Decadent

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, but he hadn’t taken her up on it. No, he wanted information, and this was his way of scaring her into giving it up.

Actually, maybe she would give it up—not information or sex, but another piece or two of clothing couldn’t hurt. It would buy her some time and possibly get her the information she needed. And if it got her sister back, she’d undress to the buff and dance a jig.

Let’s see. What could she take off next without giving away the farm? From what she knew of the club, an Aragon girl wouldn’t have all that much trouble stripping, and Ally still had hopes of convincing him she was one of those girls, but she had no desire to get herself into any more trouble.

She glanced his way as she hiked up her skirt to remove her pantyhose. He was watching her with the cool detachment of a poker player, but she still felt vulnerable. He was so much bigger than she was. And meaner.

“You could at least be a gentleman and turn around.”

“Sorry, the last thing I need is you banging me over the head with a lamp.”

“What a brilliant idea.”

Fine, she thought. If he wouldn’t turn around, she would.

She pivoted, giving him the full effect of her haughty stance. As quickly as possible, she shimmied out of her pantyhose. There, that wasn’t so bad. But when she turned around, his skepticism had morphed into dark amusement. He was enjoying this too much.

He snapped his gum, and a blast of cinnamon flooded her air space. So rude. And why cinnamon, the very essence of Red Hots?

“If it hasn’t dawned on you yet, I have far more questions than you have clothing,” he informed her. “It’s going to get awfully cold in here if you don’t start telling me the truth.”

“Bring it on.” She tossed her balled-up pantyhose, and he snapped them out of the air. Excellent reflexes.

“Whatever you say, lady.” He let his eyes drift down her body, lingering on all those places that she most wanted to keep covered. And while he was so casually caressing her with his gaze, he rolled the pantyhose ball around in his palm, squeezing it occasionally.

So obvious. Go ahead, she told him with an expression of casual disdain, feel me up all you want, as long as you do it from over there. You’re not going to rattle me. But she hadn’t planned on having to watch him bring the nylons to his nose, as if he were drinking in the fragrance of sweet woman flesh, and then to his lips, as if he could taste her. And she hadn’t totally accounted for the raking heat of his eyes, either.

She didn’t want to react, but she could feel the warmth invading her skin. Damn, she could. It made her hot just thinking about being naked under his gaze.

Finally, he tossed the pantyhose on the bed, ready to move on to other things, apparently. She refused to flinch when he placed his fingertips on her throat. She could barely feel his touch, but even the feather-light contact had the sizzle and snap of a live wire. And wouldn’t you know the man reeked of Red Hots.

God, how she secretly thrilled to that smell. It made her weak and infused her with energy at the same time. Exciting, but confusing.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re taking my pulse, right? This is part of your lie-detecting routine.”

He was focused on her facial features, searching for something, and it wasn’t for one of the signals of deception. In her experience when a man looked at a woman this way, he usually kissed her, and this man wouldn’t stop there, she knew.

“Why are you afraid of Aragon?”

His question didn’t really register. She’d been searching his face as he’d searched hers—and again, a sense of déjà vu had crept in. Was she supposed to know him from some place? She was haunted by a nagging sense that they’d met before—perhaps years before—but the details remained elusive.

“The silent treatment won’t work,” he said. “I asked you why you were afraid of Aragon.”

“He’ll fire me if you call him. You must know how he is.”

“You don’t work for Aragon any more than I do.” He lifted his fingers from her neck. “You’ve done nothing but lie since we started the game. You’re lucky I’m not a hard nose, or you’d be naked by now. Skirt or camisole?”

“You’re not a hard nose?”

“Would you like me to be one? The camisole,” he said. “You take it off or I will.”

“You’re a despicable man.” Ally pulled the camisole over her head and threw it on the bed. “Despicable. I’m not surprised Jason likes you.”

She was now down to her skirt and her bra. Charming.

He gave her cotton bra a long hard look. He was clearly curious, and apparently not bothered that the style was modest by today’s standards. It resembled a sports bra. She wouldn’t have called it sexy by any means, and yet, he seemed to think so.

She heard his deep breath and saw the speed with which his pupils had expanded. His dark brown eyes were turning midnight black.

He cleared his throat and spoke. “All you have to do is tell me the truth, and the game is over. You can get dressed. I’ll help you.”

Was that a note of panic in his tone? Ally wasn’t quite sure what to do. She couldn’t tell him the truth, but he hadn’t missed a single lie so far. He might be bluffing, but even with the best odds, he should have stumbled at least once by now.

She needed to test him, but how?

“Tell me why you broke into my room.”

“I did tell you,” she insisted.

“And you lied.”

Very deliberately—and with no warning or apology—he placed his hand over her heart. Obviously to check the rate. It was exactly where a physician would have placed a stethoscope, but this guy wasn’t a physician, and Ally’s heart happened to be conveniently located beneath her left breast, like every woman’s.

The sudden intimacy of his touch made it hard for her to speak.

“Take your hand off my breast,” she croaked.

He smiled, caressing her with his thumb. “Make me.”

The intimacy was too much, the heat too fierce. She gripped his wrist, and he gripped hers.

“Let go of me,” she whispered.

“The minute you let go of me.”

“This is silly. Count of three and we both let go.”

A slow headshake. “Count to three thousand, if you want. I could do this for hours—and will, unless you tell me the truth.”

“I didn’t break in.” Her voice took on a pleading note. The truth, at least technically. But her damn fluttering pulse didn’t seem to care whether she was being honest or not. And why wouldn’t it with him fondling her breast?

His gaze grew darker by the moment. Whether or not he believed she was lying, he wasn’t letting up on the pressure, either mentally or physically. His eyes searched her, and his thumb feathered her hardening nipple. He was clearly savoring the feel of her.

Now she couldn’t even speak. She released his wrist, and he released hers, thank God. He freed her, but she could feel the imprint of his palm as if it were still there. She could feel his fingers taking possession of her flesh, and her face flushed with awareness.

“It’s basic biology,” he said, putting some effort into keeping his voice unaffected. “Your pulse rate increases when you lie, those pretty little pupils of yours react when you lie and your body temperature fluctuates when you lie. All measurable signals that will be used against you in this game.”

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