God, how I loved a well-mixed Cosmopolitan – from the neon pink to the smooth-as-satin, slightly sweet burn as it coats down my throat.  The thought of slowly sipping it (or more accurately, washing it down in one or two swashes) had enticed me to Club 69 (rather suggestive, isn’t it?) – crème-de-la-crème of mid-Manhattan’s trendiest club scene as of the moment -- and now effortlessly set my parotid gland salivating. 

That or it was that mouth-watering hunk fifteen feet down the bar, whose ripples of muscles failed to be constrained by the thin sheath of his casual button-down shirt.  Not that he was a walking steroids ad type of muscular.  A good kind of muscular, defined enough for me to see that he was hard, rock-solid.  His biceps of course.  Mmm… Now it wasn’t only my parotid gland that was working overtime.

“One cosmo,” announced the bar boy as he set my drink down and hurried off to deliver the multiple other On the Rocks, Cosmos, Strawberry Kisses, and Crème in Da Panties lining the bar.

I tore my eyes off of the six-foot, dark-haired hunk and glanced around the club.  It was still fairly early in the evening, but from the view that my seat at the bar allowed me, the club was already buzzing.

I really shouldn’t have been drinking that early, regardless that it was a Friday evening.  But then again, I was 26 and without a boyfriend, let alone a steady, fulfilling relationship.  I can’t even recall the last time I had one.  Oh, yeah.  He was 86, partially bald with liver spots, and came up to about my B-cups.  When standing (to be fair, he had probably shrunk a good six or so inches since his ‘60s).

Oh, what the hell.  I tipped my head back, letting the curtain of loose deep chocolate brown curls brush the ivory flesh of my back right beneath my shoulder blades, and downed the Cosmo.

“Tsk, tsk.  You know you shouldn’t be drinking this early.  Not with work to be done,” teased a mocking voice from my right.

I turned to see Leila Stevens, my best friend for the past three years since I set foot in Manhattan and established my agency, in a short silver eyelet dress (probably the latest feed for her Alexander McQueen addiction), grinning a smile few knew was the result of tens of thousands in dental bills.  Then again, we all have colorful pasts and secrets to keep.  Slim at 5’6” and only two inches shorter than myself, Leila nonetheless easily demanded attention in any crowd.

“The night’s still young.  Besides, pleasure is my business.  You, of all people, should know that,” I retorted.

“Huh.  Well, would that pleasure be the Cosmo or that guy you’ve been eyeing since I walked through the door?” asked Leila, arching one meticulously groomed brow and smirking.

“So how was H.A.?” I quickly changed the subject. “Did he tip this time?”

“Ugh.  He was as clingy and soft as always.  But he did tip me with this…” Leila tucked strands of her sleek auburn hair behind her left ear to reveal huge glittering diamond studs.  “Not bad for the fifth time, huh?”

I raised my eyebrows in amused bewilderment.  H.A. – we made it a policy to refer to clients by their initials – was by far one of our cheapest clients.  He would never part with more than the asking price.  To be fair, though, he wasn’t demanding and he treated the girls well.  He was just an old, lonely man with a net worth of $30 million – just sufficient enough to cure his loneliness by the hour.

A hint of mischievousness glimmered in Leila’s amber eyes as she suddenly darted away into the thickening crowd on the dance floor.

“Could I buy you a drink?” a deep, but smooth voice jolted me from the left.

I turned to see the hunk I had previously been eyeing.  Now he was eyeing me with a smile that could easily melt steel.  The musky scent of Armani cologne teased my nose, and then some.

“I don’t accept drinks from strangers,” I said in a manner that made obvious I meant just the opposite.

Really, I usually don’t.  But I figured this – he – called for an exception.

“Mark Bareldo, owner of this club” he answered with an amused smirk. “I assume you would like a Cosmo?”  He glanced down to the empty glass, with only pink remnants lining it to suggest my preference.

“Actually, make that an Apple Martini,” I fired back without missing a beat.

Hey, I don’t like being a predictable gal.

“Candice Jensen,” I offered.

He was even more attractive up close.  A delicious shiver made its way down my body to my fire-red Christian Louboutin stilettos, and moved upwards to settle somewhere deep in the middle.

Sure, I’m technically supposed to spend tonight promoting my agency, High Heavens.  Bagging an extra thousand or so at the end of the night would also be a nice bonus.  Then again, enough of the girls were already scattered throughout this club and a handful others around Manhattan.  I figured that would generate enough PR for one night.

Tonight, I would set business on the side and concentrate simply on pleasure.  Although in my life, the two are often difficult to distinguish.

Next Chapter: CHAPTER 1