SECRET SIGHS

  FILTHY, DIRTY, DEEPLY

  ALICE MAY BALL

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  CHAPTER ONE

  When she catches my eyes the first time, I feel it deep and low down, like a hard gear shift. It was already a bad night, before I even saw her.

  My personal phone rings. Nobody calls me, not when the club's open. The number shows up as ‘unknown.’ It jolts me out of my thoughts and, on instinct, I take the call into my office. Picking up on my mood change, Sam, my number two follows me into the office with a frown.

  I kick the door shut behind me and keep my voice even and level.

  "Joey Calhoun.”

  "Mr. Calhoun, this is Mike Talbot.” His voice stirs up a recollection. “I’m the superintendent at the Atacama Plaza building." That’s where Declan, my closest friend, lives.

  My throat tightens.

  A picture of Mike comes into my mind. Good guy. Old school. I’ve passed the time of day with him, traded jokes and tales while I waited for Declan in the grand marble lobby of the building.

  “Mr. Calhoun, I hate to be the one to tell you…” My heart turns to lead and drops. Mike says, "Only, I wouldn't want you to hear it from the cops. I'm sorry, but Declan is dead."

  He gives me a moment for it to sink in. Then the kicker. “They’re treating it as a murder.” The word ’murder,’ hits me like a tumble of bricks. Whatever else he says is a blur. I grip the phone harder, and my knuckles whiten. Declan has been my closest friend—through thick and thin. We've been there for each other, since our days in the Marines.

  "You're sure there's no mistake?”

  It's just one of the dumb things you say when there’s nothing worth saying.

  "Positive, Mr. Calhoun.” The superintendent's voice is as empty as his news, and as dark. I was asking if he was sure it was Declan. From his tone I know what he means is he was sure it was murder. I thank him. I'm grateful that he took the trouble.

  It won't have been an easy call to make, any more than it was to hear. He's a solid guy.

  Sam overheard my end of the call. He obviously caught the gist of the conversation. There’s a night’s work ahead running the club, and I don’t want to have to deal with questions or sympathy from Sam. I give him a nod as I head back out into the club.

  The Havana Cigar Club — nothing to do with cigars, incidentally — is my club that I built from nothing. The name was to get me through some zoning regulations, meaning I can pretty much keep the membership to who I like, and I can boot whoever I want whenever I want. The mix of membership I have now keeps the right vibe and atmosphere. The club echoes some Cuban themes, but few cigars are consumed.

  The club has more than quadrupled from its original size, and it’s about as big now as I’m going to let it get. Now it takes up the top four floors of the Vermillion Heights, a landmark building from the nineteen fifties, just off the middle of the Strip. It’s on one of the most prime pieces of real estate in Nevada, on account of it dating all the way back to when Vegas was being developed by, well, let’s just call them businessmen and leave it at that. Not that the value of the property means anything much to me. I’m just a lowly renter here, waiting for when the owner gets an offer good enough to let go. Then the Vermillion Heights will go the way of all Las Vegas constructions, in a spectacular implosion.

  Meanwhile, the big, white Vermillion Heights entrance has a columned lobby, all bronze and marble. Lovely enough, but I don’t use it for the club. The club has its own separate and low-key door like a speakeasy, with an exclusive elevator. What I started as the Havana Cigar Club grew outward to the jewel box maze that it is today.

  Local bosses come to relax here. Senior figures from separate and rival families, heavy-duty big hitters, can mingle with city and state councilmen, DAs and big-league attorneys. Yet the mood is quiet. Civilized. Nobody in here is strutting or bragging. No one wants to show off. Every man is serious about their pleasure, and they’re all respectful of one another. We offer quiet spaces and private rooms, so you need not see or even hear any of the other guests. Suites for overnight stays, whatever you need.

  Service trolleys, the kitchens, and all the mechanism of the business is hidden, so service arrives to our members and guests like magic. Public and members’ areas are the visible part, the outer shell. Offices, kitchens and supply rooms are all kept together in the center, and a warren of passageways lead out to the big bars, the dining rooms, and the show bar, as well as the smaller, more intimate rooms.

  Back in the tinkling sparkle of the club’s Miramar cocktail bar, I’m feeling distant and kind of detached. Inside me is an unfamiliar whirl of emotion – anger, sadness, disbelief. How can this have happened to Declan? We spoke a few days ago about our clubs' plans. He was as lively and ambitious as ever, and I didn’t pick up the slightest hint of any trouble. If he had any worries, he would have told me, just like I would have told him the same.

  Sam’s voice startles me out of my thoughts. "Joey, I'm so sorry.” His hand touches my shoulder. His offer of comfort is a surprise. It's not like him.

  "Thanks, Sam." I cover my impatience as I brush off his sympathies. I'll need a few moments to process everything, but I won't take that time yet. Not until after the club closes for the night, and that isn't usually much before four-thirty. Sam means well, I guess, but I feel cramped by him at the moment. With a heavy sigh, I scan the room, trying to focus on the present.

