Awakened (24 page)

“I get the idea.” Maybe that sounded more snippy than she intended. But Barrett already knew she was likely to be regarded with suspicion by nearly all of them.

Justine shoved several hangers together, inspecting another relatively modest dress before moving on. “There will be plenty of girls who are tougher than you can probably imagine.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Girls like that—just don’t judge them, because they’ll know. But watch your back.”

“I didn’t come here to judge anyone,” she muttered.

Justine quickly changed the subject. “You’ll be surprised by how young some of them look. Maybe you know the type? Fresh-faced teen temptress? I worked that angle until I was in my late twenties.”

“I never had a baby face.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Not with those cheekbones. You look rich, Barrett. Like you could give a man a whack with your gem-encrusted riding crop. Make him beg for—um—whatever he wants,” Justine said brightly.

“I don’t own one. And a real riding crop is plain saddle leather.”

“Well, that would work, too,” Justine said cheerfully. “Anyway, you practically scream class. Club Red isn’t going to put a gum-chomping bimbo at the front station.”

“So you think I should go for the hostess job?”

“Easier to get. You’re not a dancer. And hostesses don’t handle cash. They just have to look good, keep track of time, and be able to tell the riffraff from the real deal.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Guess I better invent a résumé.”

Justine laughed. “Hell no. Don’t. Believe me, they’re not looking to hire Ivy League grads. So shut up about that. And by the way, change your last name at least.”

“How about Klein? Sounds real.”

“And it’s nice and short. Go get a fake ID,” Justine added.

That had been on her list since she and Nick had checked into that hotel.

“I’ve already got my cover in place from when I met Powell. If they run a background check—”

“Well, they will.” Justine gave Barrett a friendly slap on the butt. “On this. It’s all about your appearance, honey.”

Barrett thrust all the dresses on hangers over her arm back onto a rack. Haphazardly. She straightened them out and smoothed the tags into place. Then she picked up the two dresses that had fallen under the rack, not wanting to make extra work for some sales associate.

She was a compulsively good girl. And she was not looking forward to the audition.

“Here we go,” Justine whispered. The surging crowd of women in front of the low stage formed a human wall.

“We need a battering ram,” Barrett muttered.

“Just ease through. Or stay put. You’ll get noticed no matter what.”

Barrett looked down at her feet, which were already hurting from standing for so long. Her plain, high-heeled pumps in ivory had cost more than the conservative evening suit they matched. The cut was classic except for the neckline that plunged between her firm breasts. No camisole. Justine had insisted that she show a little skin.

She smiled at a supertough-looking dancer who pushed past her, glancing at the tattoos swarming all over her arms and the tarnished stud decorating her nose. The woman trod heavily on her toes in reply.

Barrett winced.

“Not the girl-next-door type,” Justine said without moving her lips.

“No kidding.”

The tattooed dancer’s forward march through the crowd produced howls and shoves. The bouncers escorted her to the door as soon as she reached the stage.

“She’s a natural for a biker bar.” Justine wasn’t being catty, just putting in her two cents. “A luxury club like this would never hire a girl with that much ink,” she added. “The bouncers know the ropes.”

There were several up there. Massive men with thick necks and bald heads and sharkskin suits with no lapels. Plus fists decked out with rings big enough to serve as brass knuckles.

If her mom could see her now.

Barrett concentrated on memorizing details Nick would be sure to ask her about. She tried to relax. She was inside. If she got picked, she would have a chance to explore the inside of the club whenever she was free. If she didn’t get picked, she’d sneak in. Fortunately, according to Moira Finn, who offered insider information every time Justine called her to gab, there was a media junket scheduled before the club’s grand opening.

Apparently every girl in a G-string between New City and Atlanta was hoping to be interviewed by a national reporter and get a taste of fame. The club would be crowded with all kinds of people coming and going at odd hours, which was to their advantage.

There were over a hundred applicants vying to be noticed. A lanky man in a suit that didn’t fit him too well strolled onstage.

“Gil!” His name got screamed over and over, like he was a rock star instead of a sleazebag pimp.

So this was Gil Mansfield, turned vamp and suspected child abductor.

