Beyond the Velvet Rope (2 page)

Thandie had been plagued by panic attacks ever since she was a little girl. She had learned to control them as she got older. Her experienced episodes had become less frequent, and often occurred while she was alone. But every once in while, she was caught off guard by the sudden grip of anxiety. They were brought on by stress. It was an oddity that she would choose a high-pressure career. Strangely enough, Thandie never had an episode while at work. Her attacks were remarkably selective. They chose only to present themselves when she was dealing with personal issues.

It was just after dawn, and the sky was just beginning to brighten with flecks of sunlight. Taking a cab to her loft uptown would be ideal, but the streets were empty. Apparently, it was too early for taxi drivers to earn a living. Taking the bus was out of the question. She was dressed for a fashion show. She’d rather walk before facing the curious stares. But it was cold outside. Too cold for pride. And certainly too cold for a woman to walk around in six inch suede boots and a sequined miniskirt. Stares or no, she was not walking home.

The closest bus stop was around the corner from Cam’s building. Thandie hobbled in that direction, trying as much as possible not to attract any attention. It was a challenge, but she managed to do it without grimacing once.

As luck would have it, as soon as she reached the end of the block, she saw a lone taxi puttering down the dark street. Relief flooded through her as it drew nearer to the curb. Once tucked inside the backside of the taxi, she released a heavy sigh. The temperature in the cab was only marginally warmer than outside, but it was an improvement nonetheless.

Thandie clenched her hands together tightly, until the shaking subsided a little. It took a while before she realized her hands were not the only thing trembling. Reaching into her purse, Thandie pulled out her phone. It was Gage calling.

Suppressing a groan, she answered, “Hi Gage.”

Laughter greeted her. “How’s my favorite little porn star this morning?”

“That’s not funny,” Thandie said unamused.

“You know what else isn’t funny?” Gage asked in her crisp British accent. “Threatening every snitch at that party not to release your name to the press. I assure you the task lacks hilarity. I’ve had a full morning already and it isn’t even six o’clock yet.”

Thandie checked the time. “My goodness, Gage. Have you slept at all?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she said with a dry laugh.

“Thanks, Gage. I owe you—”

“Trust me. You’ll never be able to repay my generosity on this one.”

Thandie cringed. “Was it that bad?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Gage scoffed. “You and Cam were seen doing the deed in public. Couldn’t you have had the decency to screw each other in Central Park, like a normal New Yorker? No, you aimed for the big leagues. You had to put your sexcapades on display at a Marc Jacobs’s party of all places. And on the first day of
Fashion Week
.”

Gage added the last part as if the untimeliness of the stunt was her biggest offense. With a sigh, Thandie had to admit Gage was right.

“I wasn’t thinking,” she admitted.

“No. You were too busy screwing. Not very smart.”

“What should I do?”

“Not a damn thing. I’ve taken care of it. There may be some whispers, but rest assured no one will print either of your names.”

“Thank you, Gage”

“Stay out of sight for a few days, to give this time to blow over.”

“I can’t,” Thandie said helplessly. “I’m hosting a party tomorrow night.”

Gage gave the sigh of a martyr. “Fine. But do me a favor and try to stay out of trouble for a while. I think I’ve used up all my favors.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Make sure you do.”

Miami, Florida
12:57PM

Elliot stretched lazily before rolling onto his back. Opening his eyes slowly, he stared up at the mirror mounted above the bed. Fuzzy memories of last night came back to him. He was in his playroom. The one room in his home where his bed partners were welcome. It was conveniently stationed just off the foyer, the first room closest to the front door.

For Elliot Richards, privacy was his most treasured possession. His home was next in line. He hated the idea of bringing women home; this was his haven, his utopia away from the loud and busy life he led on the mainland. It annoyed him that he was reduced to bringing his conquests here. But there were few choices available to him.

Miami was a small city, gossip ran rampant, and he was easily recognizable. Hotels were simply not an option. Elliot was not a vain person who relished the attention of others. He was quite the opposite. He shied away from publicity, often refusing to be interviewed by the press. However, as the owner of a string of successful South Beach businesses, he was often photographed sharing a drink with celebrities. The paparazzi had unknowingly made him into the one thing he worked hard to avoid: famous.

The redhead sleeping to his right rolled into his side, nuzzling his chest with her nose. The movement caused the blonde lying on his left to toss her arm across his naked hips. Bored, and somewhat uncomfortable, Elliot nudged her limp body away from him and slid out of bed. He looked around for his pants, but after a few quick glances, he gave up the endeavor.

