The Gentlemen's Club, vol. 1: The Gentlemen's Club Series, #1

By Erika Rhys

A down-on-her-luck dancer stripping to survive. A billionaire playboy who's locked his heart behind a wall of money and charm. When passion sparks between them, will she listen to her fears—or her heart?

When I look in the mirror and see what I've become, I don't recognize myself.

 

Regardless, I need money, and the only employer who's saying yes is the Gentlemen's Club, a high-end Manhattan strip joint catering to every male fantasy you've ever heard of and then some…for a price.

 

When I took the job, I expected to dance for men. To entertain them. To please them—at least, enough to get the tips I'm desperate to earn.

But I never expected to dance for him.

Nick Santoro is gorgeous, persuasive, and used to getting whatever he wants, which—for the moment—is me.

It's just a dance. A one-time thing. Until he touches me, and the spark between us ignites into something I'm afraid to feel—yet can't resist.

I shouldn't want him. Hell, I shouldn't even like him. And I don't belong in his glittering billionaire world.

Not to mention his complicated history—a past rife with enemies who could destroy us both.

Is Nick the man of my dreams—or the biggest mistake of my life?

From #1 international bestselling author Erika Rhys, The Gentlemen's Club is a steamy billionaire romance series that concludes with a Happily Ever After in Vol. 3. If you like sizzling romance, razor-sharp wit, and twists you won't see coming, you'll love this sexy page-turner!

Read The Gentlemen's Club, vol. 1 to enter the club today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erika Rhys
• Release date: Aug 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781516329274

Erika Rhys

International bestselling author Erika Rhys writes contemporary romance novels featuring sexy men, strong women, and dashes of sparkling wit—the kind of books she enjoys reading. Her books include Heir of the Hamptons and the Gentlemen’s Club, Over the Edge, and On the Brink series. Erika’s heroes are driven, determined, and often wealthy, but can also be sensitive and vulnerable. Her heroines come from a range of backgrounds, and are strong, smart, and independent, but also sympathetic and caring. All her books feature laugh-out-loud moments, because humor is sexy! Erika loves dance music, shoes, long walks by herself, long dinners with friends, dark chocolate, strong coffee, and ice-cold martinis. She also loves hearing from readers, so get in touch!  http://erikarhys.com http://facebook.com/ErikaRhys.Author http://twitter.com/erikarhysauthor http://instagram.com/erikarhysauthor http://pinterest.com/erikarhysauthor

Book preview

1

August

New York, NY

---

I can’t believe that you’re trying to talk me into this again.

And why the hell not? Bianca said. She sat down beside me on the couch and wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow. What with the air conditioner having gone through its death throes the night before, it was stifling in our apartment. You’re a modern woman, Ilana. Sexually liberated and all that—even if you haven’t gotten laid in over a year.

Don’t even start on my sex life. It’s my professional life that’s the problem. I’ve interviewed all over this city, I can’t find a job, and my savings are nearly gone. If things don’t turn around soon, I’ll have to return home to Vermont.

My best friend shook her blonde head at me. Her green eyes narrowed, and her voice took on an edge. "You’re not leaving. We’re in this together, remember? I’ll cover the bills until you get on your feet. Just like you did for me when we first moved here and it took me awhile to find work."

This is different.

How?

You applied for a dozen jobs, and within a month, you landed one. I’ve applied for over a hundred jobs since I was laid off in May. It’s pushing four months now, and I’m still unemployed. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.

Like what?

Like this whole New York move was a mistake. Like I’m not supposed to be here. Like I should go back to Vermont and start over.

I pushed my long, dark hair back from my face, looked around the tiny East Village apartment that Bianca and I had shared for the past three years, and felt a pang of regret. I’d come to New York with so much hope, and initially, everything had fallen into place—the timeworn but cute apartment, the entry-level job at a hot tech startup, and my acceptance into the part-time MBA program at New York University.

I’d been well on my way to the life I wanted—until the startup laid off half its employees, including me, after a much-needed round of venture capital money failed to materialize. Until months of endless job applications produced nothing. Until my mother’s back injury left her in need of financial help for the first time in her life.

I didn’t want to abandon my New York dreams, but at this point, I didn’t see any other option.

What would you do if you went back to Vermont? Bianca asked.

