Page 11 of Wicked Fortune

“You can be his beck and call girl.”

I roll my eyes. “Old joke. But accurate.”

Our eyes lock, and we both have to stifle a fit of giggles. Sometimes I really do wish the boy was straight.

We each grab a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and move further into the grand foyer. I know the place is patrolled by a stellar security team, but since they dress like guests, I haven’t spotted one. Even so, I half expect one to sidle up to us, whisper that I’m a fraud, and kick me out. Clive, I’m sure, they’d let stay.

That, however, is just paranoia talking. I might not be able to get into an elite private sex club under normal circumstances, but tonight I’m here with VIP tickets in the form of the black masks with red trim that Bree got for Clive and me from Nikki Stark.

Until the moment she handed them over, I didn’t believe the club she’d described in answer to my What is Masque query could possibly be real. But it is, and here we are, and damned if I don’t want to forget all about the mission that brought me here and just find the hottest guy in the room and convince him that his purpose in life is to make me feel better than I’ve ever felt in all of my twenty-eight years.

“Slow down on the bubbly, girlfriend,” Clive says, and I realize I’ve already drained my flute. “I may not know exactly why we’re here, and I’m damn sure not going to complain,” he adds, eyeing a man with a firm ass and the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen. “But if your mission is to ensure you get that PA job, I think sober might be the better choice.”

I shoot him a sour glare. “You are far too pragmatic.”

“Honey, that’s what they all say. Come on.”

“It’s the parties, too. Not just the job.” I don’t know for certain that any of the industry meet-and-greets ever took place in one of Masque’s many rooms, but Hardline sponsors the parties, and Holt owns both Hardline and Masque—Hardline openly and Masque through a twisted web of identity-hiding papers. At least, that’s what Nikki told Bree. And since she’s married to a Master of the Universe who’s at least one step above Holt in the Hierarchy of Wealth & Power, I assume she knows what she’s talking about.

Even if no meet-and-greet action happens here, at the very least some of the guests might overlap. And with a few well-placed questions, maybe Clive—in the role of aspiring actor—will learn something.

My arm is hooked through his as we move across the entry hall toward the stairs. I want to look aloof and confident so I can attract Holt’s attention. But the truth is, I can’t take my eyes off him. Nobody in this room even compares to the man. Not Clive. Not the broad-shouldered hottie. Not anyone.

Matthew Holt is in an entirely different league, and from the way he stands, tall and confident in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit, it’s very clear that he knows it. The charcoal color suits him perfectly. Power and confidence and elegance all rolled together. It’s subtle, not flashy, but even so, he’s drawing the gaze of everyone in the room by doing nothing more than simply standing there.

I feel my nipples go hard, and I remember what happened after I left the Starks’ party after my close encounter with Holt. I’d raced all the way home, then immediately called Decker, my go-to FWB. That boy must have patted himself on the back for a month after that night. But it wasn’t him I was fucking. And it wasn’t him who’d made me so hot.

It was Matthew Holt. The man I’m interviewing with on Monday. And who—the stars willing—I’ll begin working for on Tuesday. The man whose business I’m going to be poking around in, trying to find all his dark and dirty secrets.

A guy who makes my entire body go gooey.

A man with one hell of a lot of power who just might have something to do with the death of my friend.

A man who, if the tabloids are right, has a temper as sharp and dangerous as the hard lines of his jaw.

And—most relevant for tonight—a man who owns the most elite sex club on the West Coast. That, however, isn’t common knowledge. From what Bree learned from Nikki, only patrons with the highest level of “key” know that he’s the man behind this infamous club tucked away inside a Beverly Hills mansion. Tonight, Clive and I are holding those top-level keys.

Too bad I still have no idea exactly what kind of door—physical or metaphorical—they open.

In other words, I don’t have a clue what I’m walking into.

“—upstairs?”

I blink stupidly at Clive. “What?”

“Turn down the volume on your lady parts. I can hear them begging from here. Make the man work for it, girlfriend.”

I tilt my head. “I’d flip you off, but the gesture doesn’t match the dress. I’m a lady tonight.”

“Uh-huh.”

We share a grin.

“Come on, Lady Parker. Let’s go up. And as for that dress? Honey, it’s almost enough to turn me straight.”

“Don’t tease a thirsty woman in the desert.”

“I said almost.”