The Pleasure Set

  Synopsis

  Though Laney DeGraff is a successful president of a family-owned bank on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, she can’t seem to feel happy about anything. Then she meets Theresa Aguilar, a sleek, sexy lawyer, and is invited to join an exclusive group called the Pleasure Set, a privileged society of powerful women whose sexy goings-on remain steadfastly secret. Soon Laney finds out that what is really happening within the Pleasure Set is not only dangerous, it’s lethal.

  Suddenly in too deep, Laney realizes that to leave the group would be deadly so she reaches out to Detective Sandrine Girard, an honest cop with a flawed past, who arranges to have her go undercover in a delicate operation to not only catch a criminal but to save Laney from both career suicide and certain death. But the intense attraction that grows quickly between Laney and Sandrine threatens to expose them at the most critical juncture in the sting.

  Some people would kill to get into the Pleasure Set. But Laney just wants to get out alive.

  The Pleasure Set

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  The Pleasure Set

  © 2010 By Lisa Girolami. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-429-4

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: April 2010

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Shelley Thrasher and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

  By the Author

  Love on Location

  Run to Me

  The Pleasure Set

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Tony, Sandy, Jeanine, and Karen for the banking information and much-valued help.

  For the French lesson from Mary M, merci beaucoup.

  To the crew at BSB—led by Rad, steered by Jennifer, guided by Shelley, Cindy, and Stacia, and “covered” by Sheri—I tender my deepest appreciation.

  For Miss Willis, my eighth-grade English teacher, who believed in me and didn’t mind that I was “different.”

  And to all the wonderful readers who turn these pages, I extend many heartfelt thanks.

  Dedication

  For Susan. My love, my laughter, and my protector.

  Prologue

  She stood at the railing of a beautiful teak-and-stainless-steel backyard deck overlooking the expensive Hollywood Hills homes below. Night had fallen over the city long before, but she was not focused on the twinkling lights. She swayed as she attempted to stand upright, but she was clearly drugged and crying. Though mascara ran down her cheeks, she was luminously gorgeous, in the way those who lived the Hollywood lifestyle tenaciously pursued their movie-star good looks. The multimillion-dollar residence behind her was the kind most tourists only glimpsed as they drove down Sunset Boulevard below, craning their necks upward, wondering which actor, rock star, or movie mogul lived in this or that mansion.

  A road leaving the residence wrapped around the right side of the house, then descended quickly as it curved around the back of the house, much farther below, around the fabulous deck, and continued down the hill, where it quickly disappeared. The perfect-half-circle road hugged the house from upper right to lower left, its curve only one of the many hairpin turns that pointed the way home and back for Hollywood’s rich and entitled.

  The house and street, like the majority of those up in the hills, basked in warm, subdued lighting, for those who could afford to live this high up preferred unhindered views without bright street lamps as much as they craved privacy.

  The woman staggered away from the railing and stumbled back toward the house. Wide-open, oversized sliding-glass doors ran one-quarter the length of the house. Expensive burgundy curtains, of some imported lavish French textile, swayed lazily in the night breezes, licking the outside edges of the sliding-glass doors like furtive, sinewy arms seductively beckoning the woman inside.

  She walked in and disappeared behind the opulent curtains into the architectural marvel.

  A gunshot cracked, a macabre staccato of pop, pop, pop that reverberated, bouncing sickly back and forth between the hills. A dog barked, roused suddenly into the role of sentry.

  Barely audible voices from other houses farther down the hill echoed as well. “What was that?” “Call nine-one-one!”

  A few minutes later, a red Mercedes-Benz appeared from the right, at the top of the curved road, driving down toward the left, around the hairpin turn, not too quickly, not too slowly. It rolled farther down the curve and out of view.

  More minutes passed and silence once more enveloped the hills. The street was dark and shadowy again. The dog stopped barking. Though a few lights shone in the house with the teak-and-stainless-steel deck, nothing moved.

  A police car appeared, creeping up the road. It cruised up around the curve, toward the front of the house.

  The police car disappeared around the upper right. Knocking sounded from the front of the house but went unanswered. A few beats later, two police officers walked down the right side of the house, along the deck that jutted out over the steep, sloping yard. They climbed over the railing and eased toward the open sliding-glass doors.

  Suddenly, the one who had ventured closest to the doors jerked his head toward his partner. “A body!”

  He pulled his gun, as did the other officer. They ducked down, covering themselves as the second one snatched his radio and called for backup.

  As faint sirens called in the distance, both policemen entered the house through the sliding-glass door, guns drawn.

  Chapter One

  Why do beginnings have to be so hard?

  Laney DeGraff gazed out the window of her Hollywood Hills home. It was early morning but the neighborhood was awake, with joggers, dog walkers, and one or two work-bound people backing their cars out of their driveways.

