L'enfermer
was the hottest restaurant in Gotham. The waiters were curt, the food was good but expensive, and the wine was also good—but more expensive. The reason it had succeeded where restaurants that fawned more over their patrons had not was because it was run by Lyle Bolton—the reformed Lock-Up. And he guaranteed the safety of every man, woman, and jewel that entered his restaurant, whether it be from laughing gas, killer plants, or Lazarus Pit bombs.
In the lobby of the skyscraper
L'enfermer
was located in, his specially trained waitstaff/guards carefully scanned everyone with a dinner reservation to the point of invasive procedures—something like the TSA with competency. Only afterward were guests admitted into the express elevator that took them to
L'enfermer,
with the elevator operator a black belt in karate.
Finally, they reached the roof of the building, where dining was done in individual ten square foot cubes of mirrored glass. Inside each cell, there was a passable view of the city, and no way to tell who or even if someone was inside one, aside from the muted noise of conversation (the cells not being truly soundproof; something Lyle was working on).
Bruce and Vicki submitted to the security measures, rode the elevator up making pleasant conversation with the operator, then were taken by the maître d' and led to their cell, all the while having it explained to them how absolutely impenetrable the material of their dining area would be. For Bruce, who had seen Superman punch through battleships, it was a bit amusing.
Bruce wore an unremarkable business suit, coordinated mainly with the dull gleam of his wedding band, and with enough obvious expense and tailoring in it to make up for its unobtrusive style.
Vicki, on the other hand, wore the make-up of an expensive courtesan and a few pieces of jewelry that, if they hadn't come from affluent admirers, had most definitely cost a great deal of her salary. Her fingernails were long—a change from Ivy and Harley, who kept theirs short for obvious reasons—and filed carefully to a common curve, painted the same dark red as the toenails visible at the end of her high heeled pumps.
She was a tall, slim girl, toned, but far more curved than muscular—another refreshing change from the women Bruce usually encountered, who threw a punch more often than they checked their make-up. And she was enough in tune with her sexuality for Bruce to take notice, in far more than a deductive sense. Her hips swung like a pendulum as she walked, and she made sure to walk in front of him on her way to the table.
Maybe it was his interludes with Harley and Ivy. For a while now, he'd been using sex not even as stress relief, but as another aspect of the mission. Now it seemed a lot harder to repress certain urges than it once had been.
They sat to read their menus. Vicki sat on the side of her chair, long legs crossed, and in full view of Bruce—
not
hidden under the tablecloth. Bruce tried to distract himself by paying careful attention to her hair—golden blonde, but dyed at some point. He recalled her being a redhead in the recent past. Her hair was feathered, though more in a European style than that of seventies nostalgia—clearly the work of a skilled coiffure. And she smelled heavily of perfume. Delicious perfume...
Bruce took out his smartphone to check if he had any messages. You never knew when the JLA might need you.
"Can I take your coat, madame?" asked the maître d', who had never set foot in France in his life, but did know forty ways to kill someone with a three-inch blade.
"Thank you," Vicki said, shrugging it off. "It is rather warm in here."
It did not take Bruce long at all to notice what she was wearing. When he did, he put his smartphone away.
Her Jill Stuart strapless ruched silk evening gown plunged between her cleavage, while still being tight enough to show the curve of her belly and the firmness of her breasts. Those seemed far too large to wear with such a revealing garment, especially without a bra on, and her innocent look just made it worse. Bruce found himself riveted to her cleavage, which stretched her bodice nearly to the point of bursting with each jiggling breath, but was too well-tailored to come off as classless or obscene. It was simply an excessively gilded frame on a beautiful painting.
Bruce did manage to look away, and caught the maître d' staring down Vicki's décolletage from where he hovered over them. At a throat-clearing from the billionaire, the maître d' hastened away to await their order.
"Mmmm," Vicki said, eying the menu and Bruce with equal hunger. "Everything looks so good; doesn't it?"
Bruce found himself coughing. He never coughed. "Yes. Reasonable prices too," he added with a touch of irony.
