Читать книгу I See London - Chanel Cleeton, Chanel Cleeton - Страница 8

The boat was packed, students crowding around the bar area and filling the dance floor. The DJ played some song I’d never heard before. The kids on the dance floor were going crazy, moving their bodies to the beat of the music. Tables lined the walls of the main part of the boat. In one corner a guy climbed on top of the table, spraying the dancing crowd with a bottle of champagne.

Mya nudged me. “Those are the guys from the Gulf.” I stared blankly back at her. “The Middle East,” she explained. “There are a ton of them here and they party like crazy. They drink Cristal and drive Ferraris and make little effort to go to class. Piece of advice? Avoid them like the plague. They come to London and screw around with girls they’ll never take seriously. They like to show off, and for the most part they aren’t bad guys—they just aren’t boyfriend material.”

I studied the kid spraying the champagne. Got it, no Arabs. They hardly seemed like my type anyway. Their cars probably cost more than the house I had grown up in.

“So who is datable here?”

Mya’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Good question. And a tough one to answer. Most of the guys at school you can rule out straightaway. At a school this small, everyone talks. Besides, with such a small dating pool things can get a bit incestuous.”

“Ladies, anyone care to join me for a drink?” Michael stood behind us, a bottle of champagne in hand.

Mya grinned. “You got the good stuff. Nice.” She turned to me. “Do you like champagne?”

I had no idea. Being able to drink legally as a college freshman had never seemed like an option. But here I was. “Sure.”

Michael handed the bottle off to one of the girls serving drinks at the tables. She wore black shorts so short I doubted she could bend over and a skimpy black tank top barely constraining her boobs. Compared to her I looked like I should be going to church.

Michael guided us over to a little table pushed up against the wall with a small reserved sign.

“Michael always buys tables,” Mya explained, sinking down next to me.

“What do you mean he buys tables?”

“See, this way we have bottle service and don’t have to go to the bar. Instead you can sit at the table all night if you want and the waitresses serve you from here.”

I nodded as though it made sense, even though I totally didn’t get it. What was such a big deal about having to walk over to the bar?

The waitress opened the bottle of champagne, filling up three glasses. The frothy golden liquid bubbled over the top.

“A toast!” Michael announced, grabbing the first glass and raising it high in the air. Mya and I followed suit. “To the start of another fabulous year!”

Our glasses clinked together. I took a sip of my drink, the bubbles exploding in my mouth. The DJ switched songs and loud hip-hop music came over the speakers.

“I love this song!” Mya grabbed my hand. “Come on, we have to go dance.”

I wanted to tell her no because the truth was, I wasn’t even sure I could dance. I had tried a few times at family weddings, but that kind of dancing looked nothing like this—bodies gyrating to the music in a seductive beat. I followed Mya out to the dance floor, looking around, trying to figure out what to do. Finally I began moving my hips, wishing desperately that I’d had more of a social life in high school to prepare me for all of this.

Mya jerked her head in my direction. “Your roommate’s here,” she yelled over the pumping beat.

I turned.

Fleur strolled into the party, a group of guys in tow. Samir walked next to her, the perfect counterpart to her beauty. She made her way through the crowd like Moses parting the proverbial Red Sea, all eyes on her. Well, except for mine.

Tonight he wore dark jeans, an expensive-looking black jacket and a gray collared shirt. I hadn’t thought it possible for him to look even better than the day on the steps.

I was wrong.

He exchanged handshakes with a few guys before heading over to the table next to Michael’s. He moved confidently, as if he owned the room. Suddenly Samir’s head turned, his gaze meeting mine. My heart began to pound.

His stare pierced me.

Was he imagining me naked right now?

I reddened instantly.

Samir’s eyes widened, his lips twitching. The look he gave me was long and languid, surprise flickering in his deep brown eyes. Surprise, followed by clear male appreciation. With each second that passed it felt as though he was stripping away my clothes, layer by layer, baring my body before him. I felt the full weight of his stare, each glance leaving a trail of heat in its wake. It was as if his hands were running over my skin—molding, shaping my curves, caressing my skin.

No one had ever looked at me like that before.

Fleur tugged on Samir’s arm. He ignored her. She tugged again—saying something to him now—and he turned his attention away from me.

“They’ll probably go out later if you want to come.”

I forced my gaze back to Mya. She shot me a curious look.

“That whole group is pretty big on the club scene,” she explained. “They’re going to this club called Babel tonight. It’s in Mayfair and it’s amazing.”

I struggled to calm the nerves exploding inside me. “Mayfair?”

“It’s one of the nicest neighborhoods in London.” She grinned. “In that dress you’ll fit right in.”

* * *

If not for the massive throng of people standing on the sidewalk, dressed in an assortment of skimpy dresses and expensive jackets, I would never have pegged this as one of London’s hottest nightclubs. Sure, it was just around the corner from the Ritz, a hotel so glitzy from the outside I was fairly sure it was for the superrich. But still, in comparison to the Ritz, which was lit up like a Christmas tree, the exterior of Babel was nothing like I expected.

You couldn’t even get into the club from the street. Instead, the street level led down a flight of concrete stairs that looked hazardous to my health, especially given my ridiculous high heels. A gray door remained firmly shut at the bottom of the stairs, while a burly guy in a black dress shirt and trousers stood guard in front. Another guy dressed in a similar black outfit and a skinny blonde girl with a clipboard in her hand stood at the top of the stairs. Thirty or so people stood in line behind a red velvet rope blocking the entry to the steps. The girl with the clipboard stood next to the rope.

“How long is it going to take to get in?”

Mya grinned. “Watch this.”

Samir brushed past us, walking to the front of our group.

There were ten of us. Best case, some people would get in before others. I didn’t have to guess where I would be in the line.

