She was the only one listed on the third floor. “M. Sutherlin,” he read out loud. “By appointment only.”

M? Not N?

Ah, he got it. Mistress.

According to the board, the first floor was occupied by a company called NOCS. The second floor was listed only as Warehouse.

Cyrus walked across the lobby to the door for the NOCS offices. He peeked through the glass. A handful of people were seated at desks in cubicles, working on computers, answering phones.

He bypassed the elevator and used the staircase. On the second floor, just out of curiosity, he decided to check out this “warehouse.” There was a set of unlocked double-doors just off the foyer. He poked his head in.

Coffins. Nothing but coffins in a long, dim room. Black coffins and white coffins and wooden coffins. A single gold coffin. Then rows and rows of wooden crates, likely full of even more coffins.

NOCS. New Orleans Coffin Suppliers.

No wonder Nora got a good deal on her loft.

When he reached the third floor, he found Nora’s door locked. Smart girl. She took her security seriously. He hit the buzzer next to the door, and immediately the door popped open for him.

Slowly, he pushed open the metal fire door.

He heard laughter inside.

Nora’s laughter, definitely. Low, throaty, unmistakable. Then a man’s bigger laugh. Cyrus followed the sounds down a short hall to an open door. He peered inside and saw what looked to him like a lobby from a turn-of-the-century hotel that was the respectful front for a brothel.

Sheer fabric the color of red wine hung from the ceiling to the floor. A fancy gold mirror hung on gold cords. A faded red and gold Turkish rug covered the stained cement floor. An older man, white, about sixty-five he guessed, sat on a dark red armchair while Nora lounged on a golden chaise looking like…well, she looked like something.

Cyrus could only stare as he took in the sight of Nora dressed for “work”: black boots with red laces up to her knees. Fishnet stockings. Short black leather skirt. Black and red corset over sheer black top. Hair down and parted in the center, black waves all over the place. Cleavage for years…and the reddest God damn lips he’d ever seen in his life.

No wonder the old white dude next to her looked like he was in heaven. He was ten seconds away from a heart attack and a one-way ticket to the pearly gates.

“Damn, Nora,” Cyrus said. “Warn a man.”

“What do you think a dominatrix wears at work? A muumuu?”

“You would look exquisite in a muumuu, majesty,” the old white dude in the suit said.

“Doc, behave yourself. We have company. Doc, this is Cyrus Tremont. Cyrus, Doctor Philip Danton, at your service.”

“At your service, majesty,” the man called Doc said. He reached for Nora’s hand, took it, and kissed the back of it. Cyrus got the feeling this was one in a long line of hand kisses Nora had to put up with from that man. She took it a lot better than Cyrus would have.