I rose to my toes and kissed him, so in love it felt like I would drown, though I knew he would never let go of my hand. When I pulled back, a glimmer of light in the shadows of Ronan’s eyes was gray. It was only a flicker before it was gone. But it meant everything.
He ran his thumb across my lips. “Ty byla sozdana dlya menya.” You were made for me.
I believed it with everything in me.
“Dazhe ocean ne mog razdelit’ nas,” I breathed beneath the possessive pressure of his thumb on my lips. Even the sea couldn’t keep us apart.
He smiled. “Not even hell, kotyonok.”
That night, I got married in Paris with a raven on my finger. Though, in my heart, I knew this man had never been my Nevermore.
He was my forever.
THE END
PREVIEW OF THE VINTAGE CLUB
CHAPTER ONE
Rain drizzled as I stood in front of a two-story brick building and stared at the nondescript logo on the crimson door: a lapel pin in the shape of a V. It was the fine print below that made my palms itch.
I’d assumed The Vintage Club was a country club; that the most I’d have to deal with was the overeager attention of a frat boy wearing pink shorts and loafers.
Luck and I, however, had never been on good terms.
A rumble of thunder rolling across Chicago’s smoggy nighttime sky was my only warning before rain poured like a tipped-over bucket of water that splattered on my head and soaked my clothes. I sucked in a breath at the wet and ominous assault, and with a growl of resignation, I yanked open the door that read, “Gentlemen’s Club.”
I wasn’t a prude on principle. I just disliked strippers. They reminded me of my mother.
The door fell shut behind me, muffling the torrent of rain outside. Wet and tired, the toll of the day pulled on my muscles. None of the bus routes came to this part of the city, so I’d been dropped off twelve blocks from here. Chicago’s elite must have an aversion to public transportation and compassion.
The entire entryway glittered: the tear-drop chandelier, crystal vases with real lilies, and a few ornamental mirrors. Even the glass desk sparkled as if it’d been carved from diamond.
I took it all in like Alice did Wonderland. Most of the clients I delivered packages to were wealthy, but this place took loaded to another level.
The strippers probably sweat gold.
I pulled my attention from the décor to an Alfred-looking receptionist who stood behind the desk, dressed in a black suit with coattails.
Cool eyes flickered with mounting displeasure as they swept from my messy ponytail, to the Angelo’s T-shirt and jeans I wore to work, to the chucks on my feet, and finally, to the puddle I’d dripped onto the iridescent marble floor.
“We’re not hiring,” he said shortly before averting his attention back to the paperwork on his desk.
An ironic breath escaped me. “Trust me, this would be the last place I’d ever apply.”
He didn’t look convinced.
I stepped closer and, unable to resist the temptation, I moved to run my hand across the sparkly desktop as if it was an expensive car. Before I could touch it, Alfred’s eyes hardened, embodying the stuffy owner who warned to not touch his Maserati.
With an impish look, I did it anyway.
He stacked his papers more aggressively than necessary. What was that? An NDA? Before I could see any more of the corrupt workings of this place, Alfred shoved the paperwork into a folder and said, “The bathroom isn’t open to the public.”
I scratched at the desk with a fingernail as if I was testing a mineral’s hardness. “I’m glad I peed back at the QuikTrip then. They have free paper towels and a twenty-five-cent tampon dispenser. Best accommodations you can find on the South Side.”
“How generous of them,” he said drily. “I’m sure if you return, you’ll be able to find patronage closer to your . . . qualifications.”
“Wow,” I chuckled, my curious fingers grasping a glass paperweight. “I think that’s the sweetest way anyone has ever called me a cheap whore before.”
He stole the paperweight in my hand that was angled toward the light while I examined the facets inside and snapped, “What will make you disappear?”
I raised a brow. “You know, Alfred, you’re not my usual type, but if you keep talking to me like that, I might change my mind.”
His expression conveyed he wouldn’t touch me with the end of a broomstick, and it brought a soft laugh from me.
“Okay, just business then.” Pulling a moist envelope from my back pocket, I slid it onto the desk. “I need to deliver this to one of your patrons, and I promise you’ll never see me again.”
I’d been doing this side job for my neighbor Lucas for a few months. He gave me a package—sometimes just an envelope—and I delivered it. The gig was most likely illegal: Drugs, black-market goods, or some kind of secret political revolution. I didn’t ask questions. Occasionally, the extra money was the only thing that kept the lights on.
“I’m sorry, Miss . . .” He waited for a last name.
I gave him my first. “Emilia.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Emilia, but this is a private club. The only way you’re getting inside is if you’re a guest of a member.” His gaze settled on a spaghetti stain on my T-shirt. “Considering the unlikelihood of that ever happening, do us both a favor and leave.”
I inhaled a deep breath for patience. Although, patience was a virtue, and I’d lost most of those years ago.
“Listen, Alfred. I worked a double shift today, and then I walked twelve blocks to get here. I’m tired. I’m so tired I’m considering curling up on your nice floor, shedding a few tears, and making a big scene. See this envelope?” I waved it in his face. “I don’t get paid unless I personally put it in the recipient’s hand. Now are you going to let me do that, or do I need to make a scene?”
Alfred stared at me for a long second before he picked up his phone and said, “Security.”
Ugh.
I shouldn’t have touched his stupid desk.
I could sit outside and chance getting struck by lightning until Mr. Brown exited. Although, soaking wet in a chauvinistic strip club, it was clear I’d already gambled with luck tonight and lost. Not to mention, my bed was calling my name, and I needed the two hundred dollars this job would bring in—plus, hopefully, a decent tip.
I glanced from the envelope in my hand to the black curtain concealing the room beyond.
Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare—”
Pushing the curtain aside, I waltzed in. The sensual smell of perfumed skin, illegal blowjobs, and cigar smoke hit me in the face.
The lighting sat at a low romantic glow, and the booths were red, occupied by a few men in expensive suits sipping even more expensive liquor. A couple of women in lingerie served drinks, while a naked brunette danced on a pole in the center of the room.
While this club was the furthest thing from the one I remembered as a child, the carnal atmosphere still coated my skin with slimy déjà vu.
I searched for Mr. Brown from the ridiculously vague description Lucas had given me: white, early thirties, black hair. I examined each man as I passed, receiving interested glances and even a proposition to sit down from a middle-aged man with a gold band on his ring finger.