Find Me in Darkness: Mal and Christina's Story, Part 1 Read online

  I hug myself, squeezing tight to ward off a sudden flood of nervous energy even as Brayden moves to stand beside me.

  “That’s pretty cool,” he says. He bends down and looks at it from underneath. “Is there a gas line running up the column?”

  The butler’s brows rise slightly, but he says only, “That centerpiece is one of the treasures of the house. Please, follow me.”

  The butler continues toward a set of double doors on the opposite side of the foyer. As I fall in step behind him, Brayden shoots me the quirky grin that I know so well—the one that suggests we are setting off on a great adventure. When we were kids, that look used to fill me with a sense of wondrous glee as we would go off to explore the vacant lots and empty houses in the growing subdivision where we lived.

  Now, it is not glee that floods me but an oppressive sense of foreboding accompanied by the strange, unwelcome sensation that I am moving inexorably toward the one thing in all the world that has the power to destroy me.

  “Jaynie?”

  Brayden’s hand brushes my shoulder and I let out a yelp so loud it rips me from my reverie. “Sorry!” I take a deep breath. I am completely mortified, all the more so when I see the way the butler is looking at me, as if I am something unpleasant that a guest tracked in on the sole of his shoe. “I—I was thinking about that bowl. You just startled me. Sorry.” I say the last with a thin smile that I hope looks properly contrite.

  It seems to satisfy the butler. Brayden, however, knows me too well. “Are you okay?” His eyes are on me and he speaks with such precision that I know he is worried. That’s fair, I suppose. I’m a little worried myself.

  “I’m fine,” I say firmly. “I was imagining what this place may have been like back in the day. Just trying to picture it back then. And I was lost in thought when you touched me.” I reach for his hand and squeeze his fingers. “Really. I’m fine.”

  “Then it wasn’t—”

  “Just imagination,” I assure him, and to my relief, he seems to believe the lie.

  In front of us, the butler waits beside the doors, his expression entirely unreadable. “Shall we continue?”

  I hesitate, because this is my chance to turn back. I can make up some excuse and return to the apartment, leaving Brayden to either go with me or continue on. He would be perturbed, but he’d get over it. And I would be free of these oppressive walls and the fear that I do not have the strength to survive whatever journey I am on.

  But the truth is that I don’t want to run. I want to go forward and come out the other side, and then I want to look back and thrust out my middle finger and say “fuck you” to all the fears and fugues that have plagued my whole, goddamn life.

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “We should absolutely go on.”

  If either of the men I’m with understand the magnitude of the statement I’ve just made, they don’t show it. Instead, the butler simply puts a card key against the door, then pushes it open to reveal a lounge area full of wood and leather and the subtle, spicy scent of cigar smoke.

  The lounge is like something out of an old movie, and I’ve never been in a room that feels so rich. Not just in terms of the collective net worth that must be represented here, but in the deep sensuality of the leather and the wood. In the straight, classic lines of the humidor that runs perpendicular to a long, polished bar that I think must be made of mahogany. In the crystal glasses that gleam from behind the bar, and in the array of well-aged bottles of scotch that line the glass shelves, glittering and shining in the room’s muted lighting.

  All around us, people laugh and talk, their voices mixing with the soft, classical music that fills the air. Scent and sound merge to create a magic carpet of sensuality that I think could whisk me away to another world if only I would let it.

  I try to look around—to fully take in my surroundings—but my attention keeps returning to the bar. Not to the liquor, but to two men who are seated there. One sits with his back to us, facing the bar, his reflection in the bar mirror hidden by a selection of fine whiskeys. But though I can see little of him, he is undeniably familiar to me. I feel as though I could close my eyes and trace the line of his shoulders under his suit jacket. And I can imagine the way his coal-dark hair would feel if it brushed lightly over my fingers the same way that it brushes the back of his collar.

