MARIUS PORTER.
Art dealer. Investor. Bartender. Your cousin’s friend from college.
Depends who’s asking.
I go places I wasn’t invited and leave with things that weren’t mine.
You can look dangerous, or you can look like nobody has any reason to be afraid of you.
I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs.
The car was waiting outside.
My driver opened the rear door. “Where to this evening, Mr. Porter?”
I slipped inside.
“Blackbird.”
Rich men are fascinating when they gamble privately. Put them in a casino and they'll protect their money. Put them in somebody's £20 million townhouse with twelve other rich men and suddenly losing ten thousand pounds is a sport.
I'd done well enough that Grae’s delay had actually become profitable.
I picked up my phone.
📱 Sure.
I finished my drink and headed upstairs.
I fixed my hair, adjusted my collar and checked myself from the side.
There are two ways to enter a dangerous room.
These were the games held behind locked doors in mansions.
I'd been invited to the first one by a man I'd met over a cigar.
I'd been invited to the second because I'd taken four thousand pounds off the man who invited me to the first.
By the third, I was The Blonde American.
The hotel had been delighted to arrange a site visit.
I'd been delighted when the site visit became a complimentary stay.
I'd been even more delighted when someone offered me a car and driver so I could properly evaluate London excursions and potential spousal programs.
while drinking things I hadn't paid for.
And because even I couldn't pretend to plan an event twenty-four hours a day, I'd found other ways to occupy myself.
London’s secret card games. Not casinos, they had too many rules.
I pretended to develop several strong opinions about which London restaurants could accommodate forty imaginary Americans.
I'd spent many hours in the cigar lounge with a notebook open in front of me, occasionally writing things like guest flow? and private buyout??
with the definitions of independent, event, and planner. I was considering London for a series of intimate luxury events for American clients. High-net-worth guests. Very discerning. Multiple dates. Possibly an annual contract.
Fortunately, waiting is considerably less irritating when you're doing it in a hotel room you're not paying for.
I'd checked into Belgraves as Marius Porter, independent event planner, which technically wasn't even a lie if you were willing to be extremely generous
Nothing too obvious.” I reached out, gently squeezing her shoulder. “You’re a pretty girl, Sofia. You deserve respect.”
My expression hardened slightly.
“And if he forgets that…”
A small, dangerous smile tugged at my lips.
“…I’ll remind him.”
Finally.
My phone lit up on the table beside me.
📱 Blackbird. 8pm. You’ll be speaking with Sofia. I’ll be there somewhere.
Two weeks.
I'd been in London for two fucking weeks waiting for that message.
📱@hellslilcupid Hi. Marius Porter. Nico sent me to handle the necklace situation. I'm getting on a red-eye now. I'll be in England in the morning. Once I'm settled, I'll text you again and you can give me an address somewhere public where you'd be comfortable meeting.
Send.
By boarding, I had spent nothing on transportation, nothing on dinner, nothing on alcohol.
I settled into my seat and finally pulled out my phone. There was one thing I actually had to pay for tonight.
Attention.
I opened the number Nico had given me.