But instead of heading toward the back of the line, Samir walked up to the girl with the clipboard. He gave her the same air kiss on both cheeks everyone seemed to use in this city. She smiled back at him before reaching down and unclipping the velvet rope. Samir turned back, waving everyone through. One by one, we started filing behind him, descending the stairs without a second glance for the people standing on the pavement.

“What just happened?”

“Samir’s a member at all the best clubs in London. He can always get people in.” Mya nudged me forward. “That’s why everyone puts up with the fact that he’s also a bit of an ass.”

“But what about all those people? How long have they been waiting in line?”

Mya shrugged. “Probably an hour or so.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.” I shuffled forward, grabbing the metal railing as I made my way down the steps.

“Welcome to London.”

* * *

I felt as though I was entering a secret world—one open only to the wealthy and glamorous.

The club wasn’t big; the compact space was littered with tables, most already full. There wasn’t really a designated dance floor. Rather, people grouped together, dancing in any and all empty spaces. A DJ stood in the corner mixing while a giant video screen played strange patterns of swirling bright colors. I figured it was the kind of thing you enjoyed if you were on something. Otherwise it just looked strange. The main focal point, though, was the bar. It covered nearly the entire back wall, its surface lit up in crazy light patterns, matching the colors on the video screen. Girls danced on top of it.

I had felt out of place at the boat party. Here I felt as if I had walked into Oz.

Samir led the group over to a small table, everyone cramming in together. I slid in between Michael and Mya. Immediately, a waitress came over with the biggest bottle of champagne I’d ever seen. Things that looked like sparklers exploded from the top of the bottle. No one else seemed to think there was anything unusual about the pyrotechnics or the giant-size bottle of champagne.

Right. No big deal.

“I think I’m going to head to the bar for a second,” I whispered to Mya.

I got up from the table, wondering for the millionth time what I was doing with them. Everyone acted like Samir was footing the bill, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty that he barely knew me and yet he was buying me champagne. I figured the mini fireworks display, which no one else at the club had gotten, meant something special. And by special I meant expensive.

I pushed my way through the crowd of people, making my way up to the bar. I paused for a moment, trying to find the biggest gap of space between the dancing girls. Somehow the idea of ordering a drink with some girl’s butt in my face just felt wrong. The guys probably saw it as an added bonus.

I leaned across the bar top, struggling to catch the bartender’s attention. There were at least twelve other girls trying to do the same. My gaze caught with a guy standing next to me at the bar. His arm grazed mine, his hips bumping against me as the crowd pushed us together. He grinned.

“Hi.”

Hello.

He was tall, really tall, with a gorgeous head of dark, chocolate-brown hair. He was dressed in what was clearly the standard uniform of a pair of dark jeans and a suit jacket with a collared shirt underneath.

He wore it well. Really well.

He grinned at me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

There was no way I was ordering a soda now. For a moment I felt the familiar rush of nerves and fear filling me. But whether it was the dress or the champagne, this time I didn’t freeze. Instead I managed a nervous smile and prayed the club’s darkness masked any flush that might cover my cheeks. “Sure. Thanks.”

He signaled to the bartender. “What do you want?”

I hesitated for a beat. “Cosmopolitan.”

He ordered for me, his accent somewhere between Prince William and Hugh Grant.

The guy turned his attention back to me. “I’m Hugh.”

“Maggie.”

I took his outstretched hand, fitting my palm into his.

“You’re American. Nice.” His smile widened. “Welcome to London.” He released my hand, his fingers stroking the inside of my wrist. “Are you enjoying it?”

I grinned. “I am now.”

His smile stretched even further and my heartbeat sped up.

OMG, I was flirting and it was actually working.

“How long have you been here?”

“Just a few days.”

He flashed me a grin. “So you’re fresh off the boat,” he teased.

“You could say that.” There was a rhythm to this—the flirting. I was finally catching my stride.

“What brings you to London? Work?” He leaned against the bar, propping his arm against the frosted glass, his body dominating the space around him. Colors lit up beneath the bar top, alternately flashing pink and red.

This could not possibly be my life.

“I’m doing a master’s.” The lie flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. For some reason I didn’t want to tell this guy I was only nineteen.

The bartender handed me the Cosmo. I took a sip, the tart drink exploding in my mouth. Yum. I could definitely get used to this.

“So what do you do?” I asked, leaning my elbows against the bar top, letting my body do some of the talking. I may have been inexperienced, but I wasn’t dumb.

“I own a bar in Chelsea. Cobalt.” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a business card. He handed it to me, our fingers grazing as he slipped the card into my hand. His fingers lingered on mine for a beat. He had really nice hands—his nails were trimmed neatly; his fingers long and tapered. He grinned again, two rows of perfect white teeth flashing back at me. Whoever said the British had terrible teeth definitely hadn’t met this guy. “You should come by sometime, bring some of your friends. I’d love to take care of you.”

I blushed, the flirtation behind his words unmistakable. “Thanks.” The grin slipped out before I realized it. “I think I’d like to be taken care of.”

His eyes widened slightly.

The alcohol was definitely running my mouth tonight.

He leaned in closer. His lips grazed my cheek, hovering near my ear. A shiver ran down my spine. He smelled good. Really, really good. Like citrus and pine and something smoky I couldn’t quite identify. He leaned back, that same smile still on his face. “I have to head out, I was just settling up my tab.” The bartender walked over, handing Hugh a platinum credit card. “It was nice to meet you, Maggie from America.”

I grinned, unable to keep the silly expression off of my face. “It was nice to meet you, too.”

“Come and see me sometime.”

When he was just a dot in the sea of dancers, I stared down at the card in my hand. Hugh Mitchell. Cobalt. Owner.

I turned back to the bartender, draining the last of my drink. “Can I have another?”