The redhead awoke. “Where are you going?” she asked.

He answered her with a question of his own. “Did you drive here?”

She shook her head; her auburn locks curtained her eyes. “You drove us. Where are you going?”

By this time, the blonde had come to life, yawning deeply before giving him a sexy grin. “Come back to bed, baby.”

Spying his phone on the floor, Elliot scooped it up and punched a number stored in his auto dial.

“Security,” a gruff voice answered.

“This is Elliot Richards. Call a cab, please.” He hung up the phone and winked at the women. “Ladies, I have a busy day. You should go.” Stepping over miscellaneous sex toys used the previous night, he pulled open the door. Before leaving, he turned back. “Please don’t be here when I get back.”

He closed the door closed behind him.

When he stepped into the hall, he ran into Romero Latez, his personal assistant. The twenty-something Pennsylvania State University graduate had been employed by Elliot for over a year, and he was the best assistant Elliot had ever had. He was discreet and well-groomed. Romero held himself with the arrogant air of someone who was a decade older and had seen everything. He showed no obvious surprise over Elliot’s nakedness. It wasn’t the first time, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

He handed Elliot a chilled bottle of water. “Are you ready for your messages?”

Elliot took a modest sip before shaking his head. “Not just yet.” Nodding his head toward the door that led to the playroom, he said, “Get them out of here before Lucinda sees them.”

Romero nodded and Elliot turned away. He crossed the living areas, passed the kitchen, and headed toward the west wing, where the master suite was located. He pushed open the door, closing it immediately behind him.

This was the one room in the house where no one other than himself was allowed. It was the single place where he could truly be left to his private thoughts. Oftentimes, the scant half hour he used getting dressed for the day was the only time when he was by himself. He relished these moments. And he guarded them passionately.

Elliot rarely had time to be alone. He was often surrounded by people. There was always someone waiting for him, needing an answer to a series of questions, or just plain wanting his insight. This was partly his fault. He’d purposely mapped his life so that every moment of the day was strategically planned. He liked to make the most of every minute. He had to. There were simply too many people who worked for him to keep track of it all without relying on a rhythm to the madness. Yes, it was often madness. And yes, there was a definite rhythm to it.

Tossing his phone on the bed, he headed into the bathroom. Once showered and clean-shaven, he entered his expansive closet. After surveying the array of neatly hung expensive suits, he selected a pair of black slacks, matching jacket and a dark dress shirt. He triggered his phone to play his messages on speaker, so he could listen while he dressed. There were only a handful of people who knew his mobile number. And Elliot was particular about returning calls in a timely manner.

Message 1: “Elliot, it’s Nick Sinclair. I’ll be in Miami soon. I thought you ought to know. I’ll call you later with details. Tell Lucinda I said hello.”

Message 2: “This is Nico. Three words: Matrix. Party. Tonight.”

Message 3: “Hi Elliot. This is Daria. I’ll be in Miami on the twenty first for a photo shoot. I’ll be there for the entire weekend. [giggle] I’d love to see you again. Call me.”

Message 4: “Hey, Elliot. It’s Eddie. Don’t forget we have the financial meeting at three this afternoon. I think you’ll find the marketing budget interesting.”

Elliot considered the messages, making note of the order in which he would return each call. He’d grinned when he’d listened to Nico’s cryptic message. Nico could always be counted on for a good laugh. The mention of Matrix throwing another one of his parties was good reason to call Nico back first.

Afterward, Elliot planned to call Nick Sinclair, another longtime friend. The two spoke often on the phone, but due to the fact they lived on opposite coasts, they rarely saw each other. He wondered what would bring Nick to Miami this time of the year. Regardless, it would be nice to see his old friend again. Elliot made a mental note to call his comrade as soon as possible. As for Eddie, there was no need to return his call. Elliot would see Eddie within the hour.

Daria was another issue. Her trips to Miami seemed to be coming more frequently. He would have to talk to her about this. If she was forming expectations about their arrangement, he would have to set the record straight.

Now dressed, Elliot shot a fleeting glance toward his bed as he left the room. Equipped with the news Nico had delivered, it was doubtful he’d be sleeping in his own bed tonight.

Romero was waiting for him in the foyer. Elliot was pleased to hear the house was silent; hence, the women were gone. Romero tossed him his car keys. Wordlessly, Elliot stepped onto the sprawling patio which wrapped around the front of his home. Elliot hit the key fob dangling from his keychain, and the headlights of a shiny black Porsche lit up. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turned the ignition, pausing only long enough for Romero to sling into the passenger seat. Throwing the car into first gear, pebbles kicked up as Elliot sped off Star Island.

