The Gentlemen's Club, vol. 3: The Gentlemen's Club Series, #3

By Erika Rhys

Love. Danger. Revenge.

Trapped in a tangled web of deceit and betrayal, the only truth I trust is my bond with Nick—and the feelings that rush through me every time our eyes meet, every time he takes me in his arms.

Passion. Love. Protectiveness. And a fear that drives shards of ice into my heart.

The fear of losing him, losing us, losing the future we should share.

Time is running out for us—which is why I'm staking my life on one more risky plan, one more perilous attempt to unmask Nick's enemies.

If this plan works, it could save us…but if it doesn't?

One of us could be the next to die.

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erika Rhys
• Release date: Aug 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386874737

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

October

New York City

The morning after the Red Cross gala was the start of a perfect fall day. Through the windows that filled an entire wall of the living room in Nick’s eighteenth-floor apartment, the bright blue sky, devoid of clouds, smiled down on the buildings of midtown Manhattan. Beyond the windows, the sprawling cityscape stretched to the horizon, its steel-and-glass skyscrapers reflecting and scattering the sunlight. But as Nick and I sat together and drank our morning coffee, the clear, sunlit autumn sky seemed to mock us with its seamless beauty, its brilliant and uninterrupted blue a contradiction to the storm clouds that hung over us.

From the time that the police had located the briefcase full of cash used to pay our attackers, and Forbes Endicott’s fingerprints had been found on it, the police investigation of the attack on Nick’s car had focused on Endicott, together with a few of his colleagues and potential collaborators. But last night at the Red Cross gala, Endicott had been viciously murdered, and Nick now believed that Endicott was an innocent victim, taken down by the same killer who overshadowed our every thought—the killer who had attacked us and continued to threaten us.

After downing his second cup of coffee, Nick disappeared into his workout room, no doubt to burn off some of nervous energy, while I decided that a hot, leisurely shower might help me relax. At times when my life felt like it was spiraling out of control, the undemanding familiarity of routine activities sometimes calmed me. Maybe the best way to cope with my inner tension was to proceed as if this were a normal day—despite the undeniable fact that today was anything but normal. Last night, after we had returned from the gala, I had slept poorly, and Nick had been restless as well.

I showered, blow-dried my hair, and then chose a burnt-orange corduroy skirt from my closet. Despite my fatigue and the worries that tugged at my determination to stay positive, I smiled to myself as I ran my fingers over the ridged, velvety fabric, remembering the little store in Paris where I’d found it and my delight when it turned out to be the perfect length, ending just far enough above my knees to flatter my legs without edging into mini-skirt territory. Little things made me happy, I decided, as I stepped into the skirt, closed its side zipper, and selected a dark-blue silk blouse to go with it.

As I finished buttoning my blouse, Nick entered the bedroom, put his arms around me, and pressed a kiss against my hair.

Rocco just texted me, he said. He’ll be here in half an hour.

I brushed my fingers along Nick’s stubbled jawline and then ran my hand down the damp T-shirt that clung to his muscled chest. It looks like you had quite a workout.

His lips twisted in a half smile, but the troubled look in his eyes revealed the truth. He was trying to stay strong for me, just as I was for him.

After a weight-lifting session and twenty minutes on the treadmill, I probably smell like a locker room, he said.

I made a show of sniffing his T-shirt. You’re a testosterone factory, but it’s somehow appealing. If we had more time, I’d peel that sweaty T-shirt off you and have my way with you.

He planted a quick kiss on my lips before turning away and striding toward the master suite. After we’re done meeting with Rocco, I may take you up on that.

When Rocco arrived around ten, we exchanged greetings and then sat down in the living room, Nick and I side-by-side on the expansive leather couch and Rocco in an adjacent armchair.

Where do you want to begin? Nick asked.

Let’s start with Endicott’s death, Rocco said. Early this morning, the medical examiner got Endicott’s body on the table, and her preliminary conclusion is death by cyanide poisoning. While that conclusion won’t become official until it’s confirmed by toxicology results, no one expects it to change.

I looked at Rocco. Cyanide! That’s what the doctor at the gala said.

