New York Billionaires Series

She holds her hand out with an expectant look in her eyes. “Right,” I say, digging through my clutch to hand her my invitation card. Don’t ask for ID, don’t ask for ID…

But she just looks it over and gives me another smile, this one more friend-to-friend. “Welcome, Miss Hartford. Don’t forget to check your phone in on the right, after you enter.”

“Of course.”

She pushes aside the curtain blocking the door. The contrast is sharp from the bright corridor outside to the dimly lit, smoke-filled rooms beyond. A scent hangs in the air… something thick, like magnolia and incense.

A man dressed only in a pair of black slacks and a tie, no shirt to cover up the broad chest on display, welcomes me. “I’ll check your coat, miss.”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, shrugging out of it. He hangs it up and returns, a hand extended. “Oh! Right.” I hand him my phone.

His answering smile makes me think I’m not masking my nerves as well as I thought. “I’ll put your phone right here,” he says, opening one of a hundred identical security boxes. “The code is automatically generated, and you’ll get a printed receipt with it… here you go. Only you know this. Don’t lose it.”

“All right,” I murmur. “Awesome.”

He gives me another encouraging smile, this time tinged with humor. “Enjoy yourself, and remember that we’re here at any time if you need help or you have any questions.”

Gripping my clutch tight, I walk into the main space. The first impressions strike me in flashes. White lace and high heels. Drapes of black silk from the ceiling. Men in impeccably fitted suits and dark masks.

People mingle, some standing, some reclining on sofas. A beautiful woman strolls past me in lingerie. It’s the imposing kind, with garters and thigh-highs.Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

“Champagne, miss?” a waiter asks, holding out a tray of flutes. Just like the man working the coat check, he’s shirtless.

“Yes, thank you,” I murmur. Walking through the throngs of people in a dazed sort of wonder, I think I see people I recognize. It’s difficult to tell with the masks, but not impossible, and a few have discarded theirs entirely. One woman is a news anchor and I’ve seen her on TV dozens of times. A tall, broad-shouldered man has the face of a football player. If I’d been more sports interested, his name would have come to me, but as it is I settle on furtive glances his way. Bottles of champagne with golden labels line an entire wall.

This is wealth like I’ve never seen it before. It’s a rich person’s playground, a study in how the wealthy amuse themselves.

Then I see it.

The performance.

There’s a raised stage in the middle of the room, and what’s taking place on it makes my high school drama club’s rendition of Macbeth look like child’s play. Two lingerie-clad women circle a man on a chair, his hands in cuffs behind him. One runs proprietary nails over the man’s sculpted chest, the other sliding her hand up his bare thigh.

My eyes are glued to the scene.

And yet all around me, guests of the Gilded Room continue to mingle in varying states of undress as if three people aren’t currently engaged in very public foreplay in front of us.

A masked woman in her mid-forties walks past me, pulling a man along behind her by his tie. She shoots me a triumphant look. “The next performance should have pyrotechnics,” she says.

I give her a weak smile. “Just what this party needs. Fire.”

“I like you!” she calls over her shoulder. “Feel free to join us later!”

Join them, wow. I smile into my champagne and look across the room, hoping to spot more famous people. There is no way my friends will believe me, but I still want to make sure this night turns into the best anecdote possible.

My gaze lingers on a man on the other side of the room. Like most men here, he’s in a suit, but he’s one of the few not wearing a mask. Not speaking to anyone, either. He just leans against the wall and watches the performance with arms crossed over his chest.

Looks like he’s sitting this one out.

I turn in my empty glass of champagne for a full one and lean against the wall opposite him. There’s nothing familiar about him, and yet I can’t seem to look away.

His gaze snaps to mine, and the laser-focus makes it clear he’s well aware of my staring. He raises an eyebrow.

My lips curve into the universal sign of hi, there. It’s the smile you give a man in a bar to let him know you want him to come over. It’s brazen.

A group of guests stop in the middle of the room and it sunders our eye contact. I look down into my champagne with a heart that’s suddenly pounding. I’d come here to observe, without any plans of participating…

But a girl can flirt, can’t she?

When I see him again, he’s no longer alone. A woman runs her hand down his arm in a manner that would be easy to read even if we weren’t at an elite sex party.

I push off the wall and take a lap of the room. There’s a steady, pounding beat emanating from the speakers, heady in its power. More than a few of the mingling guests have moved on from simple conversation, and I pass by a man taking off his partner’s bra while discussing New York real estate.

I find a dark corner of the space to retreat to, far away from the couples in varying states of undress. I’ve never watched other people… well. Perhaps it’s time for me to declare this little adventure finished.

That’s when he appears by my side, a crystal tumbler in hand.

Brown hair rises over a strong forehead and the square of his jaw covered in two days’ worth of stubble. Up close, it’s even harder to look away from him.

He raises that eyebrow at me again, but says nothing. He just leans against the wall beside me and we gaze at the crowd in silence.

I take another sip of my champagne to keep my nerves at bay. Who is he? A media mogul? A celebrity I don’t recognize? The scion of a political family? For the night, he’s a stranger, just like me.

“So?” I ask, watching him through the slitted eyes of my mask. “Are you planning on introducing yourself?”

His lips quirk like I’ve made a joke. “Eventually,” he admits. “Though talking is often one of the less enjoyable pastimes at these events, comparatively speaking.”

I wet my lips. “Not if it’s done well.”

“Which pastime?” he asks, amusement an undercurrent in the rich baritone of his voice. “Doing things well is one of my favorite hobbies.”

“Being modest is not, I’m guessing?”

He turns, and I have to look up to meet his dark gaze. “Modesty is forbidden at the Gilded Room.”

“Is that in the rulebook?” I ask. “I think I missed that point.”

His lips curve into a crooked smile. “I don’t think you’ve read the rulebook at all, considering it’s your first time here.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You asked me if I was planning on introducing myself.”

“And that gave me away?”

His smile widens. “There are only two iron-clad rules at these parties. The first is complete anonymity. The second? Women initiate. Men can’t speak unless spoken to.”

Oh. Women wield all the power. Right.