The Gatekeeper. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
never met him, but he hadn’t heard about any vampires causing problems in New York, so presumably Reginald was working hard at living the American dream—controlling his appetite for blood with domestic animals, the small forest creatures that inhabited Central Park or, most likely, blood banks.
Saxon smiled, pleased that Carl Bailey hadn’t managed to take ownership of the entire city.
The Rock Candy Club was reached via private elevator.
The women who worked there weren’t listed in advertisements—nor, he suspected, on any IRS forms—as either prostitutes or strippers, though both professions were legal in the city.
The Rock Candy Club hired entertainers.
To be fair, the women were reputed to be quite entertaining.
There was a guard outside the elevator. It wasn’t so much that you needed ID to reach the upper floors, but you did need an impeccable credit rating to reach the penthouse level.
Saxon produced the exclusive platinum card that he carried for precisely such an occasion. Sometimes in Vegas it was necessary to play the part.
The guard let him by, but there was another “host”—not as tall as Saxon, but massive and broad like a steel-hulled ship—ready to greet him in the elevator.
Werewolf, definitely.
Big, hairy, broad-faced werewolf.
“Welcome, sir,” he addressed Saxon politely. He wore his suit well, though he did seem to chafe a bit in the tailored shirt, high collar and tie.
“Elven?” the guard asked politely.
Saxon merely nodded.
The man cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to pry. We don’t see too many of your kind here, on account of...”
His voice trailed off as Saxon pointedly ignored him.
Elven were invariably tall and generally blessed with exceptional looks. That was why so many of them had successful acting careers out in Hollywood; not only did they tend to be tall, blond and good-looking, they were usually also blessed with a considerable amount of charm.
Both sexes were also revered as lovers, endowed with stamina and, in the males, sexual equipment to match their well-toned physiques.
“Actually,” the guard said, “we don’t see many of your kind in Vegas at all.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Saxon agreed.
“And certainly not...here. You know what I mean. Here. Looking to spend money on...entertainment.”
Saxon wasn’t feeling the patience for a pissing contest. On the other hand, he didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot before he’d even made it into the club.
He grinned at the guard. “I’ve heard great things about this place.”
The guard smiled back at that. “It’s spectacular.” He lowered his voice as an indication of confidentiality. “Ask for Candy.”
“I hear she’s new,” Saxon said. “And exceptional.”
“She may or may not agree to see you,” the guard told him. “She’s selective.”
Luckily Saxon didn’t have to continue the conversation any longer. The elevator had reached the penthouse.
The door opened.
At the end of a hallway stood a beautifully constructed glass enclosure, the customary pole at the center. The pole was wrapped in a shimmering sheath of fabric that matched the temptingly designed outfit worn by the dancer on display.
She was incredible. Lithe, her every movement was seductively smooth as she danced to a tune he knew well and barely heard.
She wasn’t half-naked, like the typical Vegas entertainer, or even provocatively dressed. Clad from head to toe, her exceptional allure came from the figure within, which was tall and lean and wickedly curved. Limber didn’t begin to describe the exotic way she could twist and turn. She moved around the pole with the animalistic grace of a cat.
Saxon was dimly aware as the guard behind him said, “Enjoy yourself, sir,” and the elevator door closed. He continued down the short hall that led to the foyer—and the glass-enclosed dancer. The place was elegantly and tastefully furnished in antiques; paintings graced the walls. None of them were sexually explicit. One was of a medieval damsel clad in delicate draping white, bending down to draw water from a shimmering stream. Another was of a knight in shining armor, a fair lady gently carried in his arms. The rest were similar in subject matter and tastefulness.
Saxon barely noted them or the decor. His attention was fully caught by the dancer.
Her hair was dark—not black, but a sable color with streaks of auburn running through it. Her face was delicately, aesthetically, sculpted, yet her lips were almost supernaturally full.
Her eyes, when she deigned to notice him, were an intriguing mix of green and gold, as sharp and beautiful as diamonds, glittering like the fabric that covered her.
And when they met his, they filled with disdain.
Once she caught his eyes, she didn’t look away. She stared at him and continued dancing as if he were no more than a fly buzzing nearby.
“Mr. Kirby?” someone murmured in a silken voice.
He turned. A blonde with the perkiest—and undoubtedly heavily silicone-enhanced—breasts he had ever seen was coming toward him. She was clad in something that resembled a stewardess uniform from the earliest days of commercial flight.
“Welcome,” she said. “They told me you were on your way up. Please, if you’ll join me in the antechamber, we’ll discuss what brings you to us, what fantasy you would like fulfilled and what kind of entertainment will satisfy your heart’s desire.”
Antechamber? Interesting word for a business office.
He smiled. “Of course.”
He was loath to leave the entry. He could almost feel the hot gold-and-emerald gaze of the woman behind the glass.
Not to mention her contempt.
He forced himself not to look back, though it was difficult.
But he followed the buxom blonde. She led him into an elegant office. Her desk—which still held the obligatory computer and phone—was carved ebony with handsome ivory insets. Her office chair was upholstered in a deep burnished crimson, like the massive chairs that sat across from it. Marble statuary graced the edges of the room, and a plate-glass window looked out over the sunbaked brilliance of the Vegas Strip.
“So...” she said, sitting down and folding her long-fingered, exquisitely manicured hands, and smiled. “What is your wildest dream, sir? How may we entertain you? Do you dream of angels or demons? Or perhaps something in between—a dance of innocents and vixens together? Is your dream girl slim or curved or...?” She lifted her hands, the fabric of her suit jacket stretching across her breasts. “We seek to entertain, sir. Our performances are among the most talented in the country. But we cannot entertain you unless we know what it is you seek.”
He leaned forward and met her eyes, then gave her a charming smile. “Candy,” he said.
She paled slightly. “We have Asian beauties who can twist and turn in ways that you’ve never imagined. We have Russian acrobats who sail across a room as gracefully as the last great ships that rode the oceans’ breezes. African women whose movements can rival the rhythm of any heart. Irish lasses who can dance their way into the bloodstream.”
“Candy,” he repeated.
His hostess sat back, perplexed. She pursed her perfect cherry-red lips.
“Candy—despite the name of our establishment—has not been with us long. She is a rare and exotic talent, so rare that her contract here allows