  He is relaxed—a man probably having a drink with a friend—and yet even in this casual moment there is something about him that suggests power and confidence and grace. I want to go to him. Hell, I want to touch him, and the intensity of that desire scares me, because I have never felt such a strong familiarity to another person, let alone a man I do not even know.

  But you do know him.

  I shiver in defense against the unexpected thought, and feel a rush of gratitude when Brayden brushes his fingers against my arm and distracts me. “Look,” he whispers.

  I glance at my friend’s face, then realize that he is also watching the two men. His attention, however, has been drawn to the second one, who is sitting at more of an angle, so that I can actually see most of his face. It’s exceptional, but what surprises me is the tattoo that I see extending up his neck, suggesting that there is more ink beneath his shirt. And when he reaches for a glass on the bar, the cuff of his shirt shifts back just enough for me to see the edge of a tat decorating his wrist.

  I catch Brayden’s eye and he leans over to whisper, “Maybe the place isn’t as stuffy as it seems.” I have to agree. For that matter, I don’t think anything about this place is what it seems.

  Beside us, the butler is speaking to a young brunette who is seated at a small antique desk just inside the doors. “Ms. Hart and Mr. Kline are prospective members.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Daley,” she says, standing. She projects competence and efficiency, and matches those attributes with a welcoming smile. “I’ll take good care of them.”

  Our escort inclines his head, and then leaves the way we came in. I’m sorry to see him go, because now we are here, and I’m still not entirely sure where “here” is. And I’m certainly not sure why I’ve been invited.

  “I’m Tanya,” the girl says. “Why don’t I show you around?”

  “I’ll take care of that, Tanya.”

  The voice comes from behind, but I know that it is him before I even turn around. The man from the bar. Not the one with tattoos, but the other one. The familiar one. I know because of the way my skin prickles. Because of the heat that seems to buzz in the air.

  And when I do turn around to face him—when I see that it is not Tanya who has his attention but me—I know that I am not the only one who feels the explosion that is building between us.

  “Of course, Mr. Greer.” Tanya smiles at him, then nods to Brayden and me before returning to her desk. And in that moment, the spell breaks, and when Mr. Greer turns his attention to Brayden and holds out his hand, I am starting to doubt that I’d felt anything odd at all.

  “I’m Malcolm Greer,” he says, shaking Brayden’s hand as he smiles at both of us. “I’m one of the owners of Dark Pleasures.”

  Malcolm. That name again, just as it had whispered through my mind at the theater. And those eyes—oh, Christ, he has the storm gray eyes of the man from my dream.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Brayden is saying.

  I say nothing—instead, I am staring at Malcolm Greer, wondering who he is and why I seem to feel him so strongly. Why I know his name. His eyes.

  Thinking that we should never have come here tonight, because he is a man I could fall for, and I don’t want to fall for any man. Worrying that something is happening here that I don’t understand, something that I should know, but somehow can’t remember.

  And I’m suddenly cold and just a little afraid, because I am my mother’s daughter, and I don’t want to be like her, living in a world of fantasies and conspiracies and shadows, always afraid that—

  “Ms. Hart?” I hear the concern in Malcolm’s voice, and snap back to myself.
r />   “Yes,” I blurt. “Sorry.”

  I take a deep breath and will myself to breathe slowly. To calm down. I’m being absurd, and I know it. The man is familiar; so what? He’s so damn good looking he probably reminds me of a celebrity. And as for that name—well, that is obviously just a coincidence. It’s not that unusual a name, after all.

  “Jay? Are you okay?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Just light headed.” I turn my attention back to Malcolm. “And I also want to thank you for the invitation. Although I suppose I owe Brayden thanks, too. I mean, when you get right down to it, he’s the real reason I’m here.” I realize as soon as I’ve spoken that it’s a stupid thing to say. Typical, though, as I babble when I get nervous. And Malcolm Greer makes me very nervous.

  Right now, he’s looking at me with such an odd expression, that I feel even more foolish.