According to the medical examiner, it’s likely, Rocco said. Eyewitnesses told police that before his death, Endicott was vomiting and had convulsions, both of which are characteristic symptoms of cyanide poisoning, but we can’t be certain until the toxicology results come back. As Nick and I discussed briefly late last night, we need to consider the possibility that Endicott was murdered by the same person who tried to kill you. But before we go there, we should consider the people closest to Endicott—at least two of whom would benefit significantly from his death.

Go on, Nick said.

Rocco continued. With Endicott dead, Beardsley Fripp is expected to become the next CEO of Endicott Trumbull. That’s a powerful motive. There’s also the issue of Fripp’s character—we know that he plays fast and loose with the law and that he’s shown violent tendencies in the past.

Nick shook his head. I follow your arguments regarding motive—but it’s hard to believe that Fripp killed Endicott. Endicott was his lifelong friend, his best friend in the world. You should have seen Fripp last night at the gala when he realized that Endicott was dead. Fripp was shocked and devastated. He was overcome by grief.

He was, I agreed, recalling Fripp’s thick shoulders shaking as he rocked on his knees, weeping and moaning, in the minutes after Endicott’s death. At first, he refused to believe that Endicott was dead. He said that Endicott needed CPR and he was about to place his mouth over Endicott’s when a nearby man stopped him, and said that giving Endicott CPR could be dangerous.

Fripp sure as hell looked broken up about Endicott’s death, Nick said. If he was faking it, he gave an Academy Award-winning performance.

In addition to Fripp, there’s also Endicott’s wife Elizabeth, Rocco said. According to my sources, the problems in their marriage were widely known, and since their two children are in their teens, his will probably gives Elizabeth much of his fortune outright and control over whatever portion may be held in trust for their kids. Given the amount of money at stake, there’s no doubt that the police will be taking a close look at Elizabeth Endicott.

I remembered the look in Elizabeth’s eyes as she stood, firm-lipped and ramrod-straight, beside her husband’s body, with his vomit splattered on her evening gown. She hadn’t seemed surprised, let alone sorry, that her husband was dead. On the contrary, the look in her eyes had caused me to think that she wouldn’t miss him in the least.

Elizabeth didn’t seem shocked at her husband’s death, I said. If anything, she looked gratified. And she told us that she does fundraising for the New York chapter of the Red Cross. What if she has a relationship with whatever company catered last night’s event? Could she have paid someone to put some sort of poison in her husband’s drink?

In the cosmic lottery, Elizabeth Endicott won big last night, Nick said. She’s rid of a husband whom she not only never loved, but apparently didn’t even like. Still, I don’t believe that Elizabeth murdered her husband, no matter how much she may have wished him dead. That woman is the worst kind of ignorant socialite. Whoever poisoned Endicott possesses skills and contacts that she lacks.

How could the poison have been added to Endicott’s drink? I asked Rocco. Security at the gala seemed tight, and Nick told me that the museum is also protected by a state-of-the-art surveillance system.

Metal detectors and X-ray machines wouldn’t pick up a plastic vial or sachet of poison, Rocco said. It would have been easy enough for someone to bring the poison into the building.

How do you think it went down? Nick asked.

I think that it was a two-man job, Rocco said. A server hovered near the Endicott group and waited for Forbes Endicott to order his usual cocktail. A bartender was ready with the poison in his pocket. The server would have gone to that bartender, and some signal or communication would have passed between them. Then the bartender would have surreptitiously dropped the poison into a glass, concealing his actions behind the bar, before adding the liquids and giving the mix a quick stir. Many poisons are highly soluble in water, and the red color of the Campari would assist in masking any cloudiness—as would the low lighting during the post-dinner dancing and cocktail hour.

Wouldn’t handling the poison put the bartender at risk? I asked.

Not necessarily, Rocco said. Let’s take cyanide, for example, since that’s the poison we suspect was used to kill Endicott. While ingesting a gram or so of it will kill a man, touching its powder—or having a few droplets of a cyanide solution splash on your skin—doesn’t deliver a high enough dose to do anything. If you’ve ever smoked a cigarette or eaten a handful of almonds, you’ve experienced a small dose of cyanide, which your body is perfectly capable of handling.

