Bastian GP Page 7

  A delicate hiss at his side caught his attention.

  “So soon after Nadair’s death. I knew she was with him for the money.”

  Bastian struggled to remain present. He wanted to stalk Ophelia around every square inch of the room. He had to get to her before she met someone else. Another male laying so much as his gaze on her incited a possessive rage.

  She was his.

  Was not.

  Perfect. Now he sounded like Antonia.

  “She’s prime, is she not?” He kept a hint of male interest in his voice. Jealousy might make the female say things she might not otherwise.

  “In the barest definition of the word. We all think she’s a traitor, but males still seem drawn to her. She was certainly Nadair’s weakness.” She sniffed.

  “The flaw was likely in the male, don’t you think?”

  She chuckled. “Oh, you do promise to delight. I knew I had good taste in partners.”

  “As do I.” He purposely let his gaze swivel to Ophelia. The female next to him stiffened.

  “I will do you one favor, gent. The males who tied themselves up with her, literally and figuratively, met their bad fortune not long after.”

  Bastian saw an out but forced himself to stay and garner what information he could. “Again, I would claim the weakness was in the males.”

  Her jaw clenched. He really should’ve learned her name. She narrowed her eyes on him, then dissolved into a demure smile.

  “Yes, again I must agree with you. Mistress LeFevre should pose a threat to no one. Just look at her. I think her power is persuading daft males into thinking they must own her.”

  No, Ophelia’s power was knowing who was a daft male, and who was an evil bastard out to hurt others.

  “And you, my mysterious”—he leaned in with a knowing look—“madam. You are not easily duped by those around you.”

  Another smile played over her lips at his assumption that she was mated. “I have control of my mate and my house. Nothing gets past me.”

  He lifted a brow at her declaration. An orderly house should be an assumption, not an idea she had to defend. “Seems many only control one or the other nowadays.” He smirked. “Or neither.”

  “How true. My own staff is as obedient as I require them to be. None of that silly talk about days off or living in the city and commuting.” She lifted her chin. “Really. What if I require them in the middle of the day?”

  “Indeed.” His employers had rarely called on him during daylight hours. He could have lived in the middle of Freemont and still been able to perform the minimum of his duties. But the manor had been his home and he’d cared for it as such. And Antonia was his family.

  “I swear.” She tilted her head toward the secluded area where a female was supping from an older male’s neck. Bastian almost jerked his gaze away. The female’s arm moved in a manner that screamed she was pumping him under the table. The male was reclined, his eyes closed, the female curved over him.

  Bastian had seen that occasionally during the parties the Gastons hosted or dragged him to, but he could always extract himself from the room and avoid serving them cocktails until they were finished.

  She clucked. “The master there? His staff runs roughshod over him. He spends his nights here begging for pleasure while his own mate fornicates with the servants. Susanna probably polishes the counters with her body while they feast on her.”

  Bastian slowed his inhale to keep his heart rate down. His mystery madam didn’t need to know that piece of information excited him. He filed the tidbit away for Ophelia. A scorned mate with ambitious servants. It wouldn’t be a unique motive. Was she the Susanna from the Gastons’ arguments?

  At his side, the madam sighed as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “It’s the story of most in here, really. It never used to be like that.” Her eyes took on a hard glint and her chin jutted toward another couple, twined around each other and following another male into the fantasy den. “Those two are actually happily mated but enjoy extra participants. I’ve heard their house has fallen into a dreadful state of disrepair. No staff. They used to have the most opulent estate, but now it’s trash.”

  Perhaps the couple kept it up themselves and came here to relax, a reward for their hard work. But that was probably a foreign concept to her.

  Still, he filed the information away.

  He scanned the room, trying not to search for Ophelia but desperately seeking her out.

  There. In a darkened booth, across from a male in a blue seersucker suit fitted to within an inch of his immortal life.

  Bastian didn’t recognize him either but hated him on sight.

  The length of Ophelia’s legs was magnified as she crossed them under the table, the skirt of her dress falling to the side. She tilted her head, baring her neck and inviting lustful glances from around the room.

  Or was that just from him?

  “Mistress LeFevre’s house doesn’t even stand anymore.” The arrogant glee in the female’s tone raised his hackles. “She’s drifted from male to male, securing a roof over her head the old-fashioned way.”

  Bastian fought to retain his composure. Guilt flickered through him. He wanted to learn more about Ophelia, but not like this. And he knew her enough to know she had a reason for whatever she did.

  Besides, gossip about Ophelia impeded his mission. He needed dirt on the others.

  “I won’t disparage her tactics. She’s certainly a stunner.” Jealousy seethed off the female next to him. He almost smiled. “But will her target fall for it?”

  An indelicate snort. “Most likely. She’s more than tempted Roberts before, but Nadair took the bait first. Roberts is from a family who had someone on the council for centuries, like Nadair. Now they make their money off human investments.”

  More disdain from her while Bastian ruled the male out. If his family was financially stable, then they likely weren’t willing to risk their wealth.

  Breasts brushed his arm. It was all he could do not to yank his limb away. The chemical-laced perspiration from the female would stain the garment.

