Decadent

And it sent Ally’s stomach spinning, along with her imagination.

She didn’t even know this man. Why was she reacting to him this way? Unless she did know him.

He checked his watch, possibly to disguise the fact that he was subtly scanning his surroundings as he made his way up the steps. If he held to his routine, he would be inside for at least two hours, maybe longer, and that was more than enough time for her to carry out her plan.

Then he stopped midway—and Ally’s heart stopped with him.

He turned and looked straight at her.

He couldn’t see her in the dark, could he? She was down on her knees. Fear set fire to her lungs as he strode back down the steps. She inched back toward the stone, certain that she’d been spotted. There was nothing she could do now but hug the ground and beseech the heavens. If she moved, she would give herself away.

She heard footsteps coming her way, and felt the ground shake.

“I’d heard the club was haunted,” said a faintly sardonic male voice. “Instead of a ghost, I find a beautiful woman crawling around the graveyard. Obviously you’ve lost a contact lens, right?”

Ally felt something inside her go cold as she looked up at him, and it wasn’t just fear that silenced her. It was the odd sense of recognition she’d experienced before. How strange that he’d mentioned the club was haunted, and just now for a second she’d thought she was staring into the eyes of a ghost. Her ghost. The one she’d dreamed about. Too weird. It was fatigue, stress.

“You can’t speak?” he teased.

She never got a chance to try. The guards were shouting at him from the entrance.

“Need any help?” one of them called out.

“Did you find anything over there?” the other yelled.

“Looks like I caught a little cemetery mouse,” the man told them, still gazing down at Ally so intently she didn’t dare move. She’d gripped a handful of leaves, and she couldn’t let go of them. They were crumpled in her fists.

What was he going to do?

“It’s probably a freaking rat,” the first guard said. “I’ll take it out.”

Ally peeked around the man and saw the guard draw his gun. He started toward them, and she let out a tiny squeak of alarm. She was going to be shot.

“Too late,” the man said. “I scared it away.”

His gaze commanded Ally to get back behind the stone, yet she couldn’t move. The guard broke into a jog, obviously relishing the chance at some action even if it was a measly rodent. He was just ten feet away when the man wheeled around and walked straight at him, stopping him in his tracks. The man’s voice was hard enough to dent steel.

“Put it away!” he ordered the guard.

“Absolutely, sir, sorry!”

While the guard struggled to holster his weapon, Ally crept back behind the crypt. She nearly collapsed with relief as the two men returned to the club. Close call. Much too close. She had no idea why the man had given her a break. This well might be her only chance to escape. Her car was parked on the other side of the cemetery, far away from the club’s entrance, and she wasn’t sure she could make it.

Sheer nerve and adrenaline drove Ally to her feet. When she looked back at the mansion, the man had just entered the club and the valet was busy helping guests out of a limo. Both guards were engaged in conversation, probably about the rat that got away, which meant Ally still had time. All she had to do was find her way through the graveyard.

She hadn’t gone far before it became apparent that she was trying to outrun a storm. The tumultuous night sky promised to become violent. She moved faster. He’d diverted the guards when he could just as easily have turned her in. What did that mean? She could only speculate. Was he playing with her? Did he have some plan to trap her?

She would have to take that chance. Her gut was still telling her this was her man. She’d already determined that he wasn’t an established member of the club, with an allegiance to Aragon. The valets were trained to recognize members on sight, and none of them had recognized this man. They’d each given him a claim ticket when they parked his car. Even more significant, he was spying on the club himself.

With luck, she could be back in New Orleans in less than an hour. And with a little more luck—and a key card obtained from a surprisingly helpful young hotel maid—she would be searching the man’s hotel room. If her search proved what she already suspected—that he was trying to infiltrate the club’s inner circle—then she could be of help to him. More than anything she needed this stranger to be the right man, and so far it looked good. He had already accomplished what she could not accomplish alone. He had entered the belly of the beast.

As she drove through the night, she went over what she knew about him, gleaned from the hotel staff where he was staying. He was said to be a corporate raider of some sort. Supposedly wealthy. He loved high-stakes gambling. He didn’t have a woman with him. And his name was Sam.

2

SAM SINCLAIR had a woman on his mind. Too bad it didn’t happen to be the attractive security guard creature in the form-fitting uniform busily frisking him. Her happy little fingers delved inside his jacket, playing patty-cake with his pecs and abs. Roaming upward, she smiled at him as if this were all in a day’s work for her, which was pretty accurate from what he’d observed.