  “Ms. Hart,” he says, with a strange little smile. “I believe you have it backwards. Mr. Kline is here because of you.”

  Chapter 8

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  “Me?” I laugh, then glance at Brayden. Like me, he looks as if he’s expecting a punch line.

  “You,” Malcolm says. His voice is flat, but I see what I think is humor in his eyes. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Honestly? Yes.” I look around the room, now even more edgy than I’d been before. He must be teasing me—lord knows there’s no reason that I would be on the radar of an exclusive private club. But all that does is underscore the strange sensation that I know this man from somewhere. And since I’m drawing a blank, my discomfort is climbing.

  I clear my throat. “So, um, if you’re trying to recruit us, shouldn’t you at least offer us a drink?”

  He hesitates, and for a moment I think that he’s going to apologize or offer an explanation or say something that sets me at ease. But all he does is incline his head and then indicate a nearby table. “Please,” he says, this time bringing Bray back into the conversation.

  As we walk the short distance to the table, I admire his lean, athletic frame that seems made for the fine, tailored suit he wears. He pulls out a chair for me, which is a good decision on his part, as it knocks my irritation down a notch. I’ve always been a sucker for a man with good manners.

  I settle into my chair at this intimate round table, and as I do, I take the opportunity to study his face, with its sculptured, classic features that manage to be both elegant and ruggedly masculine. I want to reach out and touch him, the urge so powerful that I press my palms to the armrests in order to keep them in place.

  But there is no saving me from his eyes. I’ve fallen into them. Those storm gray eyes that I am so certain I have seen before, even if only in my dreams. He holds my gaze for what must be only seconds but seems like millennia, and I let the tempest take me, a wild, passionate heat that holds the promise of danger and excitement—and so much more, too. I don’t understand it, and yet I crave it. And I feel as though I could stay this way forever, Brayden and the world and everyone at Dark Pleasures be damned.

  Then he lifts his hand to signal the waitress, and the spell is broken. I feel a blush creep up my neck, because even though we didn’t touch at all, I can’t shake the feeling that we have just shared something deeply intimate.

  A college-aged waiter arrives, and Malcolm orders a plate of artisan cheeses along with three glasses of The Macallan 18 year scotch, straight up for him and Brayden, on the rocks for me.

  I cock my head. “How did you know I like it over ice? For that matter, how did you know I like scotch?”

  “Would you believe I guessed?”

  “No,” I say as Bray laughs.

  Mal joins him. “I take it from your reaction that I guessed right?”

  “You did,” Bray says. “And she’s impressed.”

  “Good.” Malcolm leans back in his chair, looking entirely at ease and completely in control. “My goal is to impress both of you.” He’s a tall man, and as he stretches his legs out, his ankle brushes against my calf, setting off a storm of sensation that is out of proportion with the casual nature of the touch.

  “I’m quite impressed so far,” Brayden says as he turns his head to look at the stunning architecture and furnishings. “This place is incredible.” He’s fallen into the corporate-like politeness that I know he learned from summers in Manhattan with his father, and which served him so well during med school interviews.

  “I can do better,” Malcolm says as he lifts a hand to wave at someone across the rom. “Dagny. Come join us.”

  I turn to follow his gaze and see an absolutely stunning woman with a mass of auburn curls pinned up so that tendrils fall with casual elegance. She’s slim and wears a white sheath dress with matching white shoes, and I can’t help but think that she looks like a candle, tall and slender with a crown of flame.

  She flashes a brilliant smile toward Malcolm, and I feel an unpleasant twist in my gut. I tell myself it can’t possibly be jealousy—I barely know Mal, after all—but of course that’s exactly what it is. I force myself to smile politely as she approaches, then dig my fingernails into the armrests of my chair as she perches lightly on the armrest of his, right between him and Brayden.

  “Hi,” she says, leaning forward and extending her hand to me. “I’m Dagny. You must be Christina.”