I could get my old waitressing job back. The pay sucks, but it’ll be enough to help Mom avoid losing her house—if I live with her. Her disability checks aren’t enough. And now her surgeon is saying that she’s unlikely to walk again unless she has another spinal surgery.

The experimental surgery that you told me about?

Yes. The one that her insurance won’t cover. Unless I win the lottery or figure out some other way to come up with a hundred and twenty thousand dollars, my mother’s stuck in that wheelchair for life.

What about your master’s degree? You’re halfway through—you can’t give up now.

Right now, finishing my MBA is the least of my worries. Maybe I can transfer my credits to the University of Vermont and complete the degree there—in a year or two.

Bianca leaned toward me. Ilana, listen to me.

I’m listening.

You’re discouraged. You’re feeling defeated. I get that. But you need to think this through clearly.

What’s to think through? I’m completely fucked. I picked up a magazine from the coffee table and fanned myself with it. And this humidity is killing me. One good thing about Burlington—at least there, I won’t need a working air conditioner to survive.

Bianca rose from the couch, crossed the room to the efficiency kitchen at the opposite end of the space, and retrieved a bottle of Absolut from the refrigerator. What this situation calls for is a stiff drink and a fresh approach. How about an ice-cold martini?

God, yes. Bring it on.

She poured vodka into a cocktail shaker, added a splash of vermouth and dropped in several ice cubes. Then, she closed the shaker and shook it vigorously.

Let’s just start with the facts, she said, as she poured the contents of the shaker into two martini glasses. You’re broke. You’re frustrated. And you’re not thinking straight.

"How should I be thinking?"

She stepped across the room with the drinks and handed me one. Like the businesswoman you are. Look, you know me better than anyone. Has taking off my clothes for money turned me into a slut?

You know I don’t think that. You took the job at the club to make enough money to launch your own fashion line.

Exactly, Bianca said. She sat down next to me. Dancing is just part of my business plan. Answer me this—with my current skillset, what else could I do for work in this city that would pay even a quarter of the money I’m earning at the club? Zip, that’s what. In another eighteen months, I’ll have enough saved to quit the club and get on with my life. She sipped her martini, and then met my gaze. If I can do it, so can you.

I sipped my drink. Thank you for the martini—and for believing in me. But I just don’t see stripping as a possibility.

It’s called exotic dancing. And why not?

For one, I can’t put ‘exotic dancer’ on my resumé.

You don’t need to. Call yourself an independent consultant. Or just say that you’re in business school—which happens to be true. Not everyone works while they’re in school.

Still, doing this could mess with my career, which I really can’t afford—especially now that my mother needs my help. What if I walk into a business meeting two years from now and some guy recognizes me as the girl he paid for a lap dance?

The guy would likely be more freaked out than you—especially if he’s married. Besides, it’s unlikely that you’d be recognized. It’s amazing how makeup and clothing can transform a person. I’ve passed a few clients on the street, and no one’s ever recognized me.

Seriously?

"It takes me an hour to turn myself into Jade, and when I’m done, you wouldn’t know me."

How do you even do that?

Full body makeup. An exotic look. Fake eyelashes. Wigs.

How come I’ve never seen any of this? When you leave and come back from work, you look completely normal.

I go in ninety minutes before my shift starts to do my makeup and dress for work. When I’m done working, I take off my makeup, put on my street clothes, and take a cab home.

I sighed. You make it sound so simple.

"It is simple, Bianca said. I keep my work life separate from my personal life. Jade—the name I use at the club—isn’t me. She’s a performance, a fantasy. She only exists within the space of the club."

In the six months since Bianca had started working at The Gentlemen’s Club, she’d often regaled me with stories of her clients and coworkers, so I had a general picture of the club. I knew that it was a private, members-only establishment that catered to wealthy businessmen and celebrities—men who were willing to spend astronomical amounts of money to be entertained by beautiful women in a secure, confidential environment.

Bianca had reassured me time and again that her job was perfectly safe, and I believed her. But I couldn’t imagine taking off my clothes in front of a roomful of men, much less doing lap dances or taking someone into one of the private rooms.

What I could imagine perfectly well was the walk of shame I’d have to live through if I returned to Vermont. The expressions on the faces of people I’d known in high school—smug, or even gleeful—when they heard the news that yet another local girl hadn’t managed to survive in New York.

Couldn’t make it in the big city, could you? What were you thinking, anyway? That you might be better than the rest of us? At least we’ve always known where we belong.

