Decadent. Suzanne Forster
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her now was his face. The first time she’d seen him, she’d had a nagging feeling of déjà vu. And then, tonight, this dream. Something about the ghost had brought about that same feeling. Not that they were the same man, necessarily, but something.
She was beginning to wonder if her erotic dream had been a warning from her subconscious. Was it signaling that she had something to fear from this man, that he was a danger to her?
She knew what went on inside the mansion walls. The upper floors resembled a lavish Monte Carlo casino. The subterranean level catered to darker, more exotic tastes, to put it mildly. It was accessible only to platinum key members, hand-selected by Jason, who were willing to undergo a deep background search, and of course, to pay a small fortune in membership fees.
Was her man one of those? Did he have such exotic tastes? Maybe that was what the dream had been trying to tell her?
If I wanted something, Ally, I’d take it. This is about need.
Another growling car engine brought her back to the present. She glanced up to see a Targa pull into the driveway. A tuxedo-clad man exited the front door of the club and rushed down the white marble steps, ready as the car roared to a halt. Ally didn’t recognize the valet from her time with Jason, but she knew his résumé would have included thug, bouncer, and perhaps even worse, right along with valet. Most likely he was armed.
Ally watched as her man emerged from the car. She was about a hundred yards away, not close enough to see him clearly, but she knew his features, detail for detail. He was six feet plus with thick, dark blond hair and skin so tawny she was reminded of windswept deserts. Even his eyebrows had a dust-covered look that she found annoyingly irresistible. As the valet drove off in the Targa, her subject snapped his black leather jacket into place, and then casually adjusted his tan slacks, as if the drive had somehow left him a bit out of order down there. It wasn’t a crude movement. If anything, it was gracefully sensual in a male sort of way.
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