  A curtain brushed aside from a secluded booth and two vampires emerged.

  This couple he recognized. They’d attended several gatherings over the years, the Gastons tripping over themselves to impress them—in public only. Behind closed doors, they denigrated the couple like it was a sport. Their son was a friend of Antonia’s whom Bastian had met a few times.

  They strode toward the bondage rooms while a third party slipped out of the booth.

  A male. And as Bastian examined him, alarm bells went off. There was nothing he could pinpoint, just a general sense of not belonging. That feeling was what Bastian was afraid others would think of him.

  The strange male adjusted his jacket, straightened his bow tie, and breezed past Bastian and his companion.

  The faint odor of matchsticks tickled Bastian’s nose.

  The female plastered to his side didn’t flinch at the smell. That was something. She also eyed the departing male with as much interest as she had Bastian. She liked mystery, so the male must not be a regular. Finding a lead on Master Gaston might be futile, but Bastian would settle for a lead on Susanna.

  He glanced up and caught Ophelia’s eye. His gut told him that between the couple and the third guy, they’d find answers. He shifted his gaze to the door that was swinging shut and then to the hallway that led to the BDSM room.

  Ophelia rose from her booth without comment. The guy she’d been flirting with watched her exit with a frown. She didn’t glance back.

  Bastian’s lips twitched, an action that did not escape the notice of the one next to him.

  She rolled her eyes and made a sound of disgust. “I would wish you luck, but you won’t find it with her. Watch your wallet.” She swept away, toward the booth Ophelia had just vacated.

  He’d never been so grateful to see someone leave.

  Ophel
ia paid him no attention as she reached the bar. “Marcus. The usual.”

  “Absolutely, Mistress LeFevre.”

  Ophelia slid onto the tall barstool, her heels boosting her high enough to not need a running start. She ignored him.

  He had to hit on her subtly enough to keep from attracting attention, but believably enough so that he could get her alone in a room and pass on what he’d learned.

  Sure. No problem.

  Chapter Six

  Ophelia monitored Bastian out of the corner of her eye. He’d been seducing Clarice until the female was hanging off him like last-century drapes, yet now he froze up around her?

  She touched her tongue to a fang. That female was top-level shallow. And Nadair had loved coming home smelling like her. He had rarely bothered with an essential-oil cover-up.

  She shot down her drink. The fizzy bubbles burned. Cranberry mineral water. Hard-core, but she couldn’t risk dulled senses around her own kind, no matter how brief the effects of alcohol lasted. She never drank the stuff.

  She swirled her half-empty glass. Wasn’t he going to make the first move? Was it like her to wait? “If you stare any harder, I might get offended.”

  He gave a start and glanced around. “Pardon?”

  She didn’t swivel toward him but played her typical aloof self. “You’re new here. I don’t like to be watched. Take note.”

  He chuckled. “Not necessary. I can aptly determine what a female likes.”

  She swallowed her shock with another gulp of her sparkling water. Bastian was smooth, his voice ringing with confidence.

  A tendril of disappointment curled through her. Another male who could talk his way through life, using his charm like a smokescreen. Nadair had been an expert in covert sexual warfare. He had covered up the worst of himself, only to bring it out when she let her guard down.

  Her mind might be crestfallen, but her body responded to his promise by coming alive. Awareness sizzled down her spine, parts of her tingling that would remain dormant forever if she had her way—her body reminding her she hadn’t been well sexed in too long.

  “I’m not just any female.” She took another drink.

  Bastian swiveled around and leaned on the counter. He cupped his glass and took a slow sip. “Promises, promises.”

  She almost snorted her drink out of her nose. A smile played over her lips. There was no way this could be…fun. But it was. Bastian’s teasing tone had chased away her anxiety.

  She hated being here. Hated the memories that flashed around her. The familiar scents. Why had she needed this place? She’d been drawn back here like a floundering moth to a toxic flame.

  “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” She just didn’t make promises. It was easier that way.

  “Should I guess then?”

  She rolled her eyes toward him but didn’t reply.

  Amusement twinkled in his eyes. She wanted to smile again. What was wrong with her?

  He tipped his head to the far hallway. “Do you chase fantasies? I don’t see you wearing a French maid’s outfit. Nor do I see you demanding I feed you baby food while I spank you.”

  Each of those was a hard pass. Maybe not the costume play, but she didn’t want to go there in her imagination with Bastian.

  “You might be in a mood to be watched tonight”—the rumble of his deep voice sliced right through her—“but I’m not.”

  She cocked her head. Was that a message? He’d pointed out the Segals and a male she hadn’t recognized. When she’d crossed the club to the bar, the odor of brimstone had been faint, but she’d detected it.

  She pivoted on her stool and crossed her legs. His gaze dipped to her bare skin and heat flared.

  That wasn’t a reaction for show. Neither was the flip of her belly. “I recall saying I don’t like to be watched.”

  “Then the wrong males have been watching you.”

  She eyed him, letting the hunger in her gaze have free rein. It wasn’t hard to pretend with the way he filled out a suit. His shoulders were broad and stiff. The clothing was tight, and he was afraid to slouch, but the overall effect was hard, domineering.

