30DaystoSyn (30 page)

And she had no idea when that happened.
Maybe it was kismet. Maybe it was karma. Maybe it was nothing more than a bad
case of the hots. Whatever had caused it, she knew it—at least for her—real and
impossibly complicated.

If after Sunday night he sent her on her
way without a backward look, she knew her heart would break. She had tried so
hard not to love him but that hadn’t worked. He had burrowed his way under her
skin in no time flat. With his swarthy good looks, killer body and knowing
hands, he had completely crushed any resistance she might have considered.

His fingers were on the front closure of
her bra and when he unhooked it, he lifted his head to look up at her. One
perfectly arched brow lifted in question and she swallowed. Those eyes were
like magnets drawing the iron filings of her libido straight into them.

She nodded and he glided his palms over the
rise of her breasts. His touch was so warm, so gentle, so heady as he caressed
her.

“You have the most beautiful breasts I’ve
ever seen,” he told her.

And she would bet her last dime he’d seen a
helluva lot. Had touched, stroked and suckled more than his share. A pang of
jealousy that those sure, strong fingers had plucked at other women’s nipples
as he was plying hers made her clench her teeth. That he might use those
elegant, knowing hands on another woman sent red-hot spirals of resentment
through her very soul.

He leaned in and captured one nipple with
his lips and drew lightly on it. She cupped his head to hold him to her and she
heard him groan deep in his throat.

Tears scratched at the back of her eyes. If
she had to give this man up, it would destroy a part of her for she knew no
other male could ever compete with Synjyn McGregor. He was the best and she
would be forced to make do with the rest.

That thought hurt her far more than she
wanted to admit.

Night Twenty-Six

She’d come home from work to find a
beautiful cocktail dress lying across her bed. It was a simple black silk
sheath but it was elegant and tasteful with a light dusting of black sequins
scattered over the bodice. Beside the dress was a pair of black sheer-lace
cheekini panties and matching lace bra. All laid out with care along with a
handwritten card that read
For Tonight
.

On the floor was a pair of sparkling silver
heels she knew cost more than she made in a month. Hanging over the closet door
was a beautiful gray light wool coat. If she had to make a guess, the entire
ensemble had probably set him back at least three grand.

She stared at the card then traced the
script with a fingertip. His handwriting was as bold and powerful as the man
himself. The cardstock smelled of the cologne he always wore.

Smiling, she walked over to the dresser and
propped the card against the crystal budvase that held a single, perfect
gardenia. The flower had been there when she returned to her new apartment that
morning. She wondered if it had been Spike who had placed it there and just
where the leggy blonde could have procured the flower this late in the year.
There had been a card with the flower, as well. That card was also propped
against the budvase, the wording on it a simple
Thank You
.

After the Kiwi had been officially
discharged from the hospital, he’d gone his way and she’d gone hers—each in
separate cars. Though he insisted she didn’t have to go to work, she insisted
just as adamantly that she did. He’d given in with a long, weary sigh as though
he was too tired to argue with her. A light kiss to her forehead had been his
capitulation before he turned and headed down the corridor with Kit at his
side. Jonny had been waiting for her at the west entrance of the hospital to
avoid the crush of reporters waiting for the Kiwi.

They were being very protective of her,
carefully guarding her from the glare of the reporters’ cameras—even though the
press now knew her name. They also knew where she worked and everything they
could gather on her. There were paparazzi hanging out at Dunham, Belvoir, and
Brell. It was interesting going to and from work being chased through the
streets of Atlanta. Even though the paparazzi knew where she lived, they
couldn’t get within five hundred feet of her thanks to a cordon of burly
bodyguards handpicked by Kit.

They’d also learned where Drew was and had
sent people there to question him and the staff.

“I’ll put a stop to that fucking shit!”
Jono had sworn and he had. Drew was now guarded religiously by steroid-pumped
Māori warriors with facial tats that would make the bravest paparazzi think
twice about engaging them.

She was heading into the bathroom to shower
when the phone rang. It wasn’t the house phone. She’d been told not to answer
that one for fear it might be bugged. Instead, new burner phones showed up
every day on the nightstand and coffee table of her new apartment.

“Hello?”

“Like it?” he asked.

“It’s lovely, Kiwi,” she said. “The heels
are to die for.”

She heard him laugh.

“Yeah, well, they bankrupted me,” he told
her.

“Fat chance of that,” she said. “How do you
feel?” He’d had a slight headache when he’d woken that morning.

“I’m okay.” There was a long pause then, “I
spent most of the night watching you sleep.”

She had insisted on sleeping on the couch
though he demanded she sleep beside him in the hospital bed.

“Not my fault,” she said. “You could have
been snoring away instead.”