“You have thirty minutes to stop that,” he said as she dropped to her knees and proceeded to pat down his privates. Nothing very private about the way she fondled him, although it was certainly thorough.

So, with all this attention coming his way, why was he fantasizing about his dark-haired stalker out there in the graveyard? If he’d had his choice of a woman down on her knees in front of him, it would have been her.

He could still see her big bright eyes peering up at him in dismay. She’d looked a little dazed and disheveled, her mouth open in surprise. Call him a perverse bastard, but that had struck him as incredibly sexy. Even now, the image of her parted lips elicited a warm, full sensation in his groin, and he warned himself to be careful. He wasn’t carrying a weapon, but the security guard might soon have reason to think so. He’d be as primed and ready as the gun he kept concealed in his car. At least it had a safety switch. Somehow his dark-haired stalker had unlocked his.

From the moment he’d spotted her following him three days ago, she’d had his attention beyond the obvious professional concerns. It was personal, although he hadn’t yet figured out why. Maybe he liked the idea of being tailed by a beautiful amateur. Or maybe he just hadn’t had enough tail lately. How long had it been?

“You’re good,” the security guard said, glancing up at him from her kneeling position at his crotch. “To go,” she added with a wink.

“Sorry to hear that.”

He was now free to enter the club itself. Provisional members were subjected to full body pat-downs until they’d been approved. No one seemed to object especially since the pat-down crew were all women. But Sam knew it was a serious search. If he’d resisted, she would have called for backup, and he would have been escorted out by several hulks in tuxedoes.

The anteroom, where he’d been detained, was octagonal, gilded in gold and adorned with erotic murals. Sam smiled inwardly at the thought of Micha Wolverton’s reaction to the orgiastic scenes. Legend had it that Micha roamed the grounds of the club, trying to reclaim the mansion—and the wife—that had been stolen from him a century ago by a forebear of Jason Aragon’s. Aragon took great care to keep that information under wraps.

A set of ornately carved mahogany double doors opened into the main foyer. The attractive pat-down artist slipped around Sam and placed her hands on the gleaming brass doorknobs. “Enjoy,” she said.

“How could I not?”

“Ah, Mr. Sinclair, how nice to see you again.”

Angelic Dupree, the club’s manager, greeted him as the doors opened to a huge, breathtakingly beautiful foyer. The slight, sweet-faced young woman, gowned in chiffon and feathers, ran the club herself, and apparently with dainty fists made of iron. She’d been the manager when Aragon had taken ownership, and he’d kept her on. She oversaw everything from the finances to the mint julep toothpicks used at the bar.

Sam took her extended hand. As was the custom at the club, he bent and kissed it. He thought he heard her purr, knowing it was simply for effect. Angelic might look like a wide-eyed kitten, but a man would be wise not to casually turn his back on her.

Her long, flowing white slip of a dress complemented the caramel latté tones of her skin. No one knew much about her background, except that she’d been raised in poverty in a shanty not far from where they now stood. Sam didn’t know the details of the history between Angelic and Aragon. He imagined it would make one hell of a story. He wondered what price she’d paid for Aragon’s kindness. Aragon did nothing for free.

“Thank you for the warm reception,” Sam replied.

“Our pleasure. Mr. Aragon will be with you soon. He’s looking forward to meeting with you tonight. In the meantime, please accept our hospitality. I believe we have your favorite drink on the way. Beefeater on the rocks with a twist, isn’t it?”

Sam smiled, and she inclined her head slightly, her golden eyes never leaving him. “I’m told you’ve been asking about our ghosts.”

Interesting that it had gotten back to her so quickly. Sam made a mental note of that. Evidently all roads here led back to Angelic.

He decided to come clean. “On a tour of the club, one of your hostesses warned me about the master bedroom in the east wing. She said it was original to the house, and the woman who died there haunts the room.”

Angelic smiled. “Not just the room. The White Rose haunts the entire house, though that’s where she does most of her mischief. Her real name was Rose Wolverton. Those who’ve glimpsed her say she wears the same sheer white nightgown she wore when she took her own life in that east wing bedroom.”

“Took her life?” Sam probably knew the story better than Angelic did, but he had reasons for keeping that to himself. He also had reasons for wanting to know how the White Rose supposedly haunted the place now. Her “mischief” could prove to be an excellent cover for some of his plans.