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The Lure of The Night Ch. 01

By: Mini_Sinclair



Desperation leads to disaster. It forces you to leave the safe cocoon you have built over the years and venture out into the wild. Desperation would even make you forget—if only for a short moment—that you shouldn't expose your ugliness to the world. Desperation might also make you forget the ugliness of the world itself.

Millie Foster took one look at the Ashford estate and grimaced. What was she doing here? She didn't belong in the outside world. How would she deal with the staring—the judging?

"You staying or what?" the cab driver shot out impatiently as Millie appraised the mansion just a few feet away.

"Just a second," she shot back, glancing briefly at the pudgy driver before turning wary eyes back to the house.

It was beautiful, laden with history and background. And she would explore every inch of it with gusto.

This new job was a big opportunity for Millie. For the first time in her life, she had a chance to truly showcase her talents as a historian. She would help decorate the old mansion for the new owners. She would also be able to do her own research, gather enough information about the mysterious-looking Victorian mansion to... what? Write a book about it? Sell the information to some obscure journal that catered to history buffs? Whatever. She would do something with it. Opportunities such as this don't happen every day, especially to someone like her.

Mr. Morris, the new owner, was planning to turn the old house into an exclusive club and casino that would cater to wealthy, important men. In other words, he wanted the place to become an Edwardian-themed gentlemen's club. A new-money web entrepreneur, Mr. Morris wanted to climb the social ladder as quickly as he'd made his first billion, and he was quite certain that this new business venture would catapult him to the very top of the crème de la crème of high society.

"I'm bringing back the class and exclusivity of old times," Mr. Morris had enthused. "No one will be able to just barge in. If anyone other than society's A-list tries to access our club—" He shook his head. "Not going to happen. Not here." He'd sounded as serious as a heart attack.

At first, Millie thought she wouldn't get the job—one good look at her and the man would run off in horror—so imagine her surprise when Mr. Morris had called her just two days ago, saying that he needed her right away. He'd made it clear that she would have to stay at the mansion to oversee historical details such as costume and home design. The Ashford estate would be her new home, at least for a little while.

It had been a shock, getting this job. She thought she had scared Mr. Morris away when she walked in and showed him her face. She didn't show her face to very many people, not since the day she discovered she was scarred for life. But he seemed kind, if somewhat pompous, and had the grace to gloss over his weatherworn features into that of politeness after the initial shock of seeing her scars.

Millie touched the deformity on her right cheek and sighed. She hadn't looked at herself in a mirror for years. Not since the day she woke up in a hospital, her face covered with a bandage, not knowing what had happened or how she'd gotten there.

To this day, she had no recollection of the events that had left her scarred for life. She went to bed one night and woke up in the hospital many weeks later. The events that had led her to that hospital were a big blur. If only she had a clue, or inkling, about how she'd ended up alone and deformed...

That was in the past, she reminded herself. It was time to move on and live a semi-normal life. This job was a lifesaver. She needed to save money for those reconstructive surgeries that had, until now, been beyond her financial reach. Maybe, just maybe, she would be able to make it happen now. She would, of course, leave the Ashford estate the second the club-slash-casino opened its doors for the beautiful people. She had no interest in making this her permanent home.

Her eyes skimmed the estate. It was built in 1844 and part of the left wing was burned down in 1911. It had been rumored that its landlord, a Mr. Alexander Benjamin Ashford III, the son of a wealthy jewelry merchant, had set it on fire after discovering his wife in bed with another man. Mr. and Mrs. Ashford died in the fire—their bodies consumed by the flames. Rumors circulated the estate for years, claiming that Mr. Ashford's ghost resided in the mansion and scared away various new home owners. That was supposedly the reason why the house had been abandoned for almost seventy-six years, for its last owner closed down its doors in 1934.

The mansion had been restored over the years, but Mr. Morris wanted it to look exactly like an Edwardian house, complete with turn-of-the-twentieth-century furnishings and customs. The staff, or, as Mr. Morris said, the "hired help," was supposed to wear period clothing, and they had to behave like the underlings of those times. Modern technology was not allowed, at least not during work hours. Cell phones, laptops, tablets, iPods, e-Readers, or whatever new gadget was currently hot in the market, were not allowed in the premises. All staff members would live like in the old days—no ifs or buts. That was the main reason Millie was there. She would be a consultant of sorts, imparting information on the manners and mores of the early 1900s. She had gone to college for this very purpose. Her dream, one she'd thought lost, was finally coming true.