  "Let's just keep everything on course and running smoothly," I tell Sam, my voice steady, even though my insides are anything but. "I'll do what needs to be done. But later."

  I don't want distraction. Not with sympathy or with anything else. Better I keep my feet on the ground and my head in the here and now.

  "Enjoy your night, Sam," I tell him, and I clap him on the shoulder before I move away.

  Sam's eyes show a hint of concern, but he knows better than to press me any harder. He gives me a nod then he turns his attention back to the business of the club.

  I paint on a smile as I greet some regulars in the Miramar. Laughter and chatter provide a temporary distraction. My job is to make sure everybody feels taken care of and I keep myself calm and in control.

  "Everything alright, Joey?" Louie Franconi, a dapper high-ranking mobster and a regular at the club, raises an eyebrow.

  “Sure, Louie.” I hold out my hand and force a grin. ”Couldn't be better.” Every fiber of my being screams for revenge, but the frustration of not having a target is driving me crazy. I can't let on that anything is amiss. Louie nods before turning back to his conversation with Senator Montgomery Beauregard-Brady. I don't miss the sidelong glance they exchange, but I can't afford to dwell on it now.

  And that’s when I see her.

  Radiating low pulses of desire and possibility, the smoky blonde has glimmering green eyes and curves that would make a saint weep. Her skin shimmers golden like she’s oiled. Full, red lips, almost too full, like they’re permanently pursed. She’s tall as well as curvy, and she stirs up all kinds of currents inside me. Each one a different shade of wrong.

  Her eyes blink slow, and a mess of contradictions spark inside me. My blood pulses. My senses snap into high alert. Adrenaline fizzes in my muscles. I’m pulled to her by a force as big as gravity, but I know she’s my Kryptonite.

  She’s all woman and a raw force of nature, but the look in her eyes gleams with innocence, like she’s caught, dazzled and exposed, in an unfamiliar and wicked world. One look at her and I immediately want to protect her. And to swat any other man away from her.

  She is a walking totem pole of danger signs. I want her out of here.

  Louie is about to introduce her. Even that makes anger boil in my chest. But she looks in my eye and puts a hand out in front of him.

  “Daisy Adams.” Her voice drifts like smoke. Her hand is smooth. She has long fingers and soft skin. Her squeeze is firm, even as her eyes seem to shrink with shyness.

  As I welcome her to the club, her glance lingers in my direction. Her lips part, a charged hint of recognition, and I feel something inside right away. A chemical crackle from the look she gives me. It’s like an invitation, but I feel it's more than that. It’s more like we’re souls who were parted long ago, just now finding each other. Like we’ve known each other forever.

  The electricity between us could light up the city, but I know I need to hold back. Everything about this woman sets red lights flashing in my head.

  Straight after learning about Declan's murder, I'm too raw for this encounter. I feel all my emotions are inside out, like they’re on the outside of me. Super-sensitive. Yet I hold myself still. Impassive.

  I'm wary, cautious of everything around me. Unable to trust my feelings.

  Still, before I move on, I steal another glance at the woman. She's talking with Louie and the senator, but her eyes are down, searching. Pressing her lips together, she's waiting for me to make a move. I can't t
ell if she’s waiting with eagerness or dread. It looks like equal amounts of both.

  Maybe we are alike. Unsatisfied. Raw in the same way, and wild inside.

  I can't afford to let my guard down. Not when everything around me feels like it’s about to crumble and come crashing in on me, so I tell myself I've got work to do.

  As I walk away from the bar, I feel her eyes burn into the back of my neck. And scrape lower. An image lights up in my head of her body. A triple-X-rated flickering show. Strobing images of her. Writhing and rolling. Under me. On me. Thrashing. Tensing. Reddening and bursting. An obscene peepshow with a soundtrack to her, blasting on my cock as I pump jets of fire into her.

  A shiver runs down my spine. The pull between us is hard and undeniable, but I resist – for now. I don’t know how long I can keep it up. Or down.

  The man I've been closest to in the whole world, my oldest and closest friend, has been killed, and all that's in my mind now is losing myself, burying myself away somewhere. The heat and the chemical fireworks of an unknown and likely hazardous woman seems like it could be an amusing way to get my mind off it. But I don’t want that. I want to keep a clear head.

  I can resist her for now, but only by physically dragging myself away.

  If our paths cross again, who knows? But something tells me that it's 'when,' not 'if.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  A little later, the sound of glass shattering in the Bar Guarida sends a jolt through me and I'm instantly in action. I head out through a concealed door, into the shorter staff corridors, toward the commotion.

  As I hustle down the dark hallway, a movement in the shadows catches my attention. And with it, the unmistakable spark of Daisy's eyes. She’s stepped out of the chef’s office. What is this woman doing in my club? My pulse quickens, and I can't help but feel drawn to her.

  "Joey," she whispers with a plea in her voice. The sound scrapes like velvet and sends shivers down my spine. I could so easily forget the chaos that’s unravelling just rooms away.

  "Who are you?" I ask her, my voice barely more than a whisper, desperate to unravel the enigma that is Daisy.

