Claudine by Barbara Palmer

her elaborate costume, so Andrei had rented an SUV. He pulled the front passenger seat as far forward as possible to fit her wide, hooped skirt. Even with that, she maneuvered into the back with difficulty. She let her hood fall away once she was seated and parted her cloak. “What do you think, Andrei?”
    He looked over his shoulder and his hazel eyes lingered on her face. “Very beautiful. Here—I brought you something.” He reached down beside him and handed her a golden rose in full bloom, fitted artfully into a hair clip.
    “How nice!” she exclaimed, genuinely surprised. She didn’t think Andrei had a sentimental side. Life for him always seemed a deadly serious proposition.
    She’d met him at an Atlantic City all-night sex party, abirthday celebration for one of the Russian mafia kingpins. They’d flown porno queens in from Hollywood for the event, and Claudine was the starring attraction. She’d noticed Andrei right away: a roughly handsome man who stood apart, watchful, but not lascivious. She could tell he wasn’t a bodyguard. They were obvious. Men who looked like they’d just stepped out of Rikers, thugs with weapons visibly bulging underneath their jackets. Andrei was more sophisticated than the others, but no less powerful. As the night wore on, the party got out of hand. One of the waitresses was cornered in a back room and gang-raped. With a nod to her client, Andrei appeared behind Claudine, placed a protective hand on her elbow and smoothly ushered her to a dark sedan. At her request, he saw her home, and waited until she disappeared in the elevator before pulling away. She called the client the next day for Andrei’s contact information and when she reached Andrei, asked him to work for her. She knew basic details about him like his age—he was thirty-six—but otherwise he told her little about his life and she didn’t press him on it. She knew he had a license to carry a concealed weapon, not something easy to get in New York State. Even better, he was discreet and loyal. One of a kind.
    “Andrei—thank you. I love it.” She fastened the rose just above her ringlets. “I’m guessing Lillian suggested this—didn’t she?”
    He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “You don’t think I can admire a lovely woman—even if she is a browbeating boss?”
    “Browbeating? I’ll dock your pay for that.”
    He smiled and started the car.
    The Aqua Club was located in a former hotel—a Greek Revival sandstone building near the Village renovated into officesand galleries. A luxury spa was housed on the first floor, a bar on the second floor and private party rooms above. The bar was noted for its fine tapas, superb jazz and upstairs rooms for swingers and others interested in discreet sex-oriented entertainment.
    She pulled the hood and cape around her once more. Andrei waved as she climbed out. “I’ll park and wait for you downstairs,” he said. She presented her card to the club doorman, who called up to her client and escorted her past the spa entrance to the elevator. On the third floor, she stepped into a small lobby where her host, Claude Ferrer, waited for her. He was of medium height, slim, with gray hair, and Andrei’s research disclosed that Ferrer was in his late fifties and unmarried. He was dressed in black trousers and a tailcoat, open to reveal a rich brocade waistcoat and white silk ascot pierced with a diamond stickpin. He doffed his hat fully enjoying the fantasy. “Good evening, my lady,” he intoned dramatically. “You are a vision.”
    He raised her hand to his lips and murmured against her skin, “I thank you for your efforts. The dinner arrangements are impeccable. And I have no doubt that you’ve taken as much care with the entertainment.”
    “Thank you, sir, for your delightful invitation.” She gave him her most winning smile, dipping slightly in a mock curtsey. She parted her cape to reveal the tops of her round breasts, dusted with gold.
    He took