One

 

Sam stood outside the University Club for a long while fighting his fear of those who resided within the “old boys club,” the robber barons and captains of industry, those of such staggering wealth they rivaled the sheiks of the Fertile Crescent and the diamond miners of South Africa. He’d read everything that was available online, the club’s history and facilities as well as descriptions of the fabled rooms inside. Nothing could’ve prepare him for the spectacle that met his eyes as he entered the building. Passing through the revolving doors was like entering Dr. Who’s Tardis, deceptively small on the outside—mind-blowingly large once within. The grand lobby was ringed with columns made of stunning blur marble. The ceilings, modeled after the Vatican apartments, were breathtaking—trimmed in gold, they were tall, vaulted, and grand. The walls were adorned in dark wood. Plush carpeting felt like a cloud beneath his feet. Leather chairs were so thickly padded it seemed the pleating might burst at any time. It was the most extravagant and opulent interior space he’d ever seen. Though he’d traveled the country shore to shore over the last several years, at heart he was a country boy from a small town in Iowa. As practiced a grifter as he was, he couldn’t help but lose his breath as his eyes widened to take it all in.

“Holy Mother of God, Dorothy,” he muttered. “I’m a long way from Kansas.”

Rachel’s voice mirrored his astonishment as it poured through his earpiece. “Holy crap. It’s the goddamn Taj Mahal.”

The sub-vocal microphone hidden behind his ear relayed his response. “I guess the camera in my glasses frame is working.”

“Yeah, it’s working. Now stop standing there like a deer caught in the headlights. You’re Peter Keys, the Bill Gates of Madison Avenue. Start acting like it before you blow your cover.”

“Does it matter that I already wet my pants?”

She hacked out a laugh. “Jerk!”