matter. It was open and, hopefully, had a telephone she could borrow.
Except it wasn’t a club. It was a time portal. How else to describe what lay on the other side of the door?
The room looked like it belonged in an old-fashioned American detective movie, like the ones they sometimes played on television late at night. High-backed booths covered in rich burgundy leather, wood so dark it was almost black. Iridescent glass chandeliers that bathed the room with a smoky white light. The hair on Arianna’s arms started to rise. Sleek and sensual, the entire space pulsed with expectancy. A simmering promise of something for all who walked in.
To her left, a large bar lined the wall. More dark wood, only this time the dark was accented with brass rails and shelves filled with glassware. A stocky black man, dressed to fit the setting, stood by the register. His pomade-slicked head was bent over a clipboard, on which he was making notes. The man didn’t look up when she approached.
Arianna cleared her throat. His attention still on the clipboard, the man reached under the bar and produced a sheet of paper that he thrust toward her. “Fill this out. I’ll tell the owner you’re here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re here about the job, right?”
He hooked a thumb at a sign that had been discreetly tucked in the corner of one of the windows. Through the glass, she could make out the backward outline that read Help Wanted.
“I...”
Arianna paused. It was a silly idea. Her, working in a restaurant. She’d never worked a day in her life. Not a proper job anyway.
On the other hand, if she could find a job, she would earn money, and money meant she could postpone going home.
She would have time to think.
Make the right choice.
Ignoring the voice telling her she was making yet another reckless decision, she set her bag on the bar and, before she could change her mind, announced, “Yes. Yes, I would like the job.”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” a voice replied. A low, smooth voice that definitely did not belong to the bartender.
Arianna looked up and caught her breath. If the club looked like something out of a movie, this man was the movie star. He approached her end of the bar with an elegance that was almost surreal in its smoothness, his double-breasted suit shifting and swaying in a cadence only a custom-made garment could achieve.
His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass while his eyes were the color of Mediterranean slate. Only a slightly crooked nose prevented his face from complete perfection. Interestingly, the flaw fit him perfectly. As did his surroundings.
“Max Brown,” he said.
Arianna started to nod, the way she always did when someone presented themself, then remembered where she was and quickly stuck out her hand. “Arianna.”
“Nice to meet you, Arianna.” His grip was solid and sure. “Is there a last name?”
“Santoro.” Arianna cringed as her real name popped out.
Fortunately, he showed no signs of recognition. “Pleasure to meet you, Arianna Santoro. You’re interested in the waitressing job, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Glad to hear it. Have you filled out an application?”
“Not yet,” the bartender said.
“I only just walked in,” Arianna explained.
His smile was as charming as could be. “That’s all right. Why don’t we have a seat, and we can fill in the spaces as we go along.” He motioned toward one of the booths lining the wall. “We don’t need much. Just the usual stuff. Name, address, social security number. Oh, and your firstborn child, of course.”
Arianna’s stomach lurched.
“Relax, I was only kidding about the firstborn part,” he said, touching her elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I’m f-fine.” She supposed it was nerves making her feel queasy. What was she going to say when he asked for details about her identity? Squeezing the bar rail, she focused on breathing through her nose, hoping the lump would work its way back down. Having something in her stomach might help, too; it was past lunchtime after all. “Could I get some chamomile tea and dry toast?” she asked the bartender.
“You’re ordering food on a job interview?” The man shook his head.
Max continued to keep his hand on her elbow. “Might not be a bad idea, Darius,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind a fresh cup of coffee.”
“You want me to go grind the beans for you, too?”
“And grow the chamomile.”
The bartender muttered something about his job description, but obliged nonetheless. As soon as he disappeared behind a swinging door, Arianna felt the grip on her elbow tighten.
“Why don’t we take a seat,” Max said as he gently pulled her away from the bar rail, “and you can tell me about yourself. Starting with why you want to work for the Fox Club.”
If only he knew... “Why does anyone want a job?” she asked as she felt herself being propelled to the booths on the other side of the room.
“Generally, because they need money. Is that why you’re looking for work? Because you need money?”
“Of course. Why else?”
He looked her up and down. “No reason.”
No sooner had she settled onto the leather bench then Darius returned with a serving tray. “The toast will be ready in a minute,” he said, his face a scowl as he set a small ceramic teapot in front of her. “You need anything else?”
The question was directed to Max, who immediately smiled. Apparently, he found the bartender’s abruptness amusing. “I’m good. You want to sit in on this?”
“No, hiring people is your thing. I’m perfectly happy with my supply order, thank you very much. Liquor bottles don’t make special requests.” Shooting a scowl in Arianna’s direction, he turned and headed back to the bar.
“Don’t mind him,” Max said, shrugging off his jacket. The cloth of his white shirt strained against his biceps as he rolled up the sleeves. “He isn’t nearly as put upon as he likes people to think.”
“If you say so.” She tried to glance over her shoulder, but the bench was too high to see over.
“Trust me, underneath that brusque exterior beats a very soft heart. Ah, this smells good.” Coffee cup raised to his lips, he closed his eyes and inhaled. “We import the beans directly from South America. Our own custom blend.”
“Really.” She hoped she sounded enthusiastic. Usually, she liked coffee, but lately the aroma made her queasy.
“A bad cup can ruin the whole dining experience. Last thing we want are customers leaving with literally a bad taste in their mouth. Not if we want them to come back.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.” She thought about the five-star meals she’d enjoyed over her lifetime. The coffee, like every aspect of the meal, was always impeccable. It never dawned on her to expect otherwise. “You’ve clearly paid a lot of attention to details.”
“I should hope so. Details are what make or break a restaurant.”
Then she suspected the Fox Club was “made” because Max Brown seemed to have thought of everything. Like their booth, for example. Not only did the high seat backs ensure privacy, but they’d been designed for two, essentially making them intimate little nooks.
The atmosphere seemed even closer with someone as exceedingly...solid as Max Brown. Suddenly warm, Arianna slipped off her coat. Underneath her turtleneck