Decadent

“It’s really quite sad,” Angelic said, though the sparkle in her eyes revealed she enjoyed the scandalous gossip. “Rose and her husband, Micha, had two children. She wanted more, and for some reason he didn’t. They say she was unstable and so outraged at his refusal that she allowed herself to be seduced by his business partner, hoping to become pregnant anyway.”

She raised her lovely eyebrows, as if to suggest that the good part was coming. “Only Rose didn’t get pregnant, and the partner used blackmail to force her into more sex. She became extremely distraught. It was Micha she loved, and she knew it would kill him if he ever found out, so she killed herself—in quite a horrible way.”

Sam didn’t need Angelic to tell him how horrible it was—or what had happened after that. Rose had stabbed herself in the chest—in the heart, to be exact. Micha had found her that way, and had never recovered. Despondent, he drank and gambled everything away, eventually losing even the house and the business to his partner in a poker game.

“His business partner sounds like the real villain,” Sam said, curious how Angelic would react.

Her eyes gleamed. “Yes, Jake Colby. He actually told Micha about the sex, gloated over it. Micha tried to kill him and was sentenced to ten years in prison. It was terribly sad. The children were sent away to live with an aunt.”

Sam nodded. Angelic was well-informed, but apparently even she didn’t know that Colby’s only daughter had married an Aragon, and that was how The Willows had come to be a gentlemen’s club, decadent and corrupt to the core.

Angelic’s sigh sounded sincere. “That’s why Rose weeps. I’ve never heard her, but people say you can, if you listen. And you can always tell when she’s near by the rose-scented perfume she wears.”

“And the icy cold breeze?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

Sam shrugged. “Don’t all ghosts usher in icy cold breezes?”

“This one also slams doors on fingers and drops light fixtures on your head. Rose isn’t a happy ghost. And neither is Micha. People say the pounding is him, trying to get back in the house to her.”

The way Sam had heard it, Micha had tried to break into The Willows when he was released from prison, and he was shot by Colby in the graveyard, which was just under the bedroom window where Rose looked out.

“I’ll stay clear of the east wing,” Sam promised.

“Please.” Angelic glanced at her jeweled watch. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to await Mr. Aragon.”

The sparkle was gone from her voice as she said goodbye and glided off in the general direction of the club’s ground-floor lounge, chiffon fluttering behind her.

Sam would almost have thought she believed the ghost stories. He hoped she did. The more people who believed them the better, given what he had in mind. Tonight though, his primary concern was making Jason Aragon believe that he was the perfect candidate for membership.

Sam had made several visits to the club in the two weeks he’d been in New Orleans. He’d known there would be extensive background checks that included his finances and anything else they could dig up, but “Sam Sinclair” looked good on paper. Of course, it was all fake documentation, a cover, but an impenetrable one. The people he worked for didn’t miss a trick. His real surname wasn’t Sinclair.

He was well-prepared. Nonetheless, the wild card in the deck was Aragon himself. It didn’t matter how well-prepared you were. If you didn’t pass muster with Aragon personally, you weren’t invited into the inner circle.

Tonight he would meet the man, face-to-face. Meanwhile, he would do a little harmless browsing. Gleaming black-and-white marble stretched before him as he entered the seemingly endless foyer. Some fifty feet away, twin staircases, dressed in royal blue carpeting with elaborate gold borders, curved like a woman’s hips to the second floor. Between them stood an ornate wrought-iron cage that served as an elevator.

The female operator was the sole exception to the smiling hostesses and security guards. She didn’t look as if she’d so much as consider cracking a smile. This one was all business, and that made sense for she was the first line of defense on the journey to the restricted lower level.

As he considered his opulent surroundings, a woman in black drifted by on the arm of a member. Her revealing sheath and sequined mask made Sam think of his very determined shadow. He wondered if he’d scared her off, or if she was still outside, perhaps watching from her rental car. Amazing that the club’s security system hadn’t spotted her yet. Maybe Aragon needed to be wised-up. His legendary Ziploc perimeter was being threatened by a baby Femme Nikita in black with the sexiest red valentine of a mouth Sam had ever seen.

Immediately to Sam’s left was the portal leading to the Gentlemen’s Lounge, a dark, intimate setting housing a thirty-foot mahogany bar and a sumptuous buffet. There was also a five-star restaurant for serious gourmands. Sam had no time for food at the moment. He strolled to his right and entered the Grand Salon, a ballroom that featured several of the club’s unique perks.

The first thing that caught his eye, as it did every time he came here, were the two life-size Victorian-style birdcages hanging from the ceiling. Inside each gold-plated cage sat a feathery clad woman, perched on a swing. He knew from experience that if he came within three feet of either cage, the captive inside would softly and seductively promise him anything if he would only release her. The offers were tempting but, unfortunately, only fully pledged members were allowed keys to the locked doors. With a little luck, he’d have one of those keys in his pocket tonight.

