Page 65 of Tattletale

His dimples deepen as he laughs. He places his hand on my back perfectly. Low enough where there’s a tickle that dances up my spine. But not low enough to be sleazy. “Care to sit?” He guides me to the chair closest to us, then takes a seat in the other.

“What’s your name?”

“Maria,” I answer.

He shakes his head and holds up his finger. “No, it’s not.” I feel the heat in my cheeks.Shit.Vienne did warn me that Gabriel is a bit of a human lie detector. But I didn’t think a name would tip him off. “Why lie?” he asks.

“Why do you think I’m lying?”

He crosses his ankle over his knee and rubs his finger over his chin. “I don’t think you’re lying…Iknowyou’re lying. I’ll admit, it’s a very big pet peeve of mine. You can either be honest with me or drink your martini elsewhere.” His jaw clenches.

Ah. There he is.The alpha I was expecting from a man of his status.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t my usual kind of club. I suppose I’m a little embarrassed and was planning on keeping my identity to myself tonight.”

“Why is that?”

“This place is beautiful, but this is voyeurism.”

Gabriel sucks in his lips and is quiet for a beat. “As is every strip club.”

“Yes, but these cages—”

“Cages?” he asks, eyes widening. “What cages?”

I point forward to the woman in front of us who is wearing leather leggings and nothing else in Barbie’s house of horrors. “The glass is sealed on all sides. They’re trapped. It’s sadistic.”

Gabriel lifts his brows, looking surprised. “That’s not usually the kind of thing my club members fixate on.”

Yeah, probably because none of them have been locked in a room, left to die, like me.“Call me ultra-feminist.”

“If you’re feminist, then you can appreciate that all of these women make six-figures for theirart.I don’t hire whores. I hire dancers and artists who love to share their bodies. It’s at my insistence that they use trapdoors within the rooms, underneath the rugs,” Gabriel says, pointing to the black fuzzy area rug in the center of the room. “I don’t want my dancers to walk naked from their stages to the dressing room. They have private entry and exit away from guests. The club policy is look only, no touching. I take extra precautions to ensure that rule is respected and my girls are protected.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. I’m embarrassed because I thought the worst. Here I thought Gabriel was a little sick, when he’s actually unfathomably considerate.

We’re quiet for a while. Gabriel doesn’t look too pleased with me, and I mentally chastise myself for putting the missionat risk. He’s not going to want to see a woman who openly challenges his integrity. I need to pivot the conversation.

“My real name is Fiona,” I say. “Fiona O’Leary.” Maybe it’s not smart to give him my real name, but O’Leary is a common enough surname. Hopefully, it doesn’t raise any red flags.

“Ah, Irish name. Matches the Irish accent.”

Dammit. Does everyone hear it? Seriously?

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time,” I say.

His smile returns. “You didn’t, Fiona. And by the way, it’s very nice to meet you.”

Celeste returns with a large tray balanced on her palm. She unfolds a stand and sets the tray down. One by one, she hands us our martinis over the rope. She also hands Gabriel a long serving dish with half a dozen compartments, each filled with a different type of olive.

He laughs. “And dinner is served. It’s vegetarian; I hope you don’t mind.” Gabriel sets the dish down on the table between us. He winks at Celeste before she collects her things and whisks away.

“Is she not allowed behind the rope?”

Gabriel takes a sip of his martini and then sets it down. He looks unimpressed. “Typically, getting too close to me garnishes the wrong kind of attention. If they stay behind the rope, it’s clear they are my staff, and there’s less chance of some made-up romantic scandal.”

“Oh,” I say. “Perhaps I should be on the other side of the rope, then. We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression.”

“Being?”

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