“They don’t roll out the welcome mat here, do they?”

“Is not a place for people like you and me,” Jaros said.

“We’ll see about that.” She pushed open the car door just as Jaros got out to hold it for her.

She yanked down the hem of her quilted blue jacket. Marching up the steps, she looked for a doorbell. There was none. Nor did the heavy door sport a knocker. Glancing around, she saw a camera camouflaged by one of the gargoyles. She waved at it. Nothing happened.

So she pulled out her phone and typed: I’m standing on the steps of the Bellwether Club, and it’s cold out here. Tell TPTB to let me in.

It took close to a full minute before Gavin’s reply popped up on her screen. Go away.

“Well, that’s rude.” But at least he was reading her texts. No. If you find me frozen to death out here, it will be on your conscience.

Is Hugh with you?

Would Hugh’s presence be positive or negative in Gavin’s eyes? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to lie to him. No. I’m alone.

Then Jaros brought you. Get in the nice warm car and go home.

So his brain was still functioning. Too bad. She waved at the security camera again and gave it her friendliest smile.

Since there was still no response, she walked down two steps and took a seat right in the middle of the staircase. She checked to make sure the camera could see her.

It began to sleet. Jaros started up the steps with an umbrella, but she waved him back to his position by the car. She pulled the hood of her jacket up over her head and stuffed her hands in her pockets, hunching over so her jeans wouldn’t get too soaked. She hoped whoever was watching her on the camera would feel sorry for her.

It took longer than she expected, but finally she heard the quiet click of a well-oiled latch and footsteps. “Ma’am, this is private property,” a deep male voice said from behind her. “You’ll have to move on.”

She turned to look up at a large man dressed in a dark suit, his hair cut short, with an earbud wire running down the side of his neck.

“I’m here to see Gavin Miller. He’s upstairs in the bar.”

“Ma’am, you need to remove yourself from these steps.”

Allie gestured toward Jaros. “You must recognize Mr. Miller’s driver, Jaros. He’ll vouch for me.”

Jaros jogged up the steps. “Miss Allie is friend of Mr. Gavin’s. He will like to see her.”

The security guard hesitated, clearly unsettled by the presence of the Bentley and its driver.

The door swung open again, and a small, slender woman with silver hair wearing a navy pantsuit stepped onto the portico. “Are you Allie?” she asked in a voice that held a lilt of Irish in its husky tones.

Allie stood. “Yes, I am. Did Gavin send you?”

“Come in,” she said, nodding as the security guard leaped to hold the door for both of them.

Allie gave Jaros a covert thumbs-up before she followed the woman through the well-secured portal into the hallowed entrance hall of the Bellwether Club. She couldn’t help gawking at the gigantic flower arrangement on the marble-topped table. It must have taken half a greenhouse to fill up the monstrous bronze vase. She got a quick glimpse of Oriental rugs on polished floors and a grand staircase with a carved banister before the silver-haired woman led her into a small parlor much like the first room she’d visited in Gavin’s mansion. She guessed all these rich folks had to have someplace to put the unwanted commoners who dared to come to their front door.

“I’m Frankie Hogan,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “I own this club.”

“Allie Nichols. Thank you for letting me in.”

The woman’s handshake was brief but firm. She scanned Allie from head to toe before saying, “Ordinarily, I would have allowed Vincent to escort you off my property. However, Gavin could use a friend right now.”

“How do you know I’m his friend?”

“I was sitting with him when your texts came in.” Frankie gave her a wry smile. “He said a few things that I won’t repeat, but I caught your name among them.”

“Is he drunk?”

“It’s hard to tell. He often pretends to be drunker than he is.”

“He was thinking pretty clearly during our text exchange,” Allie said. “He would have been easier to persuade if he was further under the influence.”

Frankie gave her another of those assessing stares. “How long were you going to sit on the steps?”

Allie met her gaze straight on. “As long as it took.”

“Come with me.” Frankie headed for the door where a woman in an old-fashioned butler’s uniform met them. “Jasmine, please take Ms. Nichols’s coat.”

Allie shrugged out of her sodden jacket, and Jasmine whisked it away. Frankie started up the stairs. Once again, Allie had to keep her jaw from dropping. The walls were paneled with gleaming dark wood while a massive brass chandelier hung from the center of a stained-glass skylight four stories above them. Oil paintings of fox hunts, sailing ships, and seventeenth-century ladies and gentlemen dotted the walls, each lit by its own brass lamp. Her ankle boots sank into the thick blue-and-burgundy Oriental runner that covered the steps.

Frankie caught her staring and smiled slyly. “It’s my little joke.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not little.” Allie shook her head in wonder.

“My members appreciate the humor of a club so clubby that it’s a caricature.”

“Because?”

Frankie paused at the top of the steps. “Every member made his or her fortune from the ground up. Many of us were not welcomed at the more established clubs. So I started a place where initiative and drive are valued above accidents of birth.”

Allie looked at her hostess—with her smooth pageboy, the tailored suit that fit her slender figure to perfection, the fierce intelligence shining in her eyes—and grinned. “I knew I liked you.”

“I’ll reserve judgment until Gavin sees you,” Frankie said, but there was an amused note in her voice.

Allie walked beside her into another paneled room, this one containing a brass-topped bar that matched the brass-topped tables placed at wide intervals around the room. She scanned the scattered patrons and saw Gavin sprawled in one of the upholstered leather chairs, scowling at a waiter who offered a tray with a mug on it.