Vicki let her menu flip down to the table, totally revealing her bosom once again. "Hard to know where to start, isn't it?"
With a deep, mediatory breath, Bruce forced himself back under control. "Perhaps I'll order for the both of us. I can't imagine you have much taste for haute cuisine on a reporter's salary."
"I wouldn't know about that. I have a few book deals..."
"I insist. It's my treat; I feel obliged to make sure you don't have an unsatisfactory meal."
"Just as long as whatever you feed me tastes good." Vicki grinned, steepling her forearms under her chin and leaning forward. His view of her cleavage becoming enough to make any man drool.
The maître d' was kind enough to return then. Bruce suspected they would normally be tended to by a simple waiter, but for 'madame's' neckline. Normally, Bruce would've been offended, but he himself was having a tough enough time keeping his eyes off Vicki's burgeoning bodice.
Bruce ordered for them, sending the maître d' off with a curt nod, and Vicki fished her Dictaphone out of her clutch. She set it on the table between them, her fawning hand and coy stare making it an erotic a gesture as her passing him a condom. "Shall we get started?"
Bruce took a deep breath, ignoring her perfume. He had to retake control, of himself and the situation. Vicki took it as assent, reaching to press Record, but Bruce intercepted her hand over the recorder. He gave it a subtle squeeze.
"What would you say about having this interview off-the-record?"
Vicki laughed in surprise. "Mr. Wayne, my publisher is paying your charity a great deal of money for an exclusive interview. It needs to be on the record."
"I'm aware of that. But what say tonight we just... get to know one another a little better. Feel each other out. We can have an interview
anytime
."
He saw her eyes whirling with quick calculation and could almost guess her thoughts. She needed his answers. She needed something she could print. But... he was effectively offering her two interviews for the price of one. Almost a practice run to get her bearings before she really got started. But could she trust him to give her her second interview?
Her desire to assert herself battled with her desire to put him at ease, and finally she decided to go with the first rule of interviewing a reticent subject: always roll with what they're running.
"Of course. If you don't mind me camping out on your driveway to get the official statement."
"I promise not to make you sleep on my driveway."
Vicki's nipples were hardening.
She uncrossed her legs and set them under the table, just as their wine arrived. They toasted, Bruce declaring something in Arabic he promised to explain to her later, and drank. Like all wine, Vicki didn't get much out of it beyond a tickle under her nose. She'd never be a connoisseur.
Bruce's laser-focused eyes scaled her body again, like there was something he could've missed on his last dozen passes. Vicki enjoyed the scrutiny. It wasn't like it was any secret what some women were willing to do for a scoop.
I spent the night with Superman,
anyone?
"So, how's life with the terrible twosome?" Vicki asked, dangling her wine flute from an outstretched hand.
Bruce smiled in consideration. "Interesting." He tilted his head to the side. "Challenging."
"Very specific. Not a hundred thousand dollars' worth of specific."
"Mmm." Bruce crossed his legs, clenching his hands atop his knee. "Well, if you must know our sleeping arrangements—"
Vicki leaned back in her chair, inviting another examination she graciously endured. She wondered which he liked best. Her tits seemed a bit obvious; she always felt her slender calves and smooth legs were underrated. And her sultry face in its halo of honey-blonde hair... there was a reason all her books had it up front and center. "I must, I must."
"Pamela and Harleen share a room in the same wing of the manor as mine."
"You don't sleep together."
"I didn't say that. But we have differing sleep cycles; I'm something of a night owl. It's an issue of comfort. When I proposed to the two of them, it was knowing that we'd all have to work to accommodate each other."
"But it is a sexual relationship?"
"Yes."
Vicki blinked at Bruce's forthrightness. "I'd always understood that Ivy and Harley were more interested in their own company than—forgive me—some man."
"Depends on the man, I suppose. I certainly don't have any complaints."
"And do you... take turns or...?"
"Off the record?" Bruce asked again. Vicki gave a nod. "We do whatever works."
"Such as?"
Bruce smiled. "You seem a bit fixated on our bedroom, Ms. Vale."
"Call me Vicki. Since we're off the record."
