SUZANNE FORSTER
Decadent
This one is for the wonderful fans and friends
who have done me the honor of becoming members of my Yahoo Group. You guys are the best! Thank you for supporting me through even the toughest times, and know that I will never forget your outpouring of love and sympathy when I lost my mother. It meant more than I can possibly express.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Coming Next Month
1
RUN, ALLY! Stop staring at him and run. He’s evil. Don’t let him touch you!
But as the forbidding figure moved through the mist toward her, Ally couldn’t run. His physical domination of everything surrounding him in the ancient cemetery seemed to hold her like a net.
She’d heard the tales about the Wolverton legend and the ghost that haunted The Willows, an elegant old mansion. According to folklore, the estate had been stolen from the Wolvertons nearly a hundred years ago, and Micha Wolverton had been killed trying to reclaim it. His dying vow had been to be reunited with the spirit of his beloved wife, who’d taken her life for reasons no one would speak of, except in whispers. But Ally had never put much stock in the fantasy. She didn’t believe in ghosts.
Until now—
She didn’t understand what was happening. The figure had just materialized out of the mist, his body solidifying right before her eyes.
His face was familiar…so familiar. She stepped back as he approached.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. His voice wasn’t what she had expected. It didn’t sound as if it were coming from beyond the grave. It was deep and sensual. Commanding.
“Who are you?” she managed.
“You should know. You summoned me.”
“No, I didn’t.” Two minutes ago, she’d been crouching behind a moss-covered crypt, spying on the mansion that had once been The Willows, but was now Club Casablanca. And then this—
If he was Micha, he might be angry that she was trespassing on his property. “I’ll go,” she said. “I won’t come back. I promise.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Words snagged in her throat. “Wh-why not? What do you want?”
“If I wanted something, Ally, I’d take it. This is about need.”
She tried to back away, but her feet were useless. “And you need something from me?”
“Good guess.” His tone burned with irony. “I need lips, soft and surrendered, a body limp with desire.”
“My lips, my bod—?”
“Only yours.”
“Why? Why me?” This couldn’t be Micha. He had wanted only one woman, Rose, and he had died trying to return to her.
“Because you want that, too,” he said.
Wanted what? A ghost of her own? She’d always found the legend impossibly romantic. How could he have known that? How could he know anything about her? Besides, she’d sworn off inappropriate men, and what could be more inappropriate than a ghost? She shook her head again, still not willing to admit the truth. But her pounding heart wouldn’t play along. The mere thought of his kiss, his touch, terrified her. This wildness, it was fear, wasn’t it?
When his fingertips touched her cheek, she flinched, expecting his flesh to be cold, lifeless. It was anything but that. His skin was smooth and hot, gentle, yet demanding. And while his dark brown eyes were filled with mystery and wonder, there was a sensitivity about them that threatened to disarm her if she gazed too deeply.
“These lips are mine,” he said. In truth, it was just that. She couldn’t stop him…and didn’t want to.
“I’ve come back to claim them,” he whispered as his mouth descended onto hers and his powerful arms encircled her body.
If he were to touch her breasts, he would know how hard her heart was beating. She realized that as the promised kiss became a reality. His mouth ravished hers. Not gentle or tender, he kissed her with dark, whispering force, his lips moving over hers, claiming, then taking, brushing and licking, softening her mouth until it could do nothing but respond to him.
With a sigh of resignation, she surrendered to his advances. His hand stole up her body and stroked her breasts. Beneath her clothing, her nipples responded, tightening as he brushed them with his thumbs.
The tingling she felt was quick and sharp, creating a surge of desire.
Was he going to make love to her? She didn’t know. As his kiss deepened, she gave way to the hypnotic power of his spellbinding caresses. Her entire body was thrumming and buzzing. Alive and free again.
Buzzing and buzzing…like…an insect?
It filled her senses, growing louder.
What was that sound? A bumblebee?
Ally’s eyes blinked open, and she smacked her arm with an open palm. Not a bumblebee, a mosquito—a bloodsucking mosquito! She must have dozed off. The seventy-plus hours without sleep had caught up with her. She would never have fallen asleep in a cemetery unless she was exhausted. No one would.
She took a quick look around to make sure she hadn’t been spotted by any of the club’s security guards. She didn’t see anyone headed her way, nor were there any tall, dark figures fleeing the scene.
A dream. Of course, what else? The question she ought to be asking was why she was slinking around an abandoned graveyard on a cloud-swollen, moonless night. It wasn’t the place most women went to look for a man, especially considering why she needed one, but Ally had no choice. Some things had to be done—and in her twenty-eight years of life, little had been more crucial than her mission tonight.
Her younger sister, Victoria, was being held captive in the mansion not a hundred yards from where Ally now hid. Originally, Club Casablanca had been the country estate of the Wolvertons, a genteel farming family. They had it built about sixty miles north of New Orleans where the water table allowed for basements, tunnels and other subterranean secrets. Once a graceful Georgian plantation house, it now reminded Ally of Count Dracula’s castle. In some dark, terrifying way it was even more beautiful than before with its turrets and arches, especially at night. But it was also a den of depravity disguised as an exclusive, private gentleman’s club.
Ally brushed the dirt and leaves from her black suit, a Chanel look-alike with a skirt she’d shortened herself. She planned to say she was job hunting if the guards should spot her. In case the short skirt didn’t convince them she’d make a red-hot hostess, she’d worn a low-cut cream silk camisole under her jacket. Thank God it was spring or else she would have