Decadent. Suzanne Forster

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.”