  In the reflection she cast in her own window, she studied a snapshot of her life. At present, she was thirty-four years old. Her shoulder-length blond hair could use a trim, but maybe she’d let it grow as a symbol of some forthcoming inner growth. How would that ever happen, though, with the rut she’d been in for years?

  She sighed and turned away from the window to inspect the recent indentations in the living-room carpet. The empty areas where pieces of furniture used to stand were ghostly reminders of their presence. Half the bookcase was bare, and a couple of pictures had been taken off the wall, leaving only the hangers embedded in the plaster.

  Laney picked up her coffee mug and briefcase. Dressed in a blue serge suit over a tailored, white cotton blouse, and with a cell-phone earpiece lodged in her ear, she tuned back in to the conversation she was having. “Where will it be today?”

  “Patina?”

  “We had lunch there Monday, Hillary.”

  “My best friend is in crisis and I want nothing but the best. Again.”

  “You mean you want nothing but their best salad caprese.”

  “That too.”

  Laney paused, feeling as deflated as she knew she must look. “She’s gone, Hillary, and as m
uch as it hurts that it’s over, this really pisses me off.”

  “Laney, you had a right to kick Judith out. She was cheating. You stood by when she started the Internet affair, hoping she’d stop even though I told you she wouldn’t. It wasn’t until she really stepped out and screwed you that you finally did what you needed to.”

  “I know, but God, it still hurts.”

  “Yes, sweetie, I understand. Meet me at noon.”

  Just after seven, Laney parked on the side of the First Bank of Rodeo, chirped her remote, and turned the corner onto the sidewalk. Every day she appreciated the luck that the bank enjoyed being situated amidst Cartier, Chanel, and Tiffany. She strolled past men and women dressed like executives, and others who looked more like movie stars and rock stars in their torn jeans and Von Dutch T-shirts, and entered the bank.

  Laney visually inspected the sleek tellers who greeted customers and the account executives who were helping others. She barely noticed the grand mission style of the interior, long aware that its nod to classic architecture subtly proclaimed its solid dependability. Laney’s father had chosen the style when she was a baby, and its symbolism still held true.

  As Laney walked toward the back of the bank she greeted three or four customers with morning pleasantries and waved to another customer as she approached her office. “Bill, how’s it going coaching those twins of yours?”

  “Keeps me off the streets Wednesday nights!” The man turned from his teller and waved good-bye before he headed toward the door.

  An attractive woman stood by her longtime secretary Kelly’s desk.

  “This is Theresa Aguilar,” Kelly said, with her usual efficiency. “She’s here to open a safety-deposit box and wants to speak with you personally.”

  Laney’s office occupied a large portion of the bank’s back corner. Accompanying the woman to a leather chair, Laney greeted her with an open hand. The tall woman who grasped her hand firmly wore expensive Prada clothing and had a large matching satchel elegantly draped over her shoulder. Her uniformly tanned golden skin probably came from some South American ancestry instead of the sun. And Laney knew if she touched the woman’s thick black hair, she would feel soft, luscious curls. Her eyes were so big and brown that Laney couldn’t tell where her irises ended and her pupils began. And her lips had the sexy fullness Laney always equated with gorgeous Latin women. The woman was stunning.

  Offering the woman a seat, Laney moved to her place behind the desk. “Ms. Aguilar, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Laney DeGraff.”

  “My pleasure, as well.”

  “I haven’t seen you in the bank before.”

  “I opened an account the other day.”

  “Well, I apologize for not introducing myself then. I like to get to know all the customers personally, and I’m very glad you chose us.”

  “Do you know every customer’s name?”

  Laney paused, then realized that the woman had obviously noticed her talking to the customers as she walked through the bank. “I try.” Laney offered her a business card.

  “DeGraff. You’re Dutch?”

  “One half. The Dutch translation of bank president is ‘she who must learn everything by rote.’”

  Theresa smiled. “One half and what else?”

  “German and English,” Laney answered automatically, amused that the conversation had turned friendly so quickly. Silence stretched between them as they regarded each other. Laney smiled for no other reason than she was caught off guard.

  “So you would like to open a safety-deposit box, Ms. Aguilar.”

  “Yes, I would. And it’s Theresa.”

  Laney retrieved a form from her desk, although the account managers at the bank entrance usually handled those functions. But many of those who patronized Rodeo Drive preferred, if not expected, the highest authority to handle their service.

  “Would you like to list someone as an emergency contact for this box?”

  “Do you mean if I die?”

  “Or become incapacitated.”

  Theresa smiled. “No, thank you.”

  “Fine. Please fill out this form with your name, occupation, address, and other info here and sign here. Then we’ll go to the vault.”