I assume that the police are questioning the bartenders and servers, Nick said. With the number of people who were standing around, as well as the surveillance video, it should be simple enough to establish who mixed Endicott’s drink, and who served it.

Last night at the gala, the police had stopped anyone from leaving the building for over an hour. Together with the other guests, we had spent most of that time in the hall with the dinosaur skeletons, since the police quickly cordoned off Milstein Hall, the room in which Endicott had died, as a potential crime scene. After speaking with a handful of eyewitnesses, the police had sent a young male officer to take down the names of other potential eyewitnesses, including mine and Nick’s, and to inform us that requests for police interviews or statements could follow over the next few days. Around ten-thirty, we and the other guests had finally been permitted to leave the Museum of Natural History.

According to my sources, police allowed the guests and the orchestra to go home last night, but held the servers and bartenders, Rocco said. Questioning of the wait staff began immediately, and I expect to receive an update on the outcome of those interviews later today. As you pointed out, the individuals who carried out Endicott’s poisoning should be identified quickly.

Which could lead to finding out who hired them, I said.

Rocco looked at me. It could. But if Nick’s right and the killer behind Endicott’s death is the same individual behind the threats that you and Nick received, the same individual who attempted to kill the two of you, then it may not be that simple.

Agreed, Nick said. Our attacker has proven to be extremely clever. So far, he’s been smart enough to evade our investigation, as well as the police’s.

If you’re right and Endicott wasn’t behind the attack on us, evading the investigation isn’t the killer’s only coup, I said. He also framed Endicott. He stole the briefcase with Endicott’s fingerprints on it and set him up to take the fall for the attack on us.

Not to mention poisoning Endicott, Nick said. Whoever our adversary is, he’s intelligent and he’s got significant connections and financial resources. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to do what he’s done.

We don’t know if it’s a he or a she, I said. We don’t even know if he or she is one person. It could be two or more people working together.

Everything that we’ve just discussed is possible, Rocco said. But for the moment, let’s refrain from jumping to any conclusions. According to my sources, Centerpost isn’t the only acquisition that Endicott Trumbull is pursuing, and the company’s holdings are substantial.

That’s a good point, Nick said. More than a few people might benefit from Endicott’s death. Although you have to admit that the timing of his murder is suspiciously convenient, what with the Centerpost board scheduled to vote on the acquisition in less than two weeks.

Rocco leaned back in his chair. Due to the timing, it’s tempting to make that connection, but right now, we have no evidence to support it.

What do you recommend that we do? Nick said.

For the moment, we wait, Rocco said. Earlier this morning, I put in a phone call to Bill Garcia, the police detective in charge of our investigation, and relayed our suspicion that Endicott’s death may be connected to the Centerpost acquisition, as well as the threats and attack against you. As soon as Detective Garcia knows more, he’ll be in touch.

And you expect to hear from him later today? Nick asked.

I do, Rocco said. What we learn over the next twenty-four hours could change everything.

2

After Rocco left, Nick shot me a look of frustration before he dropped his head into his hands and swore beneath his breath. Rocco doesn’t want us to jump to conclusions, but my gut says that Endicott’s death is connected to the Centerpost acquisition.

Whether you’re right or not, Endicott’s death has to have left a trail of evidence, I said. Police will identify the waiters who were involved in his poisoning and question them about their motives. We’ll learn if they acted alone, or if someone hired them. If someone hired them, we may be able to learn that person’s identity. And there could be physical evidence as well. The poison was likely contained in some sort of vial or sachet that might carry fingerprints or be traceable in some way that would identify where it came from or where it was purchased.

The evidence trail will end in a cloud of smoke, Nick said. He got to his feet and walked to the windows where he stood, with his back to me and his arms crossed, looking out at the city. The light that streamed through the windows silhouetted his powerful torso. The tightness in his voice told me that Endicott’s horrific death had affected him just as deeply as it had me—perhaps even more,