"If I can."
In another life, she thought she might have pressed for more, but Magda Deloitte had learned that intense desire, like any good performance, required a careful balance of giving and retreating. She pulled the silk sheets closer, masking her disappointment behind a practiced smile.
"Have fun at the club, Dante."
He laughed, low and effortless, and for a moment, he almost seemed human. Then, with a last glance, he was gone, leaving the faintest trace of his cologne and the echo of possibility.
Magda let her head fall back against the pillows, eyes tracing the ceiling's plasterwork. Outside, the night pressed on, restless as her longing, a longing that, despite herself, she wasn't ready to let go.
The Elite Club was not only exclusive and pricey, but it was also old and established, a building that had been there right after the war of 1812. At first it catered to certain members. You had to be white and of a certain background to attain membership. And you had to be descendants of those members.
Men only, no women allowed. While everything had changed in that respect, women were still not allowed to become members.
It was a men's only deal, and it remains that way to this day. With all the changes, and there were many, the club still maintained its high standards and sat on several hundred acres of land. It was a graceful and elegant building, maintaining its solid structures and sat proudly on top of a crest, overlooking acres and acres of moss green foliage.
The lawns were spectacularly treated, trees with their leaves as green as the lawns waved in the breeze. Flowers bloomed all year round and were tenderly tended to by a team of expert gardeners. The club was not allowed to lose that standard and catered to hundreds of men from a variety of backgrounds.
Royalties from all over the world, the cream of the crop when it comes to businessmen, the idle rich, ones who just live off their parents' wealth and those who had forged their own paths. Men who had come from nothing and made something of themselves.
Dante Livingston was one such person and it constantly amused him to see those same men who would never have given him a second look, sidling up to him and asking for financial advice.He was not into the pomp and glamor and considered himself a simple man but had been persuaded to give the membership a shot.
He also had to admit that he liked the place, the ambiance and especially the women who hung around men of substance. The wives were a different story altogether. They too were also from varied backgrounds and had become forces that were making a hell of a lot of difference.
He might not believe in the happily ever after crap, but he had seen the dopey looks on men who had somehow become his friends, that look of absolute devotion.
One such member was plying him with drink and caustically discussing politics and politicians. Jackson Colby was one who knew the rougher edges of life and was also a world-famous artist.
"It seems to me that instead of highlighting the guy's failing attributes, you should do something about it," Dante drawled as he eased back on the expensive scotch. He would be spending the night, but he wanted a clear enough head for a business call to Japan, later tonight.
"Like bloody what?"
"Like trying to run for president yourself." Dante watched in amusement as his friend's face took on a blank shocked expression, his mouth dropping open.
"Are you high?"
"I never do drugs," he murmured conversationally. "Personally, I think it's an escape hatch and a coward's way out."
"You think I should run for president."
"You have the guts, the money and the look. And I think you would make a great POTUS."
Jackson leaned back in his comfortable chair and eyed his friend closely.
"I could say the same damn thing about you."
Dante's stern lips curved slightly.
"I don't have certain attributes."
"And those might be?"
"My background is far from stellar." He held up a hand when Jackson opened his mouth to speak. "Yeah, I know yours is not stellar. Hell, we're both unlikely candidates, come to think of it."
Amused, Jackson studied his drink for a moment before responding.
"I don't think that matters. The standards concerning who runs for office have taken a distinct nosedive over the past few years. As long as you have a voice and some very wealthy friends and spout enough BS for people to believe, you're a shoo-in."
Dante's response was a derisive snort. His gaze swung towards the prince from a small country who was evading his bodyguards and making a nuisance of himself. Obviously drunk, he was also hitting on the daughter of a senator who wasn't really pleased with the unwanted attention. Dinner hour at the club, always interesting.
