The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [8]
The two women inside the bedroom suite at Allure were exquisite, far surpassing his escort upstairs, or any of the courtesans he’d seen so far. Both were young; both call girls captured the essence of innocent, wide-eyed American beauty.
So far, so good. Very good, indeed.
“Je m’appelle Kay,” one of them said to him.
“Bienvenu à Allure. On nous a choisies de vous saluer, de dire bonjour…Il y a d’autres jeunes filles, sí vous desirez.”
“No, I don’t desire any other women,” St.-Germain answered in English. “The two of you are very beautiful.”
The woman who had spoken first, Kay, was dark-haired, but extremely fair-skinned. Her skin actually looked dusted with some kind of fine powder. Her eyes were delicately sketched. The powder accentuated her cheekbones. Her hair was combed to one side, softly pulled behind her ear.
She communicated expressively with slender hands. Her smile was brilliant, and seemed sincere. She was very good indeed. Even her French was polished.
“I’m Kimberly. Kim.” The second girl seemed shy, younger than the first. She was no more than eighteen, with long blond hair, flowing almost to the bottom of her spine.
The scent of expensive perfume reached St.-Germain as he stood transfixed in the open doorway. The smell of flowers surrounded him. Things were done to perfection at Allure, just the way St.-Germain demanded that they be.
The bedroom suite was a fantasy maze of cut glass, Italian marble, two-inch-thick carpeting, and mosaic tile. Music whispered from hidden speakers, a light tango-rock beat currently featured in the trendiest after-hours clubs. Drugs were laid out all over a chrome and glass coffee table. The atmosphere was undeniably sexy, but also romantic.
The dark-haired woman, Kay, wore a Hermes gown that was delicately split up the side. The dress revealed a tease of nylon stockings, with silver pendants that mysteriously spiraled upward. The dress made her appear liquid, accentuating every curve, every nuance of her body.
Kimberly was long-legged as well, with firm, sculpted breasts and a glowing tan. Her nipples were already erect. She also wore an evening gown, Givenchy or Yves St. Laurent, along with spike-heeled slippers and sophisticated makeup.
Alexandre St.-Germain smiled and bowed. This couldn’t have been better if he had arranged each detail himself.
10
THE THREE MEN FROM THE Escort knew which buzzer to press once they entered the vestibule of Allure. One important question, which wasn’t to be answered for some time, was how they were admitted into the front hall of the apartment itself.
The police theory was that they gained entry either through an open window that led into the garden, or by sneaking up from the cellar. Neither theory was correct.
They came in through the oak double doors in front.
They were wearing raincoats, ball caps, and high-top sneakers, yet they proceeded into the front hall as if they owned Allure.
They each carried an Uzi machine-gun pistol.
The two call girls had begun to undress Alexandre St.-Germain. They worked slowly and sensually, like an improvisational dance troupe.
Their fingers played musical scales up and down his spine. Then, the same fingers were like delicate airbrushes on his thighs, biceps, and genitals. The elaborate ritual reminded him of the finest geishas in Kyoto.
Naked, he was impressive, well muscled and firm. He worked on his physique with a private trainer, in New York, and had done the same for years in London. Like everything else in his control, his body was close to perfection.
Alexandre St.-Germain stood up suddenly. He waved the girls away. Instantly, his eyes seemed flat and cold. He was somewhere back inside his own mind again. Who knew where he went in his private thoughts?
He hurried across the bedroom without saying a word, entering a bathroom connected to the suite. The door closed and the water ran full force inside.
The three men—Jimmy Burke, Aurelio Rodriquez,