“I don’t snore,” he said. “That’s just my—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, mimicking his
accent. “It’s just your motor running in idle.”

“You should know. You’ve seen me motor,
woman,” he said.

“Where are we going tonight?” she asked.

“Taking you for that fancy meal we never
got to have,” he replied.

“And where will we be going?”

“A fine establishment that serves pickled
eels’ toenails and jujubes.”

“Oh yummy,” she said, never missing a beat.
“I’ll bring my eel fork.”

“Not necessary. The restaurant will
provide,” he said then hung up.

“Goofball,” she laughed.

* * * * *

He sent Jonny to pick her up in a black-and-red
Bugatti Veyron Super Sports.

“The most expensive street-legal car in the
world,” Jonny told her as she stood at the curb in awe of the machine. Across
the street several paparazzi were busy taking pictures of the car. “It is also
the fastest street-legal car clocking in at a top speed of 254.4 mph.”

“I’d just as soon not test that record out
tonight, thank you very much,” she said as he opened the door for her. She
glanced at what he was wearing. “Nice duds, bro.”

Jonny grinned and ran his hand down his
Armani suit. “You like? The head sherang spared no expense tonight.”

“I’ve heard that before. What does head
sherang mean?” she asked.

“The boss,” he replied.

“Ah,” she said and settled into the very
comfortable seat as he closed the door.

He jogged around the front of the luxury
car and got in, whistling. The car started up with a purr.

“Neat,” she said. “Where are you taking
me?”

“Club Triumph,” he said. “Members only.”

“I read about it in
Metro Vibes
.
Pretty swank, huh?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. Those of us
without a brass razoo couldn’t buy a toothpick in that eatery.”

She looked behind them as he pulled out
into the street, worried the reporters would come racing in pursuit.

“They won’t follow. My men will see to it.”

“That’s a relief,” she said, thinking of
how Princess Diana had met her tragic end.

They were headed into downtown Atlanta as a
light rain began to fall. Jonny turned on the wipers then glanced over at her.

“He’s got a new Room,” he said.

If the news was meant to please her it failed
by a long shot. She said nothing to the information, staring through the
windshield as rain pebbled the glass.

“There are no cameras,” he told her.

“He told you about the cameras,” she said
softly.

“He had Kit retrieve the videos and the
laptop,” he replied. “He spent all morning deleting every frame you were in.
The rest of it he gave to Jake for safekeeping. Well, all of it except the part
he wanted to hand over to the piggies.”

She turned to look at him. “The beating?”

Jonny nodded. “Done and done where the old
biddy is concerned. That’s more evidence against her.”

She twisted around in her seat. “Do you
think he will regret doing that, Jonny?”

“Nah. She sent him to Parrie. He’s just
returning the favor as he says.”

“Parrie?”

“Paremoremo Prison,” he said. “Where me and
him and Craigie were.”

“Was it bad?” she asked and when he didn’t
say anything she apologized for her nosiness and insensitivity.

“Yeah, it was bad,” he said at last. “More
so for him than for us.” He braked for a red light and his hands flexed around
the wheel as he stared straight ahead. “He was better looking than us and
younger and smaller. Easy pickings for some.” He looked at her. “Don’t tell him
I said that. I shouldn’t have.”

“I won’t,” she said and felt terrible
sadness well up inside her.

“But he toughed up and filled out and
learned how to punch like a fucking mule, you know? Not many men can take him
now one on one. I know I wouldn’t want to try.”

“I imagine not,” she said and was glad when
the light changed and he stepped on the gas. She needed to get them off such a
depressing subject. “How’s Spike?”

She saw him grin.

“That chickie is prime,” he said with a
nod.

“How long have you two been dating?”

“Not long,” he told her. “A couple of
weeks. Before then she was seeing this potato…”

“An Irishman?” she questioned.

“Polynesian,” he replied. “Brown on the
outside, white inside.”

“Well, of course,” she said. “Makes perfect
sense. You Kiwis are such a logical bunch.”

He laughed. “Anyway, he was lower than
shark shit. He’d fuck a barber’s floor if it had enough hairs on it and she
caught him at it with one of her mates. She dumped him and took up with me,” he
explained.

“I really like her,” she said. “You two
make a cute couple.”

He snorted as he signaled that he was
turning left. “Don’t read too much into it, love. She knocks like a ten-ton
lorry but I like it that way.”

She was afraid to ask what that meant.

The sign for Club Triumph was
inconspicuous. A single black enamel plate with the name emblazoned in silver
script was discreetly lit by two black metal canister lights on either side of
the sign. The black door set in the middle on the ground floor of a black
glass-and-chrome high-rise was guarded by a brute of a man with shoulders the
size of Mount Rushmore and a face just as granite-hard. His eyes followed them
as they pulled up in front of the building.

