. As you asked. And I’d like my blade back.” Holding out my hand, I flick my fingers for it, anxious to get out of this man’s line of view, which feels like hot molten steel radiating over my skin. I’m certain he can see the sweat trickling down my neck with the mere proximity.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Excuse me? We had a deal. I hand off my blade, you let me pass. You give it back to me, when I leave.”

“I give this blade back to you, and you’ll be passing through my club with a weapon on you. Not allowed, catin.”

“I swear to freaking Christ, if you don’t quit calling me hooker, I’m going to lose my shit right here. Right now.”

“Hooker? Mais, non. You’re in Valir country, not France. Here, it means something else.”