She paid the cab driver and scooted out of the car, a small suitcase in hand, slamming the door shut. The autumn chill hit her face, making her shudder a little. She had no idea what to expect from this place, but at least they wouldn't involve lonely nights in front of the television, avoiding the horrified gazes of both strangers and acquaintances whenever she made a halfhearted attempt to be social.

Gathering her courage, she shuffled over to the entrance, glancing over her shoulder at the cab as it sped away. Great. Now she had to stay. There was no going back. She would have to talk with others, and they would catch a glimpse of her face. Time to face the music.

She covered her right cheek with her chestnut-brown hair and hoped for the best. Perhaps Mr. Morris had warned the staff members about her appearance, and told them to ignore her half-covered face. It had been bad enough getting strange looks from Mr. Morris during the first half of the interview—looks of terror, followed by something resembling pity—she didn't want the same reaction from all of her colleagues. In any event, she would avoid socializing as much as humanly possible. She was here to work, not make friends.

Clutching her purse and suitcase, Millie smoothed down her black turtleneck sweater and knee-length skirt and craned her neck to take in the massive scope of the house. It resembled a Victorian castle—with graying stones and large windows. The sun had set, the sky turning into the bluish shade of twilight. The faint moonlight shone above, casting a phantom-like shadow across the house.

Something flew up from the roof. Crows. Their cawing echoed through the air.

Fighting off a shiver, Millie stalked up the great stone steps that led to a large wooden door. She rapped the great brass knocker, which was roughly the size of a bowling ball, and just as heavy.

Calm yourself, Millie. This may be your one and only chance to make things happen. To make money. To have a career. To have a life.

The heavy oak door swung open, revealing an aging, heavyset, glum-looking woman wearing a turn-of-the-century version of a maid's uniform. She even wore one of those ugly white caps made popular by spinsters during the late Victorian era. The woman sighed and glared at Millie, wiping her large hands on her dirty white apron.

Millie smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Apprehension took over, and now she wished she had stayed home. "Hello, I'm here for the—"

"You must be Melinda Foster," the woman cut in, her voice hoarse and sharp. "Mr. Morris has been expecting you. Follow me."

She followed the woman through an enormous foyer where a double staircase was situated. The staircase was divided into two sections, left and right. A faint breeze from a slightly open window stirred the air, crinkling the crystals of an enormous chandelier just above her head. Millie gasped. The house was enormous, not to mention gorgeous. All of it. Even in its deteriorated stated, it looked grand and imposing. It was something right out of a Bronte novel—Thornfield Hall come alive. For a second, Millie beamed with hope. Maybe coming here hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

"Watch your step, hon," the woman croaked, glancing over her shoulder at Millie. "Stairs haven't been fixed yet."

The stairs seemed endless, and they creaked with each step. Millie had gone three stories now, and she was fighting the urge to pant. She hadn't done this much exercise since... Come to think of it, she had never done this much exercise, period. After all, watching TV and reading novels all day long didn't require a great deal of physical activity.

Over the banister, she could see the polished hard-wood floors shine down below. She reached the top of the stairs and encountered a large painting of a man and a woman in Victorian clothing on a wall facing the landing. The woman was seated, and the man stood behind her, one large hand on her delicate shoulder and the other one behind his back. The woman's titian-colored hair was wrapped in an elaborate chignon, pretty ringlets spilled down her delicate shoulders. She wore a blue gown, the neckline so low her breasts looked as if they were about to pop out of the confinements. She was beautiful—ethereally so, with eyes as large and hazel as Millie's.

The man on the painting was the exact opposite of the woman. He was tall, dark, handsome and mysterious-looking. His dark eyes were slightly narrowed, as if in brooding contemplation. Millie stopped in front of the painting, transfixed. Were these the original owners? Were they—?

"That's Alexander Benjamin Ashford III and his wife Meredith," the maid informed her. "The original lord and lady of the Ashford manor." Her eyes twinkled with amusement when she added, "They say that this place is haunted, that Mr. Ashford's ghost drifts from room to room at night, looking for innocent girls to uh... quench his ghostly needs." She threw her head back and laughed as if she'd said the funniest, cleverest thing in the world.

Millie said nothing as she turned her gaze back to the picture. There was something eerily familiar about them. Uneasiness pierced her; she didn't know why. Crossing her arms over her chest to ward off a shudder, she started after the maid, who was still chuckling to herself.