A short time later, they pulled in front of a four-story building. On its broad side, a large sign read Club Babylon in sleek silver letters. On a typical night, the street would be lined with cars, and the sidewalks crowded with eager partygoers. But it was daylight, many hours before the club opened for business. Parking steps from he front entrance, Elliot tossed his car keys to Romero and strolled into the inside like he owned the place; which he did.

* * *

With Romero close on his heels, Elliot crossed the now empty dance floors, and jogged up the steps which led to his office. It was a large airy room, with stylish low-slung furniture and many shiny surfaces. It was positioned in a corner of the building. The architecture enabled it to jut out at an angle so that it was suspended over the main dance floor. With three of the walls made of glass, it allowed Elliot an unfiltered view of the club. Presently, the room glowed a dreamy orange hue, a reflection from the stage mood lights; and a clear indication the technicians were testing the lights before showtime.

There was a cluster of men waiting for Elliot when he arrived. He nodded to each before taking a seat behind his desk. He punched a series of numbers on his speaker phone, and instantly two investors were conferenced into the meeting.

“Hello, everyone,” Elliot began. “Let’s not waste time. We have a lot to cover in a few short hours.” He looked down at his watch. “It’s 3:00 p.m. now. We can break for lunch around six.” He turned to a thin, freckle-faced man seated on a sofa across from him. “Eddie, where do we stand with the financials? I want cost analysis for the added security, transportation and entertainment. Let’s hold off on the marketing for now. We need to make sure we can handle the traffic we currently bring in.” Inclining his head toward Eddie, he said, “Please begin.”

Chapter Two

New York
City
11:35PM

T
handie stepped out of the limo to see the line outside the club was so long it wrapped around the corner. The rowdy group traveling with her filed out behind her. Two of her assistants, Len Harris and Amanda Karl, were working the front door, checking in VIP and special guests. They both waved at Thandie frantically.

“Wow, I’m glad to see you!” Amanda shouted over the crowd. “Working the door is crazy business. It’s not ever midnight yet, and we’re already close to capacity. Craig keeps threatening to shut the door, but I have thirty people on the list who haven’t shown yet.”

There was a time when Thandie would have had a meltdown over such news, but after five years in the business and many clients later she had dealt with bigger problems. Amanda had only worked for her for a year, and though she was very attentive and detail-oriented she often panicked during showtime.

“Let me see the list.” Thandie scanned the sheet. Amanda was right. If these people showed up, they had to be let in. She checked her watch. “Keep a sharp eye out. I want them escorted in immediately. Leave Craig to me.”

“Good,” Len said, “because he told me he wants you to come see him as soon as you arrive.”

Fighting back the urge to groan, Thandie nodded her head.

Recognizing her, the bouncer waved her towards the entrance, causing the long line of people to watch her curiously. When it came to New York’s nightlife, Thandie Shaw held the master key to almost every VIP room in the city. And that made her a hot commodity. She was currently marketing several clubs at once, and she was doing it with great flair. Celebrities loved her and the cameras adored her. But she couldn’t do it alone. Between sending press releases, creating VIP lists, and making sure the right people were at the right place, having assistants was a must.

Turning her attention to her guests, Thandie ushered her group inside the club.

A woman in line recognized the man standing beside Thandie and started screaming. This created a wave of screams as word soon spread that actor Ruark Randall from the hit cop show,
LA Homicide,
was there.

Thandie ushered Ruark and the rest of his party through the door. As soon as they cleared the threshold, Thandie spied another one of her employees, Raja Travis, across the room. Tall and exquitsite, Raja was doing an excellent job of working the room, making sure everyone was having a good time. This was a must in their line of business. Getting people to the club was only a fraction of her job; the next step was keeping them there.

Thandie guided her group toward the back of the building. The VIP hostess welcomed her with air kisses before unhooking the velvet rope that gave entry to a secluded room where only the most exclusive of guests were welcomed. Thandie had purposely arrived just before one o’clock. This was when the crowd was usually in full swing. Tonight was no exception. Neon lights lit the darkened room, and everyone except for herself seemed to be quite drunk.

Ruark Randall and his group of rowdy friends were among the most obnoxious clients she had ever escorted. Ruark wasn’t necessarily cute, but he had a certain charisma about him that made people watch him. Perceived by the press to be relatively reserved, Thandie was surprised to discover that Ruark was very affectionate when he had been drinking. Right now, he was making a scene by practically humping her. She tolerated him as long as she could before disappearing to look for Craig, the manager.

