Page 147 of Lady Killer

Rolling my shoulders back, I adjusted my suit cuffs and smoothed out my pants.

Established in 1827, the Liberty Club was one of the oldest private clubs in America. Frequented by the Van Dorens and the Kennedys, it was a place where my family was very much at home.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Blackwell,” said a straightlaced-looking concierge at the same time as a young attendant scurried over to remove my coat and spirit it away.

“A late dinner, or will you be using the facilities today?”

“I’m meeting someone in the upper lounge,” I said, waving off any further questions as I strode to the elevators to make my way up.

When the doors opened, I was greeted by oak-paneled walls and marble floors covered in runners that cost more than a single-family dwelling. Low-lit chandeliers gave the windowless hallway an ambient glow that carried through to the smoking lounge, where another attendant stood in front of two massive double doors.

“Enjoy, sir.”

I didn’t bother to respond.

The thick smoke of cigars hung in the air. Part of the reason the doors were monitored carefully was to avoid toomuch smoke escaping into the hall and blemishing the rest of the club. Somewhat inevitable in the old days, but with today’s air filtration systems, you could barely scent it in the hall, never mind the rest of the massive building.

Regardless, I would change before flying home. I didn’t need Lucian asking questions about where I had been.

Finding the man I was looking for was easy. When he was in the city, he was here, in a small private corner of the lounge that only a fool would commandeer in his absence.

Weaving my way to the back, I nodded at the occasional member I passed, memorizing everyone’s names and faces.

Finally, I came to the small door tucked away behind a bookshelf.

I knocked on the opaque glass window and waited.

“Come in.”

Opening the door, I stepped in to find the room free of smoke, although the scent carried through.

The room was small but meticulously done. Four wingback chairs sat in a semicircle in front of a fireplace, which was currently empty.

Seated with his back to me was the man I was meeting.

“Locke, come take a seat,” he said without turning to look at me.

I made my way to the chair directly across from him.

Victor Blackwell was an imposing man.

Tall and broad, he looked like a mix of Lucian and me, although there was a severity to him that neither of us had ever fully been able to replicate. Even in his early 70s, his silvery-white hair was still thick.

“Drink?”

“Please.”

He poured me a glass of Macallan 78-Year-Old Single Malt from the crystal decanter sitting on the table next to him.

Passing it over, he inspected me with a critical eye. Whether he found me wanting or acceptable, I would never know. His expression betrayed nothing. Perhaps that was where Alister got it from.

Although my youngest cousin had lost his head over a woman.

My grandfather would never do something so foolish.

“I understand Lucian is having problems in Shady Harbor.”

Direct and to the point, as always.

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