They walked down a long corridor to a large wooden door. The faux-maid knocked on the door and waited. Sighing, Millie cast a curious glance at her surroundings. The corridor was dimly lit, giving the hallway an unearthly, spooky appearance. To the far left, there was a set of double doors, secured by an old lock. The doors looked like they hadn't been opened since the house burned down a hundred years ago.

"Where do those doors lead?" Millie asked.

The maid's brows furrowed, her lips thinned. "That's the main bedchamber. It was completely destroyed in the fire. The owners were unable to restore it and the doors must be locked at all times."

At that moment, the door in front of them swung open, revealing Mr. Morris in his best Edwardian finery. He looked like the real-life version of the Monopoly Man. "Ah, Miss Foster. I've been expecting you. Do come in." He sounded like a bad Shakespearean actor.

He moved aside to let Millie in. She swept past the maid and let herself in, but not before glancing back at the two double doors on the far left... and catching sight of something odd. A shadow crossed past the doors. The silhouette of a man in a black cloak. Cold fear surged through her, and she momentarily froze.

"Did—did you see that?" she asked, gasping.

"See what?" the maid said, glancing at the double doors. Mr. Morris frowned.

Millie closed her eyes for a second and shook her head. No, it was nothing. It was just her imagination—she was seeing things that weren't there. It wouldn't be the first time. She opened her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Nothing," she answered wearily. "I thought I saw something."

"Mr. Ashford's ghost, perhaps?" the maid asked, a hint of amusement glimmering in her beady blue eyes. Millie turned pale.

"Marla," Mr. Morris said warningly.

"Sorry, boss."

Millie sighed. She hadn't been here for fifteen minutes and was already regretting her choice. Was it too late to call a cab and go back home?

Wary, she moved past Mr. Morris and rushed into his office.

There she is, after all this time. Such a long wait, but it was worth every second of it. I would have waited forever for her though. Forever wouldn't have been enough. In actuality, I'd only waited one hundred years—a century of solitude, pain and hatred for the woman who ruined my life and turned me into the mere apparition that I am now. I can't reverse this curse, nor am I allowed to rest in peace, so why should she carry on with a new life, in a new body, while I waste away in the ruins of our old home?

Meredith, my darling, my sweet torment. You have no idea what is in store for you. This is karma calling, and it's here to collect.

By definition, karma is payback for actions committed in a previous life. And I—Alexander Benjamin Ashford III—is karma personified. You, Meredith, will pay for everything you did to me, and I'll do it the same way you had done it. First I will seduce you, and then I will crush you to bits. I'll give you pleasure like you've never experienced before, and then I shall take it all away. You will be scarred in the inside as well as out. Your vanity has been taken away, and now it is your soul that shall be possessed. And you will carry that pain with you for as long as you live, which will be a very long time. I will make sure of that. My curse, this damnation I've been forced to endure for so many years, has finally worked in my favor.

It is time, my darling. Brace yourself. Let the seduction begin!

Millie heard a soft rasp on her bedroom door and twisted around in time to see Marla enter the room carrying towels and blankets. She dropped it on the bed and then frowned at Millie.

"Why are you in bed?" she inquired. "It's only six o'clock. Don't you want to go downstairs and meet the rest of the staff? Dinner is going to bed served in an hour."

Millie shuddered at the thought of meeting people. "No, I—I'm still tired from my trip."

"So you'd rather have your dinner here?"

"I'm actually not that hungry."

Marla nodded. "Well, rest up all you can then. There's an early morning meeting tomorrow. Mr. Morris has a big announcement to make."

"What announcement?"

"Something about revamping the club's theme, but I'm sure he'll tell us all about it tomorrow." She glanced around the room and sighed. "All right, I'll let you get some sleep now. If you change your mind about dinner, just pull the bell and I'll be right up with the tray."

Millie nodded a thank you, her big cotton nightshirt crumpling around her waist as she sat up in bed. "Marla?"

Marla was about to leave the room when she turned. "Yes?"

"Those people in the portrait. You know, Mr. and Mrs.—"

"The Ashfords?" Marla cut in.

Millie sat up straighter in bed, bending her knees to her chest. "Yes. That thing you said about—"

"Alex's ghost?" Marla finished for her again. "I was just messing with you, kid. Don't worry about it."