  When they reached the safety-deposit boxes, Laney said, “It takes two keys to open the box. The account managers have access to this pass key. Any time you need to retrieve your box, just sign in at the main desk and someone will help you.”

  Laney stopped at a row toward the back of the vault. “Here it is…number ten thirty-three. If you’ll just insert your key here…” Laney aimed her key for one of the locks and, as she did, Theresa raised her key to insert hers. Their hands bumped together, and both women produced the uncomfortable smile of strangers drawn close.

  “Pardon.”

  “Sorry.”

  After they unlocked the box, Laney pulled it out, and Theresa followed her from the vault and into the safety-deposit room. “Spend whatever time you need in here and just press this button when you’re finished. I’ll come back and return your box to the vault with you.”

  Before Laney could leave, Theresa pulled wads of banded cash out of her satchel.

  “Wait, ah…hold on. I’m not supposed to be here when you do that.”

  Theresa looked at the money. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t explain that we shouldn’t be in here with bank customers. Your safety-deposit-box contents are confidential. And…ah…money. Legally we’re not allowed to let you keep cash in the box unless the bills are out of circulation. Like for numismatics. Ah…currency collectors.”

  “Do you get a lot of those?” Theresa was smiling rather rascally.

  “Yes, actually.”

  “If the content is supposed to be confidential, how would you know?”

  Laney chuckled. “Good question. We wouldn’t. But the paperwork you signed states the rule about money.”

  Theresa placed her hand on Laney’s, which surprised her.

  “Listen, Ms. DeGraff—”

  “Laney.” She allowed herself the pleasure of this woman’s hand upon hers, glad she hadn’t removed it yet.

  “Laney, things are not good. My husband is cheating on me and I know he’s planning to divorce me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’ve become aware that he plans to take everything we have. I’m just trying to protect myself. He’s a ruthless, powerful stockbroker, and his lawyers are even more powerful. They’ll trace bank accounts, IRAs. This is the only way he won’t be able to find this money.”

  Laney focused on Theresa’s warm hand on hers. Reminding herself that it belonged to a customer, she directed her thoughts to the form Theresa had filled out. “Aren’t you an attorney as well?”

  Theresa laughed and slowly removed her hand. “Yes. But my specialty is criminal defense. My lawyers are good as well, but my husband has always been a dirty fighter.”

  Laney nodded. “I kicked out my partner of four years just two weeks ago.” Why had she just revealed that fact?

  “I’m sorry, as well. It’s got to be tough.”

  “Kicking her out wasn’t half as tough as finding the e-mails she’d been writing to someone in Santa Monica.”

  “Explicit?”

  “Very.”

  “Jesus, that’s painful.” Theresa was now studying her with a frankness that made Laney feel suddenly exposed. “You’re too beautiful and, I’m finding out, too kind, to have that happen to you. Let her go.”

  “She does seem remorseful. Does that count?”

  “Reread the e-mails you found and then answer that question.”

  Laney laughed. “Good advice. Thanks.”

  Laney looked at the money Theresa clutched in her hand and then into Theresa’s eyes. Their gaze held steady for a moment. Finally Laney pointed to the cash and said, “I didn’t see that.”

  As she turned to leave she wondered about Theresa’s smile. It spoke volumes, the details of
which Laney didn’t quite understand. “Buzz me when you’re done.”

  *

  Detective Sandrine Girard rocked back and forth in her squeaky office chair. The grating, high-pitched whine descended in tone as she leaned back and ascended as she tilted up. As much as she needed to get the chair fixed, the squeaking seemed to help her focus.

  She reread the report she was about to give the chief of police. The recent fraud investigation she’d been assigned was wrapped up, with three suspects locked securely in jail awaiting their little chat with the judge.

  When she had first responded to a phone call from the Beverly Hills branch of Security Fund and Loan, they gave her information about fraudulent accounts opened in their California, Nevada, and New Mexico branches. The crooks had stolen more than $50,000. The case had taken a lucky turn when one bank employee protected an area of her teller’s window that contained a latent fingerprint from one of the suspects who had just come in to try to cash a check. Investigators from the Crime Scene Unit lifted the perpetrator’s oily calling card and were able to locate him on their AFIS database. A few more days of research led to the identities of his two accomplices, and they were quickly picked up without incident.

  She put the report down and picked up a piece of paper with a phone number scratched onto it. Though it had been about business, it was the first note Laney DeGraff had ever left her.

  Laney DeGraff, she thought as she rocked back and forth. Even though this would be strictly a business call, she smiled.

  “Girard, I swear I’m going to throw that chair of yours into the Dumpster outside.” Detective Bruce MacRae had poked his head inside her door. He was in Homicide, which was right across the hall from Fraud. “Why do you insist on letting it squeak like that?”