Читать книгу Decadent - Suzanne Forster, Suzanne Forster - Страница 6

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.

“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.”

Aragon was leaving? Now or never, Sam realized. “I have it on good authority that your contacts in international financial spheres are vast,” he said. “If that’s true, there’s a certain problem you may be able to advise me on.”

Aragon’s ice blue eyes warmed a little. “Would that be the four hundred and seven million dollars you funneled from Tricon Electronics—or the one hundred and nine million from Laurent Enterprises?”

“Both.” Sam nodded. “And my compliments to your people.”

“There’s very little we don’t know about you,” Aragon said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

The two traded glances. Somewhere in the exchange a silent agreement was made that this conversation would continue in the near future.

“I have business in Paris,” Aragon said. “I’ll give your problem some thought. I’m sure we’ll come up with some intriguing options. Meanwhile, I insist you take full advantage of what our club has to offer.”

A shapely hostess breezed by Sam, and he could have sworn she patted his butt. “I think I can keep myself entertained,” he said.

They exited the lounge, and Aragon led the way to the waiting elevator. “This is Monique,” Aragon said, indicating the unsmiling woman Sam had seen on his way in. “She controls access to the lower level, but there’s just one more requirement.”

“Something else?” Sam had hoped to see the lower level tonight.

Monique gestured for him to enter, and then she instructed him to place his hand in a luminous dark green square next to the control panel. “Palm flat,” she said.

It was a palm scanner.

“Once we have your biometrics logged into the computer,” Monique said, “you’ll be allowed to come and go as you please. It shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours.”

Sam wasn’t pleased, nor was he buying her biometrics gobbledygook. They were probably going to run a fingerprint check on him, too, which rarely took more than a few minutes, if you had no criminal record. For some reason he was being stalled; still there wasn’t much he could do about it now.

With one bright flash of the scanner, Sam was done. He stepped out of the elevator, and Aragon stepped in, probably intending to visit his office, said to be on the lower level. “We’ll continue our chat when I return,” he said. “Until then, enjoy. Any special requests, ask Angelic.”

As the doors closed on Jason Aragon, Sam nodded a warm and friendly farewell, all the while thinking, it won’t be long now, you arrogant bastard.

ALLY HESITATED in the lobby of the Hotel Lafayette, wishing she could turn and leave as swiftly and silently as she’d entered. She’d come to search a man’s room, yet that wasn’t what had stopped her. It was her memories of this place. She’d been here just the day before to set up this mission, but she’d been able to keep the past at bay until now.

The lobby buzzed with elegant guests. Its marble pillars and domed ceiling had always reminded her of the rotunda of a state building. However, today its grandeur made her feel disheveled and dirty. Her skirt was off-kilter, and she’d just noticed a smear of red clay ground into the hip.

She took cover near a potted palm and brushed at the fabric, trying not to be too obvious. Her best suit! She’d ruined it. The emotions flooding her had little to do with her clothing. This was the hotel where her mother and father had stayed when they’d come to New Orleans to save her from a fate worse than death—ruining the family name.

“Miss, is there something wrong? Can I help you?” a perturbed young man in red livery asked her. Although he had enough brass on his uniform to command an army, he was likely just a hotel clerk.

“No, I’m fine,” she said, hoping her nerves didn’t show. “I have a spot on my skirt. Is there a ladies’room nearby?”

He looked as if he wanted to hustle her out the back door. He obviously thought she was an interloper, maybe even a hooker. She’d love to tell him who she really was and blow his mind, but he’d never believe her. She was wearing a dirty suit with a miniskirt and a plunging neckline—of course, he wouldn’t believe her.

“Down that hallway to your right, miss.”

“Thank you.” Ally squared her shoulders, proceeding with as much dignity as she could muster, which should have been considerable. Grace under fire had been drilled into her as child. In her parents’ eyes, decorum was everything, as important as breathing.

She knew the clerk was watching her, and fortunately, the ladies’ lounge was out of his eyeshot. Unfortunately, there was an attendant on duty in the lounge, and the woman’s reaction was even more disapproving than the clerk’s. Her grimace made Ally cringe.

Ally had planned to clean herself up at one of the sinks, but instead she locked herself in the nearest stall and used water from the toilet. Not one of her finer moments. As she dabbed the clay specks from her skirt, she almost wished the clerk had tried to throw her out. Maybe then she would have told him that her parents had once been guests in the presidential suite, and if pedigree mattered so much, he might like to know she was actually a princess.

Of course, he might not be so impressed with a royal family who’d been exiled and had their holdings seized by a cabal of despots. If Ally’s parents hadn’t had Swiss accounts, they would have been destitute. As it was, they’d been able to live a comfortable life and set up trusts for both their daughters.

The attendant knocked sharply on the stall door. “What are you doing in there?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Ally bent over and flushed the toilet to make her point. The attendant retreated, and Ally did the best she could with her outfit. Moments later, armed with a haughty look, she came out of the stall, gave the woman a five-dollar bill and told her to keep the change. She swung through the lounge door and strode across the lobby, making sure the clerk saw her leave. She didn’t stop walking until she was out of the hotel and in the parking lot, safe from prying eyes.

Okay. Now what, genius?

She was trembling by the time she got to her car. She couldn’t very well have gone up to Sinclair’s room after drawing so much unwanted attention. And if she’d had a choice, she would have been on a plane back to her apartment in Georgetown that night. The hotel brought back the all-night ordeal with her parents, every heartrending moment of it. They’d begged her not to tarnish the family name by getting involved with someone as notorious as Aragon. Their real mission, however, had been to persuade her to return to London and marry the man they’d chosen for her, a wealthy industrialist who could restore the Danner riches and their position in society.

The pressure on Ally had been intense, and it had started when she was seventeen and about to graduate from Alderwood. Her father had called, insisting she leave school and come to London to plan her own wedding. The prospect had struck horror in her heart, but she’d promised to return if he would let her graduate. He’d agreed, and she’d returned, prepared to do her duty, but she hadn’t expected her betrothed to be an overbearing man in his midfifties, whose ideas about marriage were even more antiquated than her parents, and who would furtively grope and paw her under the table on their first dinner date. The bastard had wanted some return on his investment before the deal was done.

Ally pleaded with her father to call off the wedding, but couldn’t make him understand that such an arrangement would never work for her. Desperate, she ran away, back to the States, where she worked her way through college by waitressing, and then, to ensure that she could never be forced into marriage, she devised a plan to “ruin” herself and become unacceptable to anyone else her father might choose. Jason Aragon had proved to be the perfect choice. She’d met him in New Orleans during spring break, never suspecting that he would become an even more dangerous trap than the one she’d escaped.

And now he had her sister.

Vix was paying the price for Ally’s mistakes, and Ally had to get her back safely. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t, but how could she get up to Sinclair’s room? She remembered a back elevator to the presidential suite that might open up on the other floors as well. The staff used it to deliver room service or whatever was needed to the suite. Now, if she could just find it without being spotted.