"But is it true?" Millie persisted. "I mean, have people said anything about Mr. Ashford's ghost haunting this house?"

Marla smiled and, smoothing her hands on her apron, nodded. "What, are you afraid of ghosts?"

I'm afraid of many things, but not particularly of ghosts. "N—no. I was just wondering. This is an old house, and I've heard quite a few things about it. So is any of it true?"

"Depends on what you've heard." Marla moved to the front of the bed, her hands inside the pockets of her apron. "But if you're referring to Alex's ghost, well... there have been stories. Many stories, actually. Naughty stories, if you get my meaning. I don't think you'd want to hear any of it—"

"Oh, but I would!" It was her turn to interrupt. Then, upon hearing her own words, her cheeks flushed pink and she looked down at her hands. "What I mean is, I wouldn't mind hearing about them."

"The stories are quite... explicit."

Millie sighed. "I... don't mind."

Marla shrugged and moved over to the bed where she plopped unceremoniously on to the mattress. "All right, if you insist."

She settled in bed, next to Millie, and wrapping herself around one of the blankets that she had deposited upon the bed, she settled down in front of Millie and stared into the distance. "There was one particular story that presumably took place just five years after the house's left wing was engulfed in flames. A nice family moved in from France. I believe their name was Deveraux. A middle-aged married couple with an eighteen-year-old daughter. They only used the house's right wing. Most of it was habitable at the time, and the lands were so beautiful and the gardens so picturesque during the summer that the couple didn't think twice about moving in. The smell of smoke had gone and everything looked almost normal again. They moved to America hoping to improve their finances. The daughter was going to marry a wealthy merchant from Boston. The wedding date was set up and everything. But suddenly the girl—her name was Sabine—began to behave strangely. She seldom left her bedroom, and when she did, she hardly spoke. She no longer seemed excited about her wedding. She grew more withdrawn with time, spending every single waking moment in her bedroom, and no one knew why."

Millie fidgeted in her bed, absently flattening the hair that fell across her right cheek. She had a feeling she already knew where the story was heading.

"The reason she never left the room," Marla continued, "had three words—or is it four? Maybe five? Anyway, it was Alexander Benjamin Ashford III. He visited her bedroom, demanded sexual favors from her, then left her for days and days at a time, driving the poor girl mad with heartbreak and longing. The more aloof Alex's ghost was, the more desperate the girl became. It all ended one terrible night—the night Sabine went in to her parent's bedchamber."

Marla paused, rubbed her hands together, and turned inquisitive eyes to Millie. "Are you sure you want to hear the rest of this?"

Impatient, but not wanting to seem rude, Millie nodded. "Please, do. I love ghost stories."

"This isn't your typical ghost story."

"I know," Millie smiled. "And that is why I want to hear it. Please continue."

Marla rubbed her hands together again, a playful smile teasing her lips. "Sabine had heard strange sounds coming from her parents' bedroom. It wasn't the usual sound of her father's loud snoring, but a different sound altogether. This sound filled Sabine with dread, for she knew that something peculiar was going on. Turning the doorknob, Sabine entered her parents' room, only to stop in her tracks when she heard the unmistakable groan of pleasure from her mother, swiftly followed by a pleading moan. For a mortifying moment, she thought she had walked in on her parents during their intimacy and was about to walk out when a figure stepped from the shadows and situated himself in front of Mrs. Deveraux. The girl's mother was on the bed, her brown hair fanning out like a blanket behind her. Her legs were raised almost level with her hips while her fingers traced lazy circles around her full breasts. The figure before her just stood there and watched, his eyes drawn to the area between the woman's legs where the glistening, swollen lips of her vagina lay parted.


The Lure of The Night Ch. 02



Meredith Montgomery wandered aimlessly through the ballroom, wishing she could be anywhere but there. Masquerade balls were so boring. Why did people like them so much?

And yet there she was, just where her mother wanted her to be. She had dressed in the exact manner her mother had dictated. She wore the green silk sleeveless gown that showed a very generous amount of cleavage. She also wore a green and gold papier-mâché mask that her mother had picked out. ("It matches with your dress!" her mother had enthused.) Her hair was done in a ridiculously youthful fashion—a loose chignon with titian ringlets cascading down her neck and forehead. She looked every bit the society widow in want of a second husband, which was precisely what her equally widowed mother had wanted. Meredith had done everything that Caroline Foster had wanted her to do, but she drew the line with her neckline. Her mother had insisted on tightening Meredith's corset almost to the point of breaking her ribs, just so that her generous cleavage would be more prominent. Her breasts had jutted out so much they'd almost popped out of her bodice, but she'd put an end to her mother's demands by loosening the whalebone stays on her corset and opting for a more decent look. She had some standards, after all.