  "Is that really what you want to know?" she counters. Her eyes narrow, though her gaze never leaves mine.

  "Tell me," I insist, struggling to maintain control over the wildfire burning through my veins. "Or I'll find out myself."

  She purrs as she says, “Maybe," and she inches closer, her body brushing against mine, "you should do that."

  My desire battles against the warnings in my head and all my rising suspicions. I need to deal with whatever is happening in the bar, but I don't want her slipping away again.

  I say, “I’ll be back." And I tell her, "Wait here.”

  Her lips part slightly as if she’s going to protest, but she remains silent, watching me with those hypnotic eyes. The scent of her perfume fills my senses, and I swear I can almost taste her breath, sweet and intoxicating.

  With a lingering look, I force myself away. My body howls for her touch, while my mind scrambles with questions.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bless him, Daddy was right about one thing. Getting into this club was not easy.

  After I saw my daddy murdered, I had to get away from Boston. Vegas was the place Daddy talked about where the money came and went, and where all the trouble came from. And here is where the super-secret club was; the one that he always wanted to join. This place was like a quest for him.

  So, Daddy. Here I am. I made it here for you. How’s that?

  I’d sooner Daddy had come with me, but it feels like I spent my whole life wishing he were with me. So, when I took the money and ran away, this was where I ran. Thinking of Daddy makes me wish I could have brought my camera into the club, but that ox, the club boss, he took such an obviously instant dislike to me. If I’d been carrying my Canon, I know that would have given him an excuse to throw me out on sight.

  My plan… what was my plan?

  1) Come to Vegas. Specifically, get in the super-secret Havana Cigar Club.

  2) Solve Daddy’s murder.

  3) Bring killer to justice.

  Foolproof, right? What could possibly go wrong?

  Well, for a start, it turns out that it’s probably easier to get into a European royal family or the Magic Circle than the so-called Havana Cigar Club (SPOILER ALERT: It’s not really full of people smoking cigars. In fact hardly ANYONE there smokes cigars at all). But I managed to find a way in for myself. I looked through the names in Daddy’s little black address book, and I picked a few names to do a little reading up on. Hoo-wee, he had some pretty scary people in there. Anyway, after I read up on a few of them, I was looking for the ones that would be easiest to make contact with, and after that it was just a matter of talking my way into an invitation.

  When Daddy showed me where he had hidden his box of what he called ‘runaway money,’ I knew he was into some skeevy and devious shit. I mean, he had to be, right? Why else would he need to keep a box of cash under a wardrobe like that? What kind of an emergency was he getting ready for?

  But, more to the point, what was he doing showing it to me? I caught on pretty fast — that meant he thought that I might need to use it. Meaning, he knew that he might not be around. He saw what was coming and, in his way, I think he was trying to warn me. What kind of an emergency would a bookkeeper be expecting? Although, I always knew there was more to what Daddy did than he told me.

  I have to admit, my plan wasn’t prepared in any way for part 1(a), where our heroine meets the unbearable and ridiculously hot club boss with eyes I can’t pull myself away from. A man who obviously disapproves of me and everything about me. Who makes me thrilled and afraid at the same time. A curl of his lips, and I would hang on his every word. One look from him could obliterate me.

  Joey Calhoun is so sure of himself, so damned certain, and he is so smug and self-satisfied, just looking at the minute tightening of the tilt of his mouth makes me mad. I could try and stop looking, of course. And I have tried. Believe me. And he also happens to have an ass from heaven, as well as the hands of the devil. I want to climb him so bad, just so I can stop him talking. By sitting on his face, preferably. Where I think I could happily stay, indefinitely. And he does have what appears to be a very long and super-mobile tongue. JS.

  The way every woman in the club sighs when they see him just fattens up that over-sized ego of his. And the scents of him. Damn. He smells of power and authority. More than Louie; even more than the senator. They smell like men. Men in expensive clothes, wearing fashionable colognes and fragrances.

  Joey smells like a cross between a law professor and a bear. Or an ox, maybe.

  As soon as he saw me, the very first time, that look he shot me was so stern I almost wet myself. I know what his look really meant; I’m not kidding myself. It said, Who are you, and what are you doing in my club? But I couldn’t help feeling like he was saying, What are you doing out this late? And why are you out in that dress? What are you doing with those men, when you know they’re unsuitable company for a young woman like you? You can see they can’t be trusted. And they’re old enough to be… Oh, God.

  Just one look, without him saying a single word, and he makes me feel like a bad little girl. And it is so hot. If I wasn’t propped up on the bar stool, I would have collapsed, spilled out and splayed all over the floor.

  The men that I’m with, Louie and the senator, they felt the lash of his disapproval, too. A lethal mobster and a senator – as soon as Joey showed up, they both looked and acted like kids who’d been caught out. One look from Joey made them snap up straight and shift, ever so slightly, away from me. Like waves, parting. It was subtle, but it was definitely real. Like they’d been uncovered. Revealed as a pair of schoolboys, caught red-handed.