As she made her way through the dancing crowd, she told herself that although she was getting paid very well, it simply was not enough to be pawed at by a drunk idiot. It didn’t matter how famous they were, a drunk idiot was still a drunk idiot. She swore if Ruark asked her go home with him again she would punch his perfecty capped teeth out of his mouth

“Thandie, baby, you did good.” She turned just as Craig Sanders strepped out of the crowd. “The Pussy Cats were spectacular,” he grinned.

Thandie smiled tightly at the compliment. Craig was referring to the troupe of exotic dancers she’d hired for tonight. She’d arrived just in time to catch the tail end of their performance. She was annoyed to discover they were performing a recycled routine.

Thandie nodded her head toward the DJ booth. “Who’s spinning tonight?”

“The Freshman.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what he calls himself.”

“That name is pretty lame. Why on earth would he insist on it?”

Craif shrugged. “At least it’s accurate.” He smirked. “He’s a freshman in school.”

Thandie looked up at the DJ booth. The boy in question held headphones to his ear, while his hands moved busily, spinning and exchanging records. “He doesn’t look old enough to be in college,” she said under her breath.

“That’s because he isn’t,” Craig said, amused. “That kid is in high school.”

The news caught Thandie by surprise, making her blink several times. “He’s a freshman in high school?” She lowered her voice. “What is he doing in here, Craig?”

“Hey, that kid has been working in clubs since he was in middle school. He’s one of the top underground DJs. He’s a pretty big deal. I actually had to get on a waiting list to hire him. Never mind the fee I’m paying. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve paid more, but those jerks were twice his age.”

Thandie nodded her head. He might be a kid, but one thing was certain: The Freshman definitely knew his music. His transition from one song to the next was flawless. Club guests showed their appreciation by rushing to the dance floor.

Pulling her attention away from the excited crowd, Craig pointed toward the VIP room where Ruark Randall and his boisterous cronies were tossing girls over their shoulders and spinning around in circles. “Do you think he’d take a picture with me for the website?”

Thandie rolled her eyes. “Please don’t tell me you’re a fan.”

Craig looked sheepish. “I watch the show from time to time. I can’t be at work all the time.”

“The show comes on in the evening while you’re at the club.”

“I record it.”

Thandie shook her head in disbelief.

“Len tells me you’re trying to close the door.”

He nodded. “Our capacity is borderline. I can’t have the fire marshal on my ass.”

“Just let Len pass through twenty more people.”

“Twenty people? Are you kidding me? Thanks to that group you just brought in, I’m likely over capacity now.”

“Allow my guests entrance when they arrive. Trust me, Craig, their presence will ensure the club gets a mention in
The Post
.”

“Okay, okay,” he said with a groan. “Len can let them in, and then the door closes.”

“You’re wonderful, Craig.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His eyes suddenly brightened with interest. “Hey didn’t you go to the Marc Jacobs party last night?”

Thandie stiffened. “Yes, why?”

“I heard it got pretty wild. Did you see anything?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Nothing out of the norm.”

Craig shrugged. “Figures. I finally score an invite, and I can’t go because I’m working.” His beady eyes scanned her body. “You know, Thandie, you should really consider being my woman.”

She folded her arms across her chest, and gave him her best no-nonsense expression.

“I was just kidding,” he weakly.

* * *

Thandie placed a hand on her hip and said, “If you want a picture with Ruark, let’s get it over with. I want to wash my hands of him as soon as possible.”

“That doesn’t sound like a team player to me.”

“Get the camera, Craig.”

They made their way back to the VIP area, where Ruarke was making a scene popping the cork off a bottle of champagne. After easing their way through a throng of curious onlookers, Thandie quickly made introductions. Ruarke smiled pleasantly, but when Craig asked for a picture, the actor tossed his head back and laughed.

“Dude, I’m not taking pictures with another guy. I’m not gay.” He pulled Thandie to his side. “I’ll take a picture with Tammie here instead.”

Craig’s disappointment was evident, but he eagerly agreed to take the photo. Just as Thandie had expected, Ruark used the photo opportunity to hold her unnecessarily close, even going as far as to kiss her on the mouth on one of the takes.

It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

By the time Thandie got home, she felt as though she had been mauled. It was four o’clock in the morning when she unlocked the door to her loft apartment door. The lower level of her home doubled as her office, and the upper served as her personal living quarters.

She had come a long way in her career. Before starting her own firm, she’d worked five years with Gage Ali. Gage was the director of public relations for one of New York’s top fashion houses.

