One of the trendy-looking, though unmistakably burly, bouncers jerked his chin in Chip’s direction as they skirted the line. “Pleasure to see you again, Mr. McAllister.”
“This is Mr. Mason,” Chip informed him. “He’ll likely be a frequent visitor while in town, so I’ll have him temporarily added to my account.”
Tague doubted he’d be back, but didn’t comment on the fact he had more important things on his plate than dancing the night away. He didn’t even dance, for fuck’s sake.
“Have a good evening, gentlemen.”
Chip led Tague into the building, but they took a left while others headed down a long straightaway.
“VIP entrance,” Chip simply said.
They reached a bank of elevators and Chip directed him to the express one. Once inside, he inserted a gold keycard into an inconspicuous slot and the car took them to the forty-seventh floor. The doors opened and they crossed the threshold into an enormous, well-appointed marbled lobby—with beautiful women waiting to greet them, wearing evening gowns with slits to the tops of their thighs.
Tague shot a suspicious look at his friend. “A sex club, Chip?”
7
A seriously upscale one from the looks of it.
“Just keep an open mind, huh?”
“Not my first rodeo,” Tague deadpanned. Plenty of his associates had access to the best gentlemen’s clubs in their respective cities and many of them preferred doing late-night business at them. “What’s the specialty?”
“The perfect cut of filet mignon cooked at sixteen-hundred degrees and topped with a lobster-Béarnaise sauce so rich and decadent, your dick will stand up and take notice.”
Tague’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”
With a laugh, Chip explained, “It’s not a sex club, man. It’s an exclusive, six-Michelin-starred restaurant and nightclub, featuring guest DJs and internationally acclaimed chefs. The VIP memberships for the private lounges and formal dining room are fully vetted. Very distinguished.”
“Then how the hell did you get in?”
Chip snickered. “Don’t be an ass. You’re going to like it here. Guaranteed.”
“Meaning my father’s not a member?”
“That I can’t confirm. But just… Follow me.”
They checked their overcoats with a statuesque brunette dressed to the nines and then climbed the oversized staircase. The steps were solid glass, backlit and featuring a waterfall effect behind each pane. They headed to the third level, with Armani-clad hosts to usher them along, passing through double doors that opened to a cavernous room.
“This is the elite cigar lounge, for discerning tastes. Though, the nightclub has an energetic vibe you might also like.”
“Think this’ll do,” Tague absently commented.
The interior was elegant and posh, with polished wood-paneled walls, elaborate chandeliers, plenty of private nooks and crannies—and stunning panoramic views of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline.
Wingback chairs and large, sturdy leather sofas in a stately navy hue, accompanied by mahogany coffee and end tables, were strategically positioned, most of them occupied. Music wafted on the cigar-laced air…classic jazz with muted trumpets and the soulful wails of saxophones.
Chip directed them to a mammoth, intricately crafted bar. A venerable bartender in a tuxedo vest, diamond cufflinks and an impeccable bowtie approached them.
“Good evening, Mr. McAllister. Will ye be having the usual?” the older gentlemen asked in his thick Scottish accent. He not only bore a striking resemblance to Sean Connery, but sounded like him as well. “The Glenlivet 50?”
“For the both of us, Simon,” Chip instructed in a friendly tone.
“Very good, sir.” They were served the fifty-year-old scotch in cut-crystal Baccarat tumblers.
Tague and Chip clinked rims.
“Nice to have you back, buddy,” Chip said by way of a toast.