Was getting naked in front of strangers really worse than facing my hometown, especially if, as Bianca claimed, no one would ever know?

Maybe not. And I’d be able to help my mother.

What’s it like? I asked. You know—getting that close to total strangers.

I won’t lie to you—at first, it’s weird. It just is. But like anything else, you get used to it. You know how lap dances work—the client isn’t allowed to touch you, which gives you the control—not them.

"What about private rooms? How do they work?"

All the girls fill out forms indicating what they’re willing—and not willing—to do. The client tells the manager who and what he wants, and they work it out at that level. Nothing risky is allowed.

So there’s no pressure?

No—we’re never asked to do anything that isn’t checked off as OK on our individual forms. And the clients get what they want, too—some of the girls are up for just about anything as long as it’s safe and the price is right.

What about the pole dancing part?

Shifts are four hours, during which you dance onstage for ten minutes and strip down to a G-string. After you leave the stage, you spend the rest of your shift doing lap dances. With your dance background, you might prefer not to use a pole—although most of the dancers do. She cocked her head at me. You need to look at it like a business plan, Ilana. Working at the club for one year would let you pay the bills, help your mother, and finish your degree. One year. She raised an eyebrow. And when you graduate and hit the job market as a brand new MBA, you’ll actually be able to afford a real business wardrobe. Armani. Versace. Prada.

I patted her shoulder affectionately. Fashion whore.

Hilarious. So—are you up for it? With one phone call, I can get you an audition.

What if I can’t do it? I said. What if I suck at it? What if I hate it?

Of course you can do it. And you won’t suck. I’ll see to that. But if you truly hate it, you can quit and look for something else—or go back to Vermont. At this point in your life—and in your current financial situation—it’s really up to you. I’ve just offered you a way through, that’s all.

She had. And what did I have to lose? If the club didn’t work out—for whatever reason—at least I would know that I’d tried everything in my power to keep my dreams alive.

I finished my martini and set down the glass on the table in front of me. You’re assuming that they’ll hire me.

Bianca’s face lit up. Does that mean you’re going to do it?

I’ll give it my best shot, and we’ll see if they hire me. If they do, then yes, I’ll do it. I really don’t have a choice, do I? Time isn’t just running out for me. It’s also running out for my mother.

Look, Ilana—you’ve got looks and talent. You’ve also got me behind you. I have mad makeup and wardrobe skills. Unless you really screw it up, they’ll hire you. I’ll coach you through the whole process. You just need to come through with an amazing audition.

No pressure there.

I never said this would be easy. What I did say is that it will be lucrative, likely beyond your wildest imagination.

What do I need to do this? Aside from fake tits, a Brazilian, and a stripper name?

Bianca giggled. "You do not need a boob job. As for the rest—before we dig into the details, we need a second round of martinis. Liquid inspiration."

Agreed, I said. I’ll mix the martinis while you strategize my transformation from washed-up business chick to pole-dancing siren.

Two hours later, Bianca finally let me view her masterpiece—me—in the full-length mirror in her bedroom.

And when I turned to it, I didn’t recognize myself.

She’d flat-ironed the hell out of my unruly black hair so that it fell down my back in sleek, shimmering waves. She’d made up my eyes with a dramatic range of iridescent purples and golds, applied fake lashes, accentuated my cheekbones with highlighter and bronzer, and given me a bold red lip.

I looked at her in the mirror. You were right. Nobody would recognize me like this.

I’ve got this shit down.

I hugged her. You really do.

She hugged me back. And since we’re almost the same size, you can borrow my clothes.

You’re a doll. My bank account is as dry as my grandmother’s vagina.

That’s gross.

Well, it’s true.

I still can’t believe you went there.

I faced her. Why not? Apparently, I’m willing to go just about anywhere. I leaned toward the mirror. Now that my disguise is in place, I need a name. What about Cobalt, since my eyes are blue? You chose Jade based on your eye color.

I did, but Cobalt doesn’t work. It sounds male and seventeenth century—like a dude in a Shakespearean play.

What about Sapphire?

There’s already a Sapphire at the club. Nice girl, by the way.

Maybe Midnight?

You want them to go to sleep on you? We can do better.

Sky? Indigo? Topaz?

No, no, and no.

That was quick.