Meredith was all false politeness and decorum with the hosts—the fabulous Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, of the Philadelphia Dawsons—and the other rich families in the county, but she found it difficult to hide her distaste the moment she was introduced to the Viscount of Brighton. It was a good thing she wore a mask. Thank God for small miracles.

"Meredith! Come over here, child!" Mrs. Foster called out from across the ballroom. "I'd like to introduce you to a very honorable guest. Mrs. Meredith Montgomery, meet Mr. Joseph Deadlock, or rather, the Viscount Deadlock of Brighton."

Sighing, Meredith walked over to her mother and the rather imperious-looking blonde man standing beside her. She couldn't see his entire face, for he wore a white mask, but she saw that he had light blue eyes and a fine chin.

The viscount bowed before her, to which Meredith responded with a clumsy curtsy.

"It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mrs. Montgomery," the viscount said with an English accent that was not at all unpleasant to hear.

Meredith felt her mother's hand nudging her forward. She shot her mother a glare before stammering, "Good evening, my Lord."

Mrs. Foster smiled approvingly. "As I've said, Lord Brighton, my daughter here lost her loving husband all of two years ago and she has finally opened up to the possibility of a second marriage. She is quite lovely under the mask . . . Remove the mask, dear. Do let his lordship see you!"

Meredith rolled her eyes underneath the mask before removing it. Lord Brighton smiled as he feasted his eyes on her lovely face and even lovelier bosom. "Charmed," he purred heartily.

As Meredith donned the mask, she sensed someone was eyeing her from across the room. Surveying the large crowd of guests, she spotted a dark figure standing at the entrance of the ballroom, his gaze fixed on her. Or at least he appeared to be looking at her. The man wore a black jacket and matching waistcoat, with a pristine white shirt and cravat that had been fashionable decades ago. He also wore black breeches and knee-high black leather boots that also seemed to have come from another time. As far as fancy costumes went, his was quite dashing, not to mention sexy. The dark artifact concealed his features, and the only discernible thing about him was his short black hair. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. Meredith shivered. She had no idea why, but the strange figure reminded her of—

"Oh! And this is my wonderful younger daughter, Miss Daphne," Mrs. Foster chirped, interrupting Meredith's train of thought. "And the gentleman beside her is her fiancé Mr. Alfred Wells."

Daphne and Mr. Wells approached them. Daphne looked breathtakingly beautiful in her silk ivory gown. Meredith's younger sister had been blessed with silver-blonde hair and a large set of aquamarine eyes that gave her that perpetual deer-caught-in-headlights expression that men seemed to adore. Gentlemen often fell for her angelic beauty upon sight. Meredith couldn't believe that her sister was betrothed to Mr. Wells, a middle-aged man who resembled a toad not only in looks but in personality as well. Daphne wanted to marry a wealthy and respectable man, even if it meant throwing away her chance at marrying for true love—or at the very least for true lust. If there was someone who needn't marry beneath her expectations, it was Daphne. Meredith felt fortunate to have loved her late husband. If she married again—a big emphasis on the if—it would be for love. She wouldn't settle for less.

"Charmed again, I'm sure," Lord Brighton intoned with a leer he hadn't been inclined to hide.

Meredith regarded him with distaste before glancing over her shoulder to catch a peek at the mysterious man in black, only to find that he was no longer there. Disappointment seized her. She hoped he hadn't left the party.

One thought had entered her mind and wouldn't let go. If only it were him, she thought. If only it were Alex, my Alex.

Her mother's loud chirp interrupted her reverie. "As you can see, my Lord, Miss Daphne is quite the beauty. The most beautiful young woman in all of New England. She is nineteen and is to marry Mr. Wells no later than this winter. That is why she wears no mask. I insisted upon it. It would be a shame to hide so much loveliness, don't you think?" Mrs. Foster turned her beady blue eyes to Meredith. "Meredith is quite handsome as well. Not as beautiful as my Daphne, true enough, but very few women are."

"Indeed," Lord Brighton responded, glancing between Daphne and Meredith before turning to Mrs. Foster. "You must be quite proud, Mrs. Foster, for having two such lovely daughters."

