When she tugged on Troy's arm, he stayed put. “You two check it out and report back. I'll be…”
His words evaporated as two women emerged from a corridor that led to Champagne Court, an upper-crust sex playroom with plush lounges, soft lighting, and pretty much anything pleasurable that money could buy-from toys to drugs to sexual services.
Goldilocks. The woman from the street strolled out beside one of the club's guides, someone who gave newcomers a tour and explained the rules and prices that accompanied special services. Goldie wore a crimson mask, the color of a prospective member, which meant she'd passed the rich-and-famous requirement. Troy's mind immediately twisted back to Giselle, and nerve endings sizzled in his belly.
And goddammit, he hated how this relentless hope of seeing Giselle kept tipping his brain off axis.
“Hel-lo…” Becca waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you with us?”
“Sure.” He refocused on the women. “Go ahead. I'll be right here.”
They shrugged and disappeared down the hallway leading to the Dungeon.
Troy scanned Goldilocks from the tips of her shiny black rhinestoned spikes to the top of her golden head. She wore a trendy black leather trench that hit her just above the knees, and now held her hat in the tight c
url of one creamy fist. And damn those masks. They did an excellent job of hiding a person's identity. It covered her face from her hairline to her nose, curving down to hide most of her cheek. There was really nothing but the woman's hair color to link her to Giselle. Well, that and her size, a smallish five foot three, maybe one hundred and ten pounds. Yet her mere presence made Troy's gut turn somersaults.
His mind spiraled and spiraled, first convincing himself the woman was Giselle, then assuring him she wasn't. Couldn't be. Giselle wouldn't be caught dead in a sex club. And never alone.
The guide tucked one hand intimately into the crook of Goldie's arm, head bent close to speak quietly. As the women inched closer to Troy on their way toward the main salon, the guide said something that pulled Goldie's gaze from the partial view of the stage through the arched opening. The action there now drew deep moans and pleasure-drenched mewls. Goldie glanced toward the guide with a little smile on her lips, but instead of meeting the guide's eyes, her gaze slid past the other woman to Troy. And locked on.
He felt the punch of excitement at the center of his body. Tingles spiraled through his torso, raced down his spine. His mind toggled like a pendulum.
Yes, it's her.
No, it's not.
With her eyes on his, her smile grew. A tentative, nervous smile. And a tiny dimple created a sweet little divot just outside her lips on the left.
Everything inside Troy froze and heated, stalled and raced-his heart, his lungs, his mind.
That dimple confirmed it-this was Giselle.
Every muscle in his body pulled taut, poised to act-to do what, he had no idea, because for the first time in over half a decade, since he'd pulled his shit together after she'd walked away, Troy didn't know what to do or say or think. He couldn't make sense of her presence, still half questioning his own sanity.
The instant recognition he'd expected to see in her eyes never came. She scanned his face, curious, maybe intrigued, then let her gaze slide down his body in a slow search, as if she were trying to place him. But when her attention returned to his face, her expression had shifted in a way Troy could only label as…distant? Disappointed? Aloof? He didn't know. All he knew was she didn't recognize him. All he knew was she turned away.
The grip on his heart tightened.
Yes, he'd changed. Yes, between his mask and his beard, his face was pretty much fully covered. But that didn't stem the pain. It didn't keep the knife from driving into his heart or the irrational insecurity from the past rushing back. In fact, those torturous months of transition at the end of their relationship, when Giselle had risen from unknown wannabe to golden child, flooded back into Troy's head and heart as if it had been seven days ago, not seven years. And he felt the pain of his humiliation at the hands of her new groupies with the strength of a sledgehammer. He'd been downgraded from her best friend to a leech, from her lover to her lesser half, from her strongest supporter for years to her greatest weakness in a matter of months. He'd turned from her everything into absolutely nothing.
And now, even she didn't recognize him.
The guide settled Giselle into a small table toward the back of the room along the far edge of the stage. She faced the door but didn't look at Troy again, and his insides smoldered with irrational hurt and anger. All his issues, issues he'd fought to put behind him, resurfaced, instantly transforming him from a strong, capable, grown man to an angry, abandoned asshole.
The guide exited the salon, and Troy stepped into her path but kept his voice soft when he asked, “Is she alone?”
Her wide dark eyes appraised him before answering. “She is, but she's observing tonight. Prefers to get the feel before she jumps in.”
“Thank you.” He refocused on Giselle and found her watching him. Their gazes clicked, and fireworks lit off in his gut. But her gaze cut toward the stage, as if she didn't want to get caught looking. Which begged the question-did she recognize him after all?
She sat straight, legs neatly crossed, hands resting in her lap. In the midst of a relaxed, sexually open crowd, she looked uptight and out of place. Troy's mind spun and spun, trying to figure out why she'd be in a place like this if she didn't want to be. Or why she was so tense if she wanted to be here. And why in the hell had she come alone? A beauty like her in a place like this…alone? That was just a traumatic experience waiting to happen. One more scar a woman like Giselle didn't need.
He caught his train of thought. What in the hell did he care? She was not his concern. She didn't even deserve his concern. For all he knew, this was some sexual fantasy she was playing out with a guy already here in the club. Or she was waiting for someone to come in. Or…shit, it didn't matter.
A man approached her, lowered to a crouch, smiled, shook her hand. She responded in a perfectly appropriate way-with a smile, a shake, small talk. And a rejection. All very tense, uptight, and rigid.
Troy rubbed a hand across his mouth and turned his back on the salon. He wasn't going to be able to stay now. He wasn't going to be able to engage with anyone else tonight. Maybe not for weeks. Or months. And goddammit, that just sucked. He was still so seriously screwed up.