  “And what have you watched?” She restrained herself from leaning forward, hanging on his answer.

  He chuckled. The smile brightened his face and revealed a hint of fang. She nearly slid off the stool.

  “I’ve seen plenty in my time. Enough to know that taking it slow and enjoying a partner’s pleasure is a lost art.” He gazed at her from under hooded lids.

  Her hand tightened around her glass, but the rest of her went molten. This was supposed to be an act, but he spoke like it was the truth—his truth. She wanted to be the partner he savored.

  Ridiculous. She had to get control of herself. She couldn’t afford to show weakness here, now, or it would bite her in the ass.

  She feathered her fingers along her steep neckline. Getting bitten in the ass sounded like a solid plan.

  He tracked her fingers, dragging his gaze up to meet hers. Her fangs ached, this time for a different reason. When was the last time she’d fed? When was the last time she’d wanted to feed?

  Enough of this…whatever it was.

  “I’d like a little privacy,” she announced. She slid off the stool and sauntered toward the BDSM rooms. Tonight, she’d show mercy on Bastian and take him to a soft-core one.

  They were the most private, and while she wouldn’t put it past the club owners to tap a room, it should be secure.

  Tension flitted across her shoulders as she passed through the salon and into the shadowed hallway beyond. Her shoes were silent on the plush burgundy carpet, and the wood-paneled walls soaked up the sound of her breathing. When were they going to update this place? It had looked the same for forty years.

  Was Bastian going to follow her? He had something to tell her. It’d be a dumb move if she walked into a room and hung out alone, only to do Sharpe’s Point’s version of the walk of shame with no new information.

  And it’d be embarrassing as fuck.

  Confidence. She’d faked it her entire life; why not one more night?

  Passing curtained windows and closed arched doors, she headed for the one farthest from the salon and nearest to the fire exit. One viewing window was uncovered. Inside, pale spread legs were strapped in a contraption that should’ve stayed in a gynecologist’s office. A dark-haired male was wedged between them, half undressed, and the female’s black-lacquered nails were scoring his back.

  Ophelia’s brain superimposed her and Bastian’s images over the couple.

  No. She wiped the vision from her mind, regretting her glance into the room, but a cloud of desire surrounded her.

  The stench of sex thickened, like the management didn’t ventilate the rooms. Like the customers were animals to be driven wild by the pheromones released in passion.

  And hell if they weren’t correct.

  She used to embrace it, to let the passion and yearning for release carry her away. Once those binds snapped around her wrists, her give a shit drained to nothing.

  The yearning had returned, eventually, and she’d lost the craving without the promise of release. As always, she wanted the physical ecstasy of sex, but she’d started wanting the emotional connection, too, even if it was a toxic one. No matter how many partners she’d been with, her emotions had remained dormant, with the exception of Nadair and her simmering resentment toward him.

  How could she not be convinced by now that it was an empty tease?

  A presence blocked the door.

  He came! Keeping her expression placid, which was a struggle, she spun around.

  For the first time tonight, his prime facade faltered. His gaze swept the room. After the outdated club, this room shocked the senses. Black and shiny, it was the ten-by-ten equivalent of a pair of skintight latex pants. Silver flecks in the tile floor broke up the monotony of the color palette and gave the room a modern and trendy feel. This
was what the rest of the club should look like, but that was primes, clinging to Old World style in public while hiding their true desires in private.

  Bastian’s gaze stuck on the wall of tools—the padded cuffs, the cat-o’-nine-tails, the velvet ties, and other common items used in pleasure. In his eyes were intrigue, curiosity, and…distaste.

  She tugged him in and slammed the door behind him. “Not everyone can stomach it.”

  His brows lifted, and he blinked. “I’m trying to understand why one would care to.” His expression softened. “I’m a bit more…plain, I guess.”

  Why had she thought he’d understand? Did she need him to understand? She crossed her arms, knowing exactly how it affected her cleavage. Bastian’s gaze didn’t stray from her face.

  “What did you find out?” she demanded.

  “Susanna is the mate of the male getting a hand job in the parlor. The couple in room four was talking to a male that had the underworld smell clinging to him. I watched the reaction of the female I was talking to, but she didn’t seem to recognize him. And she noticed my attention on you and huffed away, so I didn’t get any dirt on the couple.”

  “Susanna is Madame Caron? Huh, I never heard her first name before. But the way she plows her staff, the male you couldn’t identify in the Gastons’ library might come from her household. As for the sulfur-smelling male, I didn’t recognize him either. Are you sure you didn’t?”

  The stranger might run in Bastian’s circles more than hers, but Bastian shook his head.

  “The Segals put on a good show while they’re here, but I think they had dealings with Nadair. Perhaps now that he’s gone, another manipulator has to keep tabs on the drug and demon-host trade.”

  “The female I was talking to—”

  “Clarice.”

  “Was that her name?” Bastian’s lips quirked, but not out of fondness. “She loves to dish about everyone, but I didn’t get any good leads from her. A few suspects, maybe, but weak.”

  “I’m sure she had plenty to say about me.” That bitch. And why did it matter what Bastian heard about her?