Mrs. Foster smiled and fanned herself vigorously as she squeaked in delight. "I most certainly am. Meredith is a widow and of age, three years shy of thirty. Her husband died of consumption, God rest his soul. But my Meredith is not alone. I've always said that she would never be in want of my care and affections, regardless of her age."

"Lovely, just lovely," Lord Brighton enthused.

Meredith thanked the heavens above for wearing a mask. Otherwise her mother would see the incredulous and disgusted look on her face. Mrs. Foster looked quite comical in her red velvet frock and matching mask. She sort of looked like the devil. How very apropos, thought Meredith disdainfully.

The orchestra began to play a waltz. Mrs. Foster glanced between Meredith and Lord Brighton expectantly, fanning herself all the more vigorous as she waited for the inevitable invitation to happen. She cleared her throat not once, not twice, but three times before Lord Brighton got the hint. Meredith thought she would die of embarrassment.

Lord Brighton bowed in front of all three ladies. "May I have this waltz"—at this Mrs. Foster beamed—"Miss Daphne?"

Mrs. Foster watched in astonishment as Lord Brighton escorted Miss Daphne to the dance floor. Unperturbed, Mr. Wells invited another young lady to dance. "Well!" Mrs. Foster frowned. "The proper thing would have been for his lordship to have his first dance with you. But it's your fault, really. You've hardly said a word to the man. And don't think I haven't noticed your lack of manners." Mrs. Foster paused in her fanning and narrowed her eyes at Meredith. "You were rolling your eyes like a drunkard on laudanum. Remember what I told you early this evening, dear," she added in haste. "Do not let Lord Brighton slip through your fingers or you'll live to regret it. I know you've had your eyes set on that Ashford man, but I've heard far too many rumors about his... distasteful exploits. Not surprising coming from the son of a new-money jewelry merchant. No way would I let you marry a social climber with a questionable reputation." Mrs. Foster's face twisted with displeasure as she added, "Alexander Ashford the Third indeed. Who were his family before they became rich? They were nobody. How presumptuous of his father to give his son such a distinguished title."

"It is not a title," Meredith shot back, annoyed. "It's his name. He's the third man in the family named Alexander. It's not meant to be pretentious."

"Well, it still sounds to me like they're giving themselves airs," her mother responded lamely.

Meredith huffed out a breath. "I would like to get some punch, if you don't mind."

"You go right ahead, dear," her mother drawled as she fanned herself and waved at another guest.

Disgusted, Meredith walked swiftly to the punch bowl. How on earth was she going to charm Lord Brighton when he hardly seemed interested in her? He seemed quite enthralled with her sister, and she doubted that he had his eyes set on a widow past the marriageable age. Mrs. Foster had told her during their carriage ride to the ball that his lordship had two young sons, which meant he was not in need of heirs, but Meredith supposed that he nevertheless wanted to marry a young virgin. All the better for her, she mused, for regardless of her mother's money-grubbing agenda, she wasn't going to live under her "care" anymore. She was an adult, with no need of a ward or a chaperone, and even though her finances were limited now that she and her mother were widows, she had enough to enjoy a pleasant and comfortable life on her own. Joseph Montgomery had been a wonderful husband, and they'd lived a happy life together. Now that he was gone, all she wanted was the freedom to make her own choices. She would leave tomorrow morning, no ifs or buts. If only Alexander were here, she thought longingly. If only—

Her thoughts were interrupted when a strong arm smoothed around her waist and a big hand settled underneath her left breast. A strong body pressed itself hard against her from behind.

Meredith gasped. She tried to move away, but the stranger pressed all the more firmly against her. She felt the man's warm breath in her ear, felt him nuzzle on her hair as he moved his gloved hand to her breast. Meredith closed her eyes as the breath rushed out of her.

Nervous, she opened her eyes and glanced over the ballroom. Could anyone see them? No, no one was paying attention to them. There were quite a few dancing in the center of the ballroom. Some of the ladies and gentlemen were dressed elegantly, as they would at any normal fancy ball, but others were in full costume. There was a fairy princess dancing with a gypsy, a ballerina talking with a pirate, and an angel laughing with the devil. They were all wearing masks. Meredith glanced worriedly at Mrs. Foster, but her mother wasn't looking in her direction. She was sitting in a corner with a large group of ladies hovering around her—gossiping, no doubt.

Meredith closed her eyes