If only she had a way to alert Nick right now. But a cell call could be overheard, even intercepted and recorded. They had no way of knowing if electronic surveillance was operative inside the club. Nick had emphasized the danger. They’d agreed to call only when it seemed safe to do so. And even then they would be taking a risk unless they were several miles away from the club.

Mansfield ran a hand over his slick hair and adjusted his tie, blatantly preening for the girls.

Barrett’s eyes narrowed, memorizing his face and the way he walked, in case she ever had to figure out who he was in some dark alley.

She almost missed the entrance of the man who owned Club Red.

Tall, magnificently built, and expensively dressed, Vladimir Ouspensky radiated sinister confidence. He had a quelling effect on the overexcited girls. They went quiet as he strode across the stage.

A pouty brunette with a beauty-pageant body joined him, draping her slender arm across his broad shoulders. She was the one Nick had pegged as Miss Silicone, Barrett realized. She seemed to be advertising her status as Vladimir’s girlfriend, in case the dancers didn’t get it.

His long black hair fell over his shoulders as he leaned forward, studying each girl in turn with remarkable concentration.

Then he made his choice, pointing only to the ones he liked. The bouncers began to escort the rejects out. Many were chattering like magpies again, not exactly heartbroken. The pouty brunette skittered off the stage to talk to a girl she seemed to know.

Barrett remembered the other clubs she’d glimpsed from the outside when she and Justine had driven through New City to the condo. Most would probably find work.

An uneasy feeling came over her as she glanced around at the rapidly thinning crowd. Justine, who was standing right by her, elbowed her hard.

“He’s staring at you, Barrett,” she said under her breath. “I told you you’d get noticed.”

Barrett looked up quickly at the man on the stage. She was immediately riveted by his dark eyes. It wasn’t a cliché to say they looked like burning coals, because they actually did. The irises were black with a spark of incandescent red.

Despite the heat in his gaze, she shivered. His mouth had a cruel sensuality, with lips that curved but never smiled.

Definitely a force to be reckoned with, she thought, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling that kept growing.

His gaze lifted as he half turned to speak to a woman who’d just joined him. Her plump figure was encased in tight fuchsia knit, with hennaed, spiky-short hair.

Barrett strained to hear Vladimir Ouspensky’s murmured words and the woman’s soft response.

Only one word came across clearly.
Stripped
.

She turned to Justine, who had heard it, too.

“No need to go that far. You don’t have to do this,” Justine whispered out of the side of her mouth. “I’ll walk out with you. Come on.”

Barrett shook her head. She was inside the club. He wanted her. She was staying.

Sure enough, Vladimir had wanted Barrett to strip, but not in the way she’d assumed. Yolanda, the woman in fuchsia, had been ordered to remove the natural color from Barrett’s hair and do a white-silver rinse with polymer finish. The result was stunning and wildly sophisticated in an otherworldly way.

She barely recognized herself, though Vladimir, watching, had insisted that her long hair not be shortened, but only trimmed. The precision-cut result was a masterpiece of geometry.

Standing behind her, he had let her pure white locks run through his fingers over and over again. Each time they fell into the same perfectly straight horizontal line at the end.

He never touched her skin. Just her hair. The air moving against the nape of her neck was an infinitely subtle sensation. She would have called it erotic if Nick had been the one doing it.

When Vladimir Ouspensky did it, it was sexual. She was disturbed by her instinctive reaction to him, dismissing it as only physical. But it was something more than that. She sat in silence as he stepped back, feeling ashamed of the answer that came to mind. It was a thrill. Being so close to such a powerful and evil man was an undeniable thrill.

Barrett corrected herself. Not a man. A vampire. Barrett was certain that’s what he was.

Profoundly evil.

He met her eyes in the mirror she was facing. She crossed one wrist over the other, as if she were protecting her body from him. The warmth of the heavy gold bracelet reminded her that he could not read her mind.

Thank God for that.

He murmured his thanks to Yolanda, who stood to the side, her hands on her hips, critically surveying her handiwork. Then he spoke to Barrett.

“Welcome to Club Red. I think you will make a most elegant hostess.”