That’s because the perfect name just came to me. She looked at me. Look at your hair—it’s almost pitch black. I say your name is Raven.

Raven?

That’s right—Raven. It’s dark, it’s sexy, and it’s unique—just like you.

I turned back to the mirror. Seeing myself like this—and hearing my stage name—gave me an odd kind of confidence I hadn’t possessed before. All of this was weirdly empowering. Raven, I said as I studied myself. I like it.

But are you ready to become it?

Yes, I said. Yes, I am.

2

Three days and a whirlwind of preparation later, Bianca and I took a cab across town to the Meatpacking District for my audition. The August afternoon was bright, hot, and humid, and the faint breeze coming from the cab’s air conditioning system was no match for the sauna-like atmosphere.

This heat is insane, I said. It’s only been ten minutes since we left home and I’m already dripping.

We’ll go in the side entrance, Bianca said. The club is closed during the day, so no one will see you until after we’ve transformed you into Raven. If Stone and Max are around, they’ll be in their offices.

After all the stories that you’ve told me, I can’t believe that I’m about to meet the infamous Isabella Stone. She sounds like a real battleax.

Oh, she can be. But Stone knows everything about this business, which is why she’s so demanding, and also why she runs the show. Max is front of house. His job is making sure that the clients are happy. Schmoozing, connecting clients with girls, sending the occasional bottle of complimentary champagne to show appreciation to our regulars—that’s Max’s role.

Our cab pulled up in front of the three-story brick structure that housed The Gentlemen’s Club. Much like the surrounding buildings, the club was clearly a renovated warehouse. An industrial metal awning shielded the double-doored entrance and surrounding sidewalk.

There was no sign. Everything leaned toward the discreet and the exclusive.

I reached into my purse to pay the cab driver, but Bianca stopped me.

Today is on me, she said. After you rock your audition and nail the job, we’re going out to celebrate, which I’m also paying for.

A deep sense of gratitude welled up within me. I was incredibly lucky to have Bianca in my life. Over the past three days, she’d worked tirelessly to help me get ready for today. We’d chosen music, brainstormed dance routines, and pulled together my audition wardrobe.

We got out of the cab and Bianca led me around the corner to the side entrance, where she swiped a keycard and then opened the heavy metal door, which opened onto a set of stairs.

Backstage is one flight up, she said. Two hours to showtime.

An hour and fifty-five minutes later, I sat at one of a long row of makeup stations, staring at my reflection. The unfamiliar face that looked back at me was exotic—even beautiful—but it wasn’t me.

What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t who I am.

In a nod to my stage name—Raven—Bianca and I had selected an all-black ensemble for my audition. I wore an elaborate beaded corset that accentuated my curves, together with a lacy G-string that did double duty as a garter belt. An ankle-length, shimmering skirt with long slits on both sides partially concealed my legs while leaving me the ability to dance freely. Fishnet stockings, six-inch heels, and elbow-length gloves completed my outfit, which was designed to be easily removable, one piece at a time. The gloves would come off first, followed by the skirt. I’d take off the corset last, which would leave me naked from the waist up.

I might have looked like a stripper, but I felt like a fraud.

Why would they hire me? I have zero experience at this.

Just then, Bianca returned from the DJ booth. I’ve given your music to the DJ, she said. You’re onstage in five minutes.

A wave of panic washed over me, but then I checked myself.

Get it together, girl. Your mother needs your help. You have to do this.

You look nervous, Bianca said.

"I am nervous."

Don’t be. You look amazing, and you’re going to blow them away with how well you dance. Get your ass out of that chair and shake it out. Lose the tension. Do a few stretches.

I did, and the familiar motions eased my tension somewhat.

Roll your shoulders backward and forward, Bianca said. That’s right. And yawn. Big yawn. Relax your jaw. She glanced at her wristwatch. We’d better head for the stage now.

I followed her through a nearby door, which led to the right wing of the stage, and then onto the stage itself. Near the stage, a man and a woman sat together at a table. The space beyond them seemed large, but I couldn’t take in any details. My heart pounded in my chest, and the room blurred around me as I struggled to keep my breathing steady.

Bianca stopped at the edge of the stage. Hi, Ms. Stone. Max. I’m honored to introduce my friend Ilana Evans. Her professional name is Raven. She turned to me and lowered her voice. Good luck—I’ll wait for you backstage.

Stone peered