The Dare Collection September 2019. Stefanie London

like the hulking, scarred beast that I was.

      She was very small, her head tilting back as she gave me a searching look. Her forehead creased, her smile turning sympathetic. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Evans. You’ll have a great night, I’m sure of it.’

      The comment was so unexpected that for a second I had no idea what she was talking about.

      ‘Do I look fucking worried?’ I said.

      Either she didn’t hear my sarcasm or ignored it, because she gave me another thorough scan, her expression becoming serious. ‘Actually, on second thought, you don’t. You just look really grumpy.’

      No one made casual observations about me quite like that. Certainly no one said them out loud. To my face.

      I opened my mouth to give her another lesson in driver etiquette, but she charged on, giving me another sunny smile before reaching out to pat my arm. ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down, eh?’

      People didn’t touch me, not these days. In fact, the only people who did were the women I took to bed.

      No one ever patted me sympathetically on the arm.

      No one would dare.

      To make matters worse, the brief touch sent a ghost of the same electricity I’d felt back in the hotel sparking through the leather of my jacket and straight into me.

      Christ. That was all I needed.

      My temper, already mean, took a feral turn.

      I glanced pointedly down at her hand on my arm. ‘I’m not a dog, Miss Little.’

      Colour bloomed in her cheeks. ‘Oh. Sorry.’ She dropped her hand, her cheerful smile returning. ‘No worries.’

      For some reason that didn’t make me feel any less irritated.

      Trying to ignore my inexplicable annoyance, I turned away without another word, starting towards the entrance of the hotel and pushing her out of my mind.

      The pretty, rich people in their glittering couture gowns and perfect tuxes were gathered around the doors and they all stared at me as I approached.

      I scowled, staring them down in turn.

      I didn’t miss their looks of disdain and the whispers, their glances at the limo and then at me in my jeans and black T-shirt, leather jacket thrown over the top. I knew what they were thinking. They were thinking that I couldn’t possibly belong in their rarefied circles. I wasn’t handsome enough, glittering enough, rich enough.

      Poor bastards. They were in for one hell of a shock.

      The thought mollified me and I was cheered still further by how they all rushed to get out of my way like antelopes before a lion as I strode for the door.

      The impressive-looking doorman, though, was not an antelope and there was not a whiff of disdain from him. He gave me a nod and pulled open the door as soon as I approached, ushering me into the foyer with a simple, ‘Welcome to The Billionaires Club, Mr Evans.’

      I hadn’t been expecting to be treated with respect and it took the wind out of my sails slightly.

      The foyer was a huge space with an impressive staircase leading to the upper stories and a massive chandelier that dripped jewelled light into the vaulted space.

      Directly in front of me was an ornate and obviously antique table with a huge spray of white orchids in a glass vase on top. The simplicity of the arrangement was in direct contrast to the chandelier and the table it sat on, and the floor of horrifically expensive Italian black marble. A few chaises longues were strategically placed for people to sit on, covered in luxuriously ostentatious gold silk.

      The whole place reeked of money, the scent of the elite, the entitled, the privileged. The lucky, lucky few.

      Of which I was now one, despite my father’s best efforts to keep me in my place, and my own half-brother’s betrayal.

       Fuck you, old man. And fuck you too, Seb.

      I smiled savagely at the thought.

      There was a woman waiting for me beside the table, tall and slim, with long blonde hair and the kind of perfectly groomed appearance that only the very wealthy could achieve.

      She ignored my smile, didn’t blink at my scars, simply held out a hand and said, ‘Mr Evans, welcome to The Billionaires Club. I’m Imogen Carmichael. Pleased to meet you.’ Her accent was American, east coast.

      I took her hand, reining in my temper, because I could be pleasant when I wanted to be. ‘Likewise.’

      She gave me a cool smile in return. ‘I’m glad you could make it to Paris to join us. Would you like a drink to start with or would you prefer it after the tour?’

      ‘After. Since I received precisely nothing in the way of information, I want to know how this place works.’

      A flicker of genuine amusement crossed her classically lovely face. ‘That’s intentional. Part of the mystique, you understand.’

      ‘Of course. It’s also pretentious as hell.’

      She laughed. ‘You’re direct. I like it. In fact, if I’m not much mistaken, you’ll fit right in.’ Stepping back, she gestured towards a grand set of double doors opposite the main entrance. ‘Right, I’ll show you to the ballroom. We’re in the middle of a burlesque gala event right now, which will give you a taste for the kinds of things we do.’

      The club was as exclusive as it got, with a million-dollar membership fee per year. It was an extortionate amount, but I’d already figured out that membership could only benefit me. Evans Construction and Development, my property development firm, was going from strength to strength as it was, but the club would open doors when it came to growing Evans International, my luxury hotel chain. Especially when it came to stealing my half-brother’s business from him the way he’d once stolen mine from me.

      As Imogen showed me into the ornate ballroom, with high ceilings and yet more chandeliers, I took a glance around, scanning the glittering crowd for any sign of Dumont or my other quarry, Delaney. Suspended above the crowd by a pair of red, silken ribbons, a woman clad in nothing more than jewelled bikini bottoms and nipple pasties performed a sensual aerial act. Music with a heavy beat played while both men and women in risqué jewelled costumes circulated with trays of drinks.

      ‘We hold gala events like this one all over the world and throughout the year,’ Imogen murmured. ‘And all the proceeds go to various nominated charities, as does fifty per cent of each member’s buy-in.’

      ‘Of course,’ I said, listening with only half an ear as I searched the crowd. ‘You must need the tax breaks.’

      Imogen clearly heard the cynicism in my voice, because she raised a brow. ‘It’s all completely genuine, Mr Evans, I assure you. And most of our members help out by attending each event, though you can come and go as you wish. Right now, I’m in the middle of arranging the Christmas ball that will take place in New York, the money from which will also go to a very good cause.’

      From the expression on her face she believed every word that she said, and maybe it was true. Maybe my cynicism had more to do with me than with her and this club.

      Whatever. I wasn’t here to debate charity and privilege, or to hear about parties. I was here to find Delaney and my brother.

      As if sensing my impatience, Imogen gestured to another door. ‘Come with me, I’ll show you something else.’

      We went through into another area, a series of plush interconnecting rooms full of subtle lighting, clusters of deep, velvet-covered armchairs and low tables. People were sitting either in groups or pairs, talking intently in low voices. It was all brandy balloons and Scotch glasses, expensive cigar smoke in the air, and the scent of money, of big deals being done.

      My favourite hunting terrain.

      ‘Our quiet area,’ Imogen