The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)(35)

“It’s a place I’ve been before.”

As we followed the tunnel, I realized we were descending below the city. I’d read about catacombs underneath the streets of Paris and was itching to investigate my surroundings, yet he led me ever forward.

Ahead was a circular chamber with more torches. In the center, a fountain bubbled, flames dancing across the surface of the water. Firelight flickered over the rounded walls, illuminating mosaics. The tiles depicted lusty satyrs and maidens in coitus, the flames making it look like the satyrs were moving, thrusting.

Next to a formal entrance, a shining brass plaque was embossed with four words:

LE LIBERTIN

CLUB PRIVé

I murmured to him, “Is this some sort of . . . sex club?” Wasn’t sex club synonymous with swingers’ club? My heart fell. The idea of sharing him—or being shared—stopped me in my tracks.

“Lost your nerve?” he asked, detecting my tension.

“I don’t want either of us to be with anyone else.”

He backed me against the wall under one of those torches. Firelight captured his face; behind his mask, his eyes were molten gold. “You are my woman. Mine. And I learned very early in life not to share what’s mine. You think I’ll ever let another touch you?”

I lifted my chin. “I won’t be sharing you either.”

This seemed to gratify him. “Then we’re in agreement. Any other hard limits I should be made aware of?”

I thought he was amusing himself with me, so I rolled my eyes, grumbling, “Just take me into the freaking club before I die of curiosity.”

Inside, a woman greeted us from behind a large secretary. She too wore a formal gown and a mask, an owl one. Though it obscured some of her features, her olive skin, lithe figure, and sloe eyes were arresting. “Welcome,” she said with a thick French accent as she helped me from my stole. Once she’d stored it, she told Sevastyan, “Your private room is this way, Monsieur S.”

How many times had Sevastyan been here?

He said something to her in French, then ushered me forward with his possessive hand back on my hip. As we followed her down an arcade, strains of lively classical music grew more distinct. We approached a set of double doors manned by liveried footmen, expressionless as they granted us entry.

Past the doors was a dazzling ballroom with a soaring ceiling, filled with formally dressed attendees.

We are no longer in the Corn Belt, folks.

Massive flower arrangements perfumed the air. Rich tapestries graced the walls, depicting more sensual scenes. Matching statues of Venus—which looked like they belonged in museums—flanked a grand staircase. Along the steps, living human statues with skin dusted gold held candelabras to light the way.

The decadent velvets, swathes of silk, and candlelit grandeur made me feel like I’d walked into a French period film. I finally found my voice to murmur, “How old is this place?”

“Centuries.”

With that one word, he might as well have shot me full of adrenaline. Ah, the history—I breathed it in. Endeavoring to note every detail, I gawked all around me.

As we passed through the throng of attractive partygoers, I realized no one was getting down and dirty. There were drinks and laughter and flirting, but nothing different than you’d see in a regular club.

Was it just me, or were we collecting lots of stares? Sevastyan seemed to be growing increasingly agitated.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“They think you’re available. That you don’t belong to me.”

“Why?”

“Because you lack a collar.”

Collar and keep you. “Um, that’s hot—in a totally appalling kind of way.” But hey, this was all pretend, all gossamer fantasy and silken decadence, right? Noticing that many of the women did, in fact, sport collars, I asked him in a fake petulant tone, “How come I don’t get a collar?”

But he was serious when he answered, “You haven’t earned one.” Right when I was about to flare, he added, “And I haven’t earned the right to give it to you.” He looked so conflicted behind his domino.

A fit, middle-aged man swept in front of us. He wore an elephant mask with an exaggerated trunk. Subtle, buddy, reaaallll subtle. He started to speak, but Sevastyan just gave him his signature killing look—the one that made men quake.

We weren’t stopped again.

The owl woman was waiting for us at that grand set of stairs. We followed her up to a second-floor landing, then made our way down a hallway lit by gas lamps.

“Where are we going, Siberian?”

“Patience,” he intoned.

Not exactly my strong suit. After all, impatience was a sibling to curiosity.

A thought struck me. “Why did you pick a butterfly mask for me?” Of all the creatures he could have chosen.

“Do you think there has to be a reason?”

“I’m finding that you don’t do anything without a reason.”

“Perhaps there was . . .”

“Here we are,” the woman said, stopping before an unmarked door. She unlocked it, and we entered.

An ornate candle chandelier cast subdued light over the space. In the middle of the room was a large settee upholstered in sumptuous-looking fabric. Antique chairs and tables made up a sitting area off to the side; a copper tub sat off to another. A plush theater curtain covered an entire wall.