Decadent. Suzanne Forster
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to return my gift to him personally, if that becomes necessary. Is there any part of the game you don’t understand?”
He held out the phone, and she glared at him until he returned it to the cradle. She watched with annoyance as he fished around in his pocket and withdrew a handful of items. Among the keys and coins was an opened package of Dentyne.
Clearly the man had a bad gum habit.
Then she noticed the sparkly thing in his palm. Nestled next to the Dentyne was a small single key. She would have recognized it anywhere. The platinum key was the club’s most coveted symbol of privilege. He now had access to the lower level, and that meant she needed him more than ever.
She hoped the urgency she felt didn’t show. He’d done it. Somehow, he’d worked his way into the dark heart of Aragon’s club. Keep a cool head, she told herself. Get some answers.
“First question.” Sam returned the odds and ends to his pocket and popped a piece of the gum into his mouth. “What’s your name? Your real name. The one on your birth certificate.”
He seemed to be very intently searching her features. Let him look. She could bluff with the best of them. She’d lived in a fishbowl as a member of the royal court. A trip to the store had been a public appearance. She’d smiled and been gracious, always, even when she was coming apart inside.
Sinclair might think he had the upper hand with his duct tape and superior strength, but she knew more about him than he knew about her, which gave her the edge. Besides, she could say anything. How would he know she was lying? And the first lie had to be her name. She couldn’t reveal her true identity to him as long as there was a chance he’d call Aragon.
“Diana Kelly,” she said, stringing together the names of the last century’s two most well-known princesses. She thought it was rather clever, but Sinclair was already shaking his head.
“That will cost one piece of clothing,” he said. “I’ll let you pick it.”
“Gee, thanks. What makes you think that’s not my name?”
“You hesitated before you said it. How many people hesitate when asked their name?”
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to reveal it to you.”
“That’s another lie.” He moved toward her.
“It is not!”
He kept coming. “And another,” he said.
“All right, stop it now. You couldn’t possibly know whether I’m lying or not.”
She threw up her hands, but he stepped right past her barrier. “I not only know,” he said, lightly stroking her eyebrow and the outline of her lips, as if this were show-and-tell, “I know it before you do. People who are about to lie glance to the left before they speak. You’re textbook. You do it every time.”
Ally felt as if the floor had given way beneath her. He was too close and too good at this. He didn’t seem to know the meaning of personal space, and she couldn’t stop him from invading hers. Look at how he’d just helped himself to her mouth, as if it were a serving of dessert. Kissing it, touching it. What was he going to do with it next? Her lips felt hot and tender.
What had that damn ghost said? The ghost with his eyes. These lips are mine? Ridiculous. Who said things like that anymore?
Ally met his dark, burning gaze. She wouldn’t let herself look anywhere else, but it was almost painful. It probably made sense that he knew how to spot a liar. He was a high-stakes gambler, and they won or lost on their ability to recognize a bluff. That might account for his skill, but he was much more than just a gambler.
This wasn’t the time to confront him with her suspicions, she reminded herself. She had proof that he was running surveillance on the club, but she still didn’t know whether he was a good guy or a bad one. If it was the latter, and he decided she knew too much, she might never have the opportunity to glance to the left again.
“Are you going to strip?” he said. “Or should I start dialing?”
Her silence prompted him to pick up the phone and tap out the club’s numbers. “Angelic?” He spoke into the receiver. “This is Sam Sinclair. Would you be good enough to put me in touch with—”
“Okay, okay. You’ve made your point.” Ally snatched the phone out of his hand and hung it up.
She could almost feel the dark smile behind his narrowing eyes.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Britney Spears.” She mentally stuck out her tongue at him.
“I’d say that qualifies as another lie. How many is that? I’ve lost count.” He reached for the phone again, and Ally let out a yelp.
“Hey, I was just kidding!”
“I’m not.” He waggled his index finger at her clothing. His meaning was clear.
Pervert, she thought, taking silent inventory of what she was wearing—a suit jacket and skirt, camisole, bra, panties and hose. That amounted to six lies before she’d be nude, and she wasn’t sure how many she’d told already. But she also had a hair clip, watch and bangle bracelet, which could stretch it out to nine.
If there was ever a time to get good at lying, it was now.
“Okay, I’ll play your silly game.” She removed the hair clip.
“Nice try,” Sinclair said as her hair fell onto her shoulders, “but that doesn’t count. Accessories aren’t clothes. If you won’t pick it, I will. Lose the jacket.”
A moment ago he was a pervert. He’d just been promoted. “Sicko,” she muttered as she took off her cropped suit jacket.
Sinclair shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have.” She tossed the jacket onto the bed and shivered. She seemed to have lost her immunity to the cold temperature of the room. Her silk camisole felt like ice against her flesh. Thank God she’d worn a bra. The last thing she needed was her nipples reacting to the chill. Now that would be sending the wrong signal.
To his credit—if the man was worthy of any—Sinclair didn’t gawk at her. His dark gaze brushed over her bare shoulders, making her feel as if she’d been illicitly touched. When wasn’t he illicitly touching her? But other than that, he simply folded his arms, and it was business as usual.
“We’ll come back to the name,” he said. “Why have you been following me for the last three days?”
“I haven’t been following you. I don’t even know you. Jason Aragon sent me.”
He chuckled lightly. “I can see this is going to get interesting. Remove something.”
“Why? I didn’t glance to the left.” In fact, she’d glanced to the right, just to be sure.
“You think that’s the only way to spot a liar? There are dozens of nonverbal signals associated with lying, and you’ve had all the clues you’re going to get. May I suggest the skirt?”
He popped his gum, and Ally thought of Red Hots candy. Her lips tingled. Not now.
“What are you, a psychologist?” she said. “A profiler?”
“You have no idea,” he said.
She had an idea. She had several ideas about him—and no intention of taking off any more clothing. Too bad she couldn’t back him off with what she knew about him, but there was too much at stake. She was the only one who knew Vix was missing, so it was entirely up to her. If she messed this up, she didn’t want to think about what might happen to her sister.
Ally could read signals, too, and she was fairly certain sex wasn’t one of Sinclair’s goals in getting her naked. She’d already draped herself across his bed invitingly,