SVETLANA ROMANKO - ENTERING THE LOUNGE BAR<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://www.emeraldlich.com/uploads/Svetlana1.jpg)</div>I entered Les Club des Affaires Étrangères six hours later than I was supposed to. I had a splitting headache, I was slightly drunk, and I was very, very pissed off.<br/><br/>Not a good combination.<br/><br/>The whole thing, to be honest, was my idiot assistant's fault. Now she was an idiot former assistant, and I fully intended to make Monsieur Marc and his team of buyers aware of the dumb cunt, so a collection squad could go pick her up. I wanted nothing more than to see a pack of dogs raping the stupid bitch over and over again.<em>Making me late,</em>I thought,<em>is <strong>not</strong> acceptable.</em><br/><br/>Especially not on a day when new dogs were being brought in.<br/><br/>I'd been partying in Vegas the previous day, laughing with some of my nearest and dearest American friends at a casino opening. I'd caught the redeye from Vegas to New York, then to Nice, followed by a limo ride to finally to Monte Carlo. Except the flight in New York had been delayed.<em>Unacceptable.</em>Then once I'd landed in Nice, there'd been a mix-up with the limo service, and I was forced had to wait even more.<em>Very unacceptable.</em><br/><br/>So here I was, finally at Les Club ... and all the sweet, pretty fragile dogs worth breaking were probably already gone.<br/><br/>"Mother<em>fucker</em>," I hissed under my breath.<br/><br/>I strode up to the bar, walking like I was on a catwalk. To be honest, I didn't really know how to walk any other way, considering how much walking I'd done in fashion shows in Paris, Milan, Tokyo, and god only knew how many other places. I'd worn a sleek black-and-silver designer dress, which featured high slits up to the thigh to accentuate my long legs ... and a pair of five inch designer silver heels, which wouldn't even be available in the high end shops until next year. I'd hoped to make quite the entrance, and make a few heads turn. But at the moment, I didn't care.<br/><br/>The drooling imbecile of a bartender wasn't paying attention to me. I snapped my fingers, glaring at him. I glanced idly around as he scurried over, looking about for my friends ... Laurenne, Renée ... no one was there.<em>Already playing with the choicest of dogs,</em>I thought bitterly. I looked up at the bartender without a trace of a smile.<br/><br/>"Vodka martini. Your best. Now. Or I'll cut your balls off," I snapped. "And have someone bring Svetlana's crop to me. If you don't know what that means, you're a fucking idiot, so call Michelle. She'll know."<br/><br/>Michelle came over to me faster than my martini. I silently noted than. Michelle was such a dear, I kissed her lightly on the cheeks and complimented her lovely shoes (and listened to her fawn over mine). She gave me my riding crop, with the small diamonds in the handle. I thanked her, promised I'd speak to her later about other pleasantries, and took my tardy martini from the bar, sipping at it.<br/><br/>I'd hoped to speak to Monsieur Marc, but I really didn't want to risk the chance that all the new dogs would be gone. So I hoped he'd forgive my rudeness and headed straight for the cages (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=76933.0) instead.