  “Jaynie,” I correct.

  “Oh.” She glances quickly at Mal, the question plain on her face.

  “I’m afraid I used your stage name when I mentioned that you and Brayden were coming. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” I’m trying out that overly polite thing myself, but the truth is that I’d much rather be Jaynie around this man. Somehow, that just seems safer.

  I smile brightly at Dagny. “So tell me, is that how it works? All the members learn about the new blood?”

  “Not all the members,” Dagny assures me. “Only the VIPs.” She seems so genuine and so sweet that I like her despite the fact that she’s now resting one hand on Mal’s shoulder in order to keep her balance on the thin armrest. But that bit of familiarity is counterbalanced by the fact that she’s otherwise not paying attention to Mal at all. Instead, she’s entirely focused on Brayden.

  And from what I’m seeing, Brayden has noticed that, too.

  “I’m Brayden,” he says, then holds her offered hand for what I calculate is at least five seconds too long.

  “I know.” Her smile is bright and just a little mischievous, and when the waiter returns with our drinks, she takes one of the glasses with no ice and helps herself to a small sip. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Nope,” Brayden says. I see the heat rise in my best friend’s eyes, and as I take a sip from my own glass I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be bumping into Dagny when I stumble into the kitchen to get coffee in the morning.

  “Good.” Her eyes never leave his as she downs the rest of his drink, then eases off of Mal’s chair to stand beside Bray. She holds her hand out to him. “Looks like you need a refill.”

  “I guess I do.” And then—because he is my best friend in the entire world, he meets my eyes, unwilling to leave unless he’s certain I’ll be okay. “Do you mind if I take Dagny to the bar and buy her a drink?”

  For the briefest of moments I want to beg Bray to stay by my side. Because there is something about Malcolm Greer that both compels me and terrifies me.

  Mostly, though, he excites me. And it has been a long time since any man stirred such a variety of emotions within me.

  “Yeah,” I finally say as I turn to look at the man beside me. “Yeah, I’ll be just fine.”

  Bray rises with an eagerness I rarely see in him where women are concerned, and I watch as he presses his hand lightly to the base of Dagny’s spine as he guides her through the crowd to the bar.

  “Ah, those crazy kids,” I say, and Mal laughs.

  “I thought Dagny might enjoy meeting him. She’s just moved back to New York from Los Angeles.”

  “What does
she do?”

  “She works for me.”

  “Oh,” I say. “And what do you do?”

  He says nothing. Instead, he reaches for his glass and takes a long drink of his scotch, and all the while his eyes never leave my face. “Is that what we’re going to do now? Casual small talk?”

  His low voice fills my senses like music, threatening to sweep me away. “I—” I swallow and try again. “Do you want an honest answer?”

  “I have no use for a dishonest one.”

  “In that case, yes. Small talk. The weather is always a good choice.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or frustrated. “Politics? Religion?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Hollywood?”

  I tilt my head from side to side as I consider. “Possibly. It has the potential to get too personal.”

  His brows lift. “As in whether you prefer network or cable? PG or NC-17?”

  I feel my cheeks heat. “Something like that.”

  “Witty banter?”

  “Definitely off-limits,” I say.

  “Mmm.” He steeples his hands on the table. “I can see your point. Banter with you might inspire more sexual innuendoes than are usually tolerated among polite society.”

  His voice has taken on a rough, sensual edge, and as a shiver runs down my spin, I try to tilt my head down. I don’t want him to see my face, because the mere thought of Malcolm Greer anywhere close to sexual innuendoes is more than I can handle at the moment.

  He, however, takes no pity on me. Instead, he reaches forward and tilts my chin up so that I have no choice but to look into those fathomless eyes.

  “Malcolm.” My whisper is like a plea, and he releases me. He remains as he is, though, leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on mine. And when he speaks, his voice is so soft and gentle it makes me want to cry. “Tell me, Christina. What are you afraid of.”