Naturally, he’d envisioned a sneaky little brunette cooing to him from one of the cages. Not a bad idea, actually. Lock her up until she sang. He’d find out what she was up to and determine the level of threat she posed. How would she look in feathers? Better yet, out of feathers. Would she crack if he plucked them one by one, then tickled her slowly and mercilessly with her own plumage? Would she crack if he teased her entire body with the tip of his tongue, starting with her naked mouth? God, how he would love to indulge in those lips of hers at his leisure.

Hell, do you want to find out what she’s up to, or do you just want to see the woman crack?

The breath he released was as heated as his thoughts. He could feel blood rising feverishly to the surface of his skin. The tension in his groin was rising, too. Interesting that a woman could infect his thoughts that way, like a virus. That hadn’t happened in a long time.

The hostess who appeared with his drink was a welcome distraction. She was costumed like a thirties movie siren, as were all the other hostesses. Greta Garbo had nothing on any of them. Their shoulder pads were ample, their necklines deep and their cloche hats had sheer black veils that covered their faces. It wasn’t complete anonymity, but it was close. Silky, seamed stockings and platform heels finished off the look.

The overall effect was highly erotic, but Sam sure as hell wasn’t going where his mind wanted to. God, no, he wasn’t going there. His fantasy stalker had made enough costume changes for one night.

“Can I get you anything else?” the hostess asked as Sam took his drink.

He shook his head, wanting her gone, along with the image of the woman she’d stirred. “Nothing, thanks.”

She smiled, slyly taking in his physique with her lingering gaze. “If you need anything later…anything at all, just ask.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

“Mr. Sinclair.” Sam turned to face the baritone voice that had just spoken his name, Jason Aragon. Angelic Dupree was at his side.

“We are so happy to see you,” Aragon said, extending his hand.

Jason Aragon was every bit as impressive as his club. At six feet plus and solidly built, he didn’t just stand in a space, he occupied it. Even dressed as he was tonight in a tux trimmed with black satin, he seemed formidable. His short-cropped hair was as white as snow and his eyes as shockingly blue as an Icelandic lake in winter. He was not the sort of man you messed with and lived to tell about it.

A hostess appeared magically to relieve Sam of his untouched drink.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Sam said as he clasped Aragon’s hand. His grip was firm but not forceful. Controlled was the word that came to Sam’s mind. Even Aragon’s gaze fell into that category. It was focused, yet friendly. Sam knew he was being sized up.

“Join me,” Aragon said, indicating the interior of the spacious room. The two of them walked side by side, Angelic falling behind.

“The club seems quiet tonight. Is that normal?” Sam had been told that certain platinum key members, otherwise known as the inner circle, met in great secrecy one night a week to discuss world economic events. He imagined they were probably being briefed on the latest international financial data, undoubtedly picking up insider tips, as well as discussing the imminent rise and fall of various world markets. Sam’s interest was limited to how Aragon made it possible for them to hide vast sums of money.

“As I’m sure you now realize,” Aragon said, “most of our clientele are men of some stature, and without being too simplistic, such men have problems to solve. The ability to concisely solve a complex problem is the first trait of a superior mind. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“One of them, certainly,” Sam said.

“And what’s another?” Aragon asked.

The unexpected question made Sam wonder if this was a pop quiz. He should have brushed up on Nietzsche’s Superman theory. “In my line of work, solving problems is essential,” he said, “but preventing them is better. I’d say foresight is the most important trait of a superior mind.”

Aragon smiled, clearly pleased with Sam’s answer. He held his hand out and Angelic placed a platinum key in his palm. “I’m afraid we don’t stand on ceremony here,” he said. “Once a person has been approved for membership, it’s simply a matter of giving him his key. You now have free and unrestricted access to all levels of the club.”

Aragon flourished the glimmering bauble before he offered it to Sam.

“Honored,” Sam said, accepting the key. It was ceremonial more than anything else, but the symbolism was obvious. Aragon giveth, and Aragon can taketh away.

“I know how selective you are,” Sam said, “and how discreet.” He glanced at Angelic, and Aragon picked up on the signal instantly.

“That will be all,” Aragon told her.

With a slight nod of her head, Angelic turned and left. Sam wondered again if her docility was an act. If so, she was good. Aragon seemed to be watching her, too, though without a hint of lust in his expression. Maybe they weren’t mixing pleasure with business?

“I’d suggest a glass of champagne to celebrate,” Aragon said, “but I have a plane to catch tomorrow, and some pressing things to finish up before I go.”