The years assisting Gage had been the most informative of her life. She’d met more celebrities than she ever dreamed possible and established many business contacts. Although demanding at times, Gage had been a thorough instructor. She had a strategy for every situation. Promoting Manhattan nightclubs was a far cry from managing press releases for a fashion company, but many of the same rules applied. One, keep your cool. Two, take control. And three, keep your cool. Due to her discipline, Thandie had rose quickly in her field. There was not a VIP lounge in the City she could not gain access to, and earn a generous commission while doing it.

Thandie was thankful to Gage for guidance and found herself calling her mentor for advice when she faced an emergency. Gage always had the right answer. Gage had introduced her to just about everyone worth knowing, including her ex-boyfriend, Cam Stewart.

Cam
. It hurt every time she thought of him.

They hadn’t spoken since she’d woken in his bed the previous morning. Thandie did not like to idea of him being upset with her, but it was probably best this way. Better they go their separate ways once and for all, instead of prolonging the inevitable.

She climbed the steps leading to her bedroom. One of the girls had left a note on her pillow, a reminder of her massage appointment at ten. Thandie looked at her watch and groaned. Her appointment allowed her only five hours of sleep. She would love to reschedule, but her masseur was hard to book.

Thandie eased into bed, fully clothed. She could smell cigarette smoke in her hair. She yearned to take a shower but was too tired. When she’d dropped Ruark Randall and his friends off at their hotel, Ruark had invited her up to his room to do ecstasy. She had to refuse five times before he got the point. She swore if she never saw the man again, it would be too soon. If she had the energy, she would vent her frustrations aloud, but in the grand scheme of things it didn’t really matter. In spite of for her frustration and weariness, Thandie loved her job. The satisfaction of hosting a successful event far outweighed the aggravation of babysitting spoiled A-listers. Besides, tomorrow night would involve another celebrity with a different story.

Miami, Florida

Elliot Richards slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He looked out over the crowded dance floor below. There, beautiful people swayed to loud techno music. Club Babylon was very much alive tonight. Babylon was his jewel, his mistress, his one true love. And his greatest accomplishment. What had begun as a thought was now reality. He’d spent years cultivating the idea, observing the industry, and building his knowledge. He was the man behind Club Babylon, the chic, multilevel dance club whose fame was growing by the minute.

Elliot owned a string of businesses throughout Miami, but Babylon was his obesssion. He was heavily involved in all interactions. He managed a team of fifty workers, comprised mostly of dancers, bartenders and cleaning crews. It was a large undertaking. Mercifully, he did not do it alone. His management staff was the best in the business. He was fortunate to have them, however, very little was done without his approval. Elliot was known for his innovative marketing strategies and extensive knowledge of the industry. That being the case, his staff rarely moved on anything without his say-so. Between the operation of Babylon and his other enterprises, Elliot barely had enough time to sleep. But this was the life he had chosen. Even on the worst of days, he couldn’t think of anything else he’d rather be doing.

Elliot checked his watch. In another hour, he would be expected to make his rounds, offering complementary drinks to VIP members and hugging beautiful, tanned women. It was his job. As the owner, he was obligated to work the crowd. If there was one thing that made Miami different from other party cities, it was its well-connected night scene. Everyone on the strip wanted to say they knew someone important. It seemed to work out that a majority of the people who walked into Club Babylon claimed they were close friends with Elliot, and thus demanded star treatment. His staff had their hands full, catering to the wave of celebutantes who flooded his VIP lounges. Managing a thriving business required long nights and countless favors.

However, there were advantages to being Elliot Richards. He’d been blessed with physical attributes most men could only dream of possessing. Elliot was tall, lean and handsome. His chiseled features were softened by an unusual combination of thick black hair and clear silver eyes.

And Elliot had one more thing working in his favor—he was wealthy. A series of smart business investments made early in his career had paid off, and he now had a vast fortune. Because of his good looks and money, Elliot never had trouble attracting attention from members of the opposite sex.

“Elliot, are you listening?”

Elliot turned to his management team: Adam Parr, Markie Duran, Rex Barrington, Eddie Bloom and Tom Comber. They were all looking at him expectantly.

“Yes, I heard you, Rex,” Elliot said in his low, untroubled voice. He moved to face his director of marketing. “I agree. We need to push the marketing campaign for the grand opening.”

“Everyone loves the changes,” Rex offered, “but if we want to hit the numbers that the renovation was geared for, we need to decide how we want to do it.”

Elliot nodded. He knew Rex was right. Rex was his director of marketing. The club needed a serious marketing push, and he had his hands tied with other projects.