Justine had been right. No one had asked to see a résumé. It really was all about the way you looked. She’d offered a few vague lines about having worked in a New York nightclub and given it an imaginary name. He’d waved the explanation away, and as far as the club’s made-up name, hadn’t seemed to care. Clubs opened and closed with blinding speed in any big city anyway, trendy one minute and passé the next.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” Barrett said. “I was wondering, though—what do you want me to do until the grand opening?”

“Various things.” He gazed approvingly at her in the mirror. “Feel free to move about the club in order to completely familiarize yourself with the layout. Even I lose my way from time to time.”

She nodded, not believing that for a second. Club Red seemed like an extension of him. Overwhelming. Complicated.

“You are expected to arrive before the girls do, and supervise their signing in and so forth. Learn to use the software. Although if you’ve worked in a nightclub I suppose it will be familiar to you.”

“Of course.” She gave him a confident smile. Justine could probably download the program—or Nick could—and tutor her at the condo. She was going to have to learn fast.

They were interrupted by a low whistle.

“Look at that fantastic hair. Girl, it don’t get no whiter. And blown straight as a ruler.”

The woman who spoke to Barrett was African American, tall and stunningly beautiful, with dark doe eyes outlined in smoky pencil and breathtakingly long legs. Jeans and tee and platform sandals made the most of a feline figure that didn’t quit.

Vladimir nodded to the woman, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. Then he spoke to Barrett. “I must go. I will allow this lady to introduce herself.”

“Oh—okay. And thanks,” Barrett said to her. “I like the look. It just takes a little getting used to.”

Barrett wasn’t lying. She stared into the mirror, feeling somewhat unsettled by Vladimir’s abrupt departure. Her sudden self-consciousness compelled her to tame the waterfall of white—or maybe just brush away the strange feelings her transformation had evoked.

A few more long strokes and she was done, setting the brush down.

“Yolanda did it after my interview,” she finally replied, wondering who the woman was and whether she was being criticized or admired. “Mr. Ouspensky was pretty specific about what he wanted.”

She felt really different with her hair stripped and bleached to no color at all, as if she’d acquired an alternate persona: cold and unapproachable. Which wasn’t what she would need to successfully infiltrate Club Red.

“Yeah, he’s like that,” the woman said knowingly. “I heard Yolanda’s supposed to do hair and makeup only for the important girls now.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at Barrett. “You must be the new hostess.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. But I don’t think that makes me particularly important. Justine recommended me for the job.” Barrett left out the chain of events. If you had to lie, keep it simple. One of Nick’s mottoes.

“Never heard of her. But I know Vladimir likes white,” the other woman said. “Don’t ask me what I’m doing in his brand-new club,” she joked.

“Did you just get hired, too? By the way, I’m Barrett Klein.” Barrett extended a hand, the fake last name flowing smoothly from her lips.

“Sammy Privett. You can call me Sam. Pleased to meet you.” She confirmed that with a warm handshake. “And don’t get me wrong, I love the platinum princess look. Can’t rock it quite like you do myself, but so what. And to answer your question, me and Vlad go way back. I’ve worked for him before and I’ve got a lot of connections he finds invaluable. Sure hope they finish fixing up the club before the grand opening.”

“Me, too.” Barrett twisted her gold bracelet and noticed how Sam’s gaze tracked the movement.

“Be sure you keep track of your bling. Or just wear the fake stuff. That’s what I do.” Sam grinned. “Want to see the dressing room? Some of the dancers are already steaming up the mirrors.”

Barrett was taken aback. “Doing what?”

“Generating hot air, honey. Between their damn blow-dryers and the way they gossip, it’s probably about a hundred degrees in there already.”

“Oh. Got it.”

“Come on. We can listen in. Nothing but lies. Better than TV any day of the week.”

Sam motioned to Barrett to follow her as she swung open the door to a backstage corridor. There were bare bulbs in wire cages strung from a long rod fastened to the ceiling.

Barrett trotted after her, noticing that the fixtures just barely cleared Sam’s high hairdo, she was so tall. Despite her long strides, there was a sensual swing to her walk that Barrett envied.