"Thank you," I say, wanting very badly to turn my head to I can see where Smith went. "I'm off tomorrow-"

"I know. But you won't be needed."

"Oh," I say, a little disappointed.

"I have it all under control. Your crew might be in the way as we install. And I'm not very friendly when I'm stressed. So it's better you called them all off."

"Oh," I say again. "I think some of them might be disappointed."

"It can't be helped. I like things the way I like them."

"Of course," I say, just as a waiter comes up and says, "Hello." He gives us his name, recites the menu, and then waits for us to decide. I'm way too tired to remember anything that waiter just said, so I just stare at Matisse with a blank look on my face.

"We'll have the filet mignon," Matisse says. "Medium rare. And a Caesar salad. Do you like Caesar?" Matisse asks me.

I nod, suddenly feeling very weary.

The waiter disappears and then I'm alone with him. I force a smile, but my mind is whirling. "Are you a member here?" I ask.

"Yes," he says. "For many years. I met Bric in school a long time ago. We've been friends since childhood."

"And Smith?" I want to kick myself for asking about him.

"Smith is..." Matisse laughs. "Smith."

"Right." I chuckle. "I get it. Kind of. I don't know him. I just met him..." Shit. Do I really want to talk about last night? "I don't know him at all," I say. And then I look around. "Where did he go?"

Matisse shrugs. "Where does he ever go?"

Right.

There's an uncomfortable silence after that, so I try to make conversation. "I love that piece in the show. The children," I say.

"Which one?" He smiles and I figure talking about his art is a safe way to navigate my way through this dinner.

"The two dancing. Glee, it's called."

"Oh," he says, thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see why you'd like it. Will you be sad when someone purchases it on Friday?"

"No." I laugh. "I'm going to purchase it."

"Are you?" He has one eyebrow cocked. "It's forty-seven thousand dollars."

"I know," I say. "I have money saved. I've been waiting for this show all year. You have no idea how exciting it is. I was thinking of coming in tomorrow, just to watch." He's about to protest, but I keep going before he can. "But if I'll be in the way, I'll wait my turn."

"It's better to let Mr. Benton handle it. Trust me."

I do trust him. I've not only heard about the temper tantrums of artists, I've seen them first hand. And if this is Matisse's way of warning me that no matter how well things go tomorrow, he's going to be a raging asshole, I'll take his word on that.

We chat a little more about his show. What we have planned as far as food and drinks. We're going all-out. Exquisite canapes and the best champagne. It's going to be quite the party. But then he switches the conversation back to the club, just as our food arrives.

"Do you get invited here often?" he asks.

The salad and steak are served at the same time. And the filet mignon in front of me has my mouth watering. It smells delicious. My stomach is rumbling so loud, I'm sure the entire restaurant can hear it. But that question... "Invited?" I ask, not sure how to answer.

"You're not married?" he asks, like he thinks he knows the answer, but maybe he's wrong.

"No." I laugh.

"Then you have to be a guest. It's a gentlemen's club, after all."

"I... I never thought about it, I guess. I don't come here," I say, in way of explanation. "It's a place I've become acquainted with very recently."

I look around. Take it all in. Everything is in black and white. I know this bar is called the Black Room and the restaurant on the other side of the lobby is called the White Room. They are each named for the color of the marble on the floors. The brownstone facade is typical of building constructed in the late eighteen hundreds, but the inside is more art deco. The edges and curves that people love about that period are all over in the design of the bar and the inlay on the floors. In the furniture, even, I realize. The black leather booths have rounded tops and the tables in the middle of the room, which do not have white linen tablecloths like the ones along the window, have a pattern on the top that reminds me of Gatsby.

It's opulent and excessive. Just like the men who run it.

"But I love the decor." And I do. It might be excessive and opulent, but I like it.

I realize I never unwrapped my silverware. The white napkin is starched and creased into an envelope shape. It has a monogram on what would be the outside flap which reads TPC. Turning Point Club, I realize.

"You should see the rooms upstairs," Matisse says, cutting his steak as I cut mine. I take a bite before I even process how to respond to that comment.

"Mmmm," I say, enjoying that first bite of meat so much, I have to close my eyes. "That's so good." I laugh.

When I open my eyes and look at Matisse, he's staring at me. "Would you like to see my room upstairs, Chella?"

Chella. Would you like to see my room? Would you like to go upstairs? Would you like me to fuck you tonight?

I swallow the steak and go stiff. Is that what this is? Did Smith set me up to fuck him?

I look around, and something, I'm not sure what, makes me look up.

There is Smith Baldwin. On that second-story balcony that Bric and Quin were sitting in last night when Smith escorted me out. He's leaning on the railing with a drink in his hand. Smiling.

I put my silverware down and scoot out of the bench.

"I'm sorry," I say to Matisse. "I'm really sorry. But I have to go. I just remembered that..." But I have no excuse but the truth. So I say nothing. Just walk out of the Black Room and make my way through the crowd of people in the lobby.