“No valet parking here,” Jonny said. “You
get dropped off and your driver peels off like a bride’s nightie. I can’t even
get out.”

“Oh,” she said, reaching for the door
handle.

“Unh unh,” Jonny said. “Just wait.”

She looked at the bouncer, saw him talking
into the sleeve of his jacket then watched as two hulking men came out of the
black door.

“A bit of overkill, wouldn’t you say?” she
asked Jonny.

“Only the multis—the rich nabobs—get past
the Sumo wrestler and his minions,” he said. “You have to buy a membership in
order to get in and Spike told me the going rate is a cool mil to get in and
annual dues of twenty grand.”

“Surely not,” she said as the two men
reached the car.

Jonny lowered her window and one of the men
held out his hand.

“ID,” he said in a rough voice.

Jonny leaned past her to hand him a plastic
card. The guard looked at it, looked at her, looked back at the card then
leveled his stony stare right at her.

“Middle name?” he inquired.

“Dawn,” she answered.

“Fraternal grandfather’s middle name?”

She blinked. That was a question you didn’t
get asked every day and she supposed that was as good a way as any to ascertain
who she really was. “Abraham.”

He inclined his head as he pocketed the
card. “You’ll get a permanent card inside, ma’am,” he said and opened her door.
He extended his hand to help her out. “Welcome to Club Triumph.”

She turned to thank Jonny but the man shut
the door before she could. With her hand still in his, he led her to the door
where the bouncer was smiling.

“Welcome, Miss Wynth,” he said, opening the
door for her. “Have a good evening.”

“Thank you.”

From the moment she entered the dimly lit
interior of the club, she was in awe. The walls were covered in black silk
wallpaper upon which was stamped an intricate gleaming silver tribal pattern.
Her shoes sank into thick black carpet that was lit by baseboard lights.
Overhead were elaborate chrome chandeliers with flickering electric candles
turned down so low the anteroom held mysterious, deep shadows.

Another massive guard bowed gracefully to
her, took her coat, and then silently indicated she was to follow him. The
black suit, tie and shirt he wore, and the silent way he walked, made her think
of goblins at Halloween. He took her to a small room where he handed her over
to a tall, thin woman wearing black slacks and a black off-the-shoulder blouse.

At first the lights were low but as the
woman came toward her, the lights came slowly up until they were at normal
brightness, revealing photographic and identification equipment.

“Please stand on the X, Miss Wynth,” the
woman said in a thick Italian accent.

The process of being photographed and
having her palm scanned made her feel like a covert operative. Chills ran down
her back as the thin woman led her from the office and down a murky corridor
where the scent of gardenia wafted through the air. At the end of the corridor
was an ornate Louis XVI desk behind which sat one of the most beautiful women
she’d ever seen.

Dressed in a long black strapless gown that
showed off her creamy shoulders to perfection, the woman sat like a queen upon
her throne. The chrome chair beneath her elegantly rounded derriere was
upholstered in black velvet.

“We are so happy you could join us, Miss
Wynth,” she said. Her smile was sheer perfection with ultra-white teeth behind
scarlet-red lips. “I am Xanadu. Your guide for the evening is Justin.”

From the shadows stepped a gorgeous hunk of
a man she was fairly sure spent the daylight hours as a male model. He looked
as though he had been poured into the black leather pants that snugly fit his
lean hips. A black silk shirt stretched across broad shoulders and tapered to a
trim waist. His leather boots, belt and tie were all ebony colored.

“If you will follow me, Miss Wynth,” he
said in a smoky voice. “Mr. McGregor is awaiting you.” He swept his hand into
the shadows from whence he had come.

For what seemed forever she followed Justin
through meandering corridors, past black door after black door until the light
strains of sensuous Celtic music drifted toward her. Ahead there was a faint
light that drew her like a moth to the flame. So thick was the carpet upon
which she walked she seemed to be floating above it. A light draft played over her
bare arms but it was warm air accompanied by a perfumed scent like that of
burning candles. As they drew nearer the light, she noticed it flickering and
came to realize the luminosity was being generated by blazing tapers.

Her first sight of the dining room took her
breath away. The walls were done in the same Celtic designed black wallpaper
and the carpet underfoot was just as soft but it was the blood red tablecloths
upon which sat silver candelabras that immediately caught her eye. No
chandeliers hung suspended from the ceiling. Ranged along the walls were chrome
braziers where flames flicked and licked and wavered. Above her was a scarlet
red-and-black stained-glass ceiling in the middle of which was a huge silver
five-pointed star.