Page 4 of Direct Action

“The Vault? The gentlemen’s club?”

“Not so much a gentlemen’s club as it is a private club. The servers don’t strip, and they don’t show any more skin than on an average Friday night here. Membership is astronomical, but twice a month, they allow nonmembers to pay a cover charge. Shep has intel there might be a member there scouting.”

Scouting for women to sell, right in our backyard.

Hell no.

“When’s the next nonmember night?”

“Next Wednesday.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chloe walk out into the bar.

Beautiful, smart, hilarious Chloe Baughman—the woman who set my blood on fire and haunted my dreams.

My employee.

If I was a different man, I’d fire her just so I could have the woman.

Unfortunately, I had scruples . . . and a case of blue balls to go with my morals.

Needless to say, my condition was painful.

I shoved aside all thoughts of my balls and morals and refocused on Pete. “Shep give you anything else?”

Pete glanced around, his gaze landing on the hostess station, which was now starting to fill up. “We’ll brief at the ranch tomorrow. But if Shep’s concerned, we should be concerned. Especially when the member in question is Sterling Blackwell.”

I leaned in closer and asked, “I’m sorry, did you say Sterling Blackwell? The Sterling Blackwell who owns Summit Jets?”

“One and the same.”

Well fuck.

Sterling Blackwell was loaded. He owned Summit Jets, the premier executive aviation outfit that flew the most influential and famous people around the US and abroad—that was, the rich and influential who didn’t own personal jets. You know, climate change and all, yet their pampered asses wouldn’t be caught dead flying commercial in the steerage. Not only that, but he was the only child of the Gerald Blackwell, who owned a chain of boutique hotels. Ironically, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell bit it in a plane crash—not a Summit Jet, but a private plane while vacationing in Italy. Their death meant Sterling had inherited the Blackwell fortune. On top of what Sterling had amassed, he wasn’t just loaded—he was loaded.

“Why the hell is a man like Blackwell slumming it at a place like the Vault?”

“The annual membership is sixty thousand. That’s hardly slumming it, but I see your point.”

Pete was correct. Sixty grand a year was nothing to sneeze at, and for us regular folks, insanely high for what was essentially a themed bar up in the mountains, private or not. But for a man like Sterling, that was chump change.

“There are also rumors there’s another membership level that offers more privacy and benefits,” Pete went on.

“Sex club?”

Pete’s brow rose in answer.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “I take it I need to break out the suit for our visit.”

“Do you own a suit?” Pete shot back, like I was some sort of low-class gun for hire.

“I’ll have you know, I have a very nice ensemble from Brooks Brothers hanging in my closet.”

“Unless you’ve got a Tom Ford hanging in your closet, you need to get your ass to the mall.”

The mall.

Good Christ, I hadn’t seen the inside of a mall in a decade.