Why are there so many people here? It's after one in the morning.

Why, Chella? You know why.

It's a gentlemen's club.

This is a sex club and Smith Baldwin brought me here to fuck his friend.

"Chella," Matisse says, gently grabbing my arm as I wait my turn at the coat check. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I'll take you home."

"My car-"

"I'll take you to your car."

"No," I say, pulling away so he has to let go of my arm. "I'll get a cab."

The girl comes with my coat, even though I never asked for it, and I slip it on and escape outside before Matisse can say anything else.

I stop on the wet sidewalk, the cool air washing over me. Small snowflakes stick to my face. Melt from the heat of my embarrassment.

The door opens behind me and I'm sure it's going to be Matisse, but it's not.

"My driver will take you to your car, Marcella."

It's Smith.

The driver is suddenly there, opening the door of the long, black car.

"Get in," Smith says. "If you walk, I'll follow you, and I'm pretty sure you don't want that to happen."

I get in, expecting him to get in with me. But he doesn't. He closes the door, speaks to the driver, and then walks back inside Turning Point Club, hands in his trouser pockets, like this is just another task he needed to check off his list for the day.

The driver takes me to my car. I don't even have to tell him where I'm parked. But I guess it's easy enough to find out, if someone was stalking me.

Someone was definitely stalking me.

I get out of the car before the driver can open my door, and I'm inside my Mercedes breathing hard and confused before he can say anything. I turn the car on, check my mirror, and back out. The limo is still here. The driver backed up far enough to let me maneuver. But when I make my way to the garage exit, he follows me.

He follows me out onto the street. All the way to my townhouse on Little Raven Street. When I close up my garage, he's still waiting. But when I get inside the house, go up one flight of steps in the dark, and look out the guest room window that faces the alley, he's gone.

I check the front of the house too.

No one.

And then I do something I almost never do.

I set my house alarm.

Chapter Seven - Smith.

Her house is huge. I'm surprised she needs so much space. It's got five bedrooms, plus an office and what might be a library. That room is lined with custom shelves, but no books. In fact, there's almost nothing personal about this place at all. It looks... staged.

Is she selling it? Does this furniture belong to someone else?

I do a quick search of her address on a real estate site, but no. Not listed for sale.

"Huh," I say out loud as I take a seat in a low chair placed in front of the window that faces the brick-walled courtyard in the back.

I don't know what to make of Marcella Walcott. Why did she agree to whatever plan Rochelle had? Why did she let Quin fuck her? Why did she come to dinner tonight if she was just going to walk out?

It doesn't add up. If she wants to be Rochelle's replacement-if, in fact, that was what Rochelle's plan was-then why walk out on Matisse?

I could think of a lot of worse-looking men than Matisse. I think he's good-looking. If I was into men that way, I'd fuck him. And he's a goddamned celebrity in her world. She was gushing all over his work today. The smile on her face...

I sigh as the garage door rumbles open in another part of the house.

I could just ask her.

But not tonight.

I smile and get up out of the chair just as she comes bursting through a door in some other room. A few seconds later she runs past me, taking the stairs two at a time. Footsteps over my head as she goes into one of the guest bedrooms. One that faces the alley. A few seconds later she crosses the hallway-I can see her through a cable railing above-and goes into another guest room.

What the fuck is she doing?

I wait, listening. She's breathing heavy when she comes out of that room and jogs up the stairs to the top floor where her bedroom is.

And that bedroom, wow. Talk about boring.

There's a series of beeps as she arms the house alarm.

I smile again.

Because she just locked me in here with her.

I sit back down in my chair and wait her out, staring at an ugly-as-fuck orange accent wall that needs to find its way back to the Seventies where it came from. I wait and see if she comes downstairs to get something to eat. But she doesn't. She gets in the shower. It's a long one. So long I get bored and go upstairs to watch her through the clear glass. She's got her eyes closed as the water flows down her face, her breasts, her legs.

If she opened them right now, she'd see me. But she doesn't. Just stays like that, like she's washing something away.

I shrug and step back into the bedroom, casually looking through her drawers. When she turns the water off, I take a pair of panties out of her underwear drawer and push it closed. They are black lace. Boy shorts, I think they call them. The ones that ride up the ass cheeks. I like those, so I put them in my suit pocket.

I step out of her room just as she steps out of the bathroom. She misses seeing me by seconds. And then I go downstairs to wait. I sit in my chair and watch for her shadow on the stairs.

But the dim light filtering through from the third floor clicks out a few minutes later.

She went to bed.

I ponder this for a few minutes. Wonder if I should wake her. Let her know I'm here.

But what would be the fun in that?

I watch the clock for thirty minutes and when I'm sure she's asleep, I go back upstairs and into her bedroom. I take a seat in another chair with my back to the window.

And I watch her. She has curtains on the window. But they are sheer, and white, and not closed. So there's a little bit of light coming in from the moon, or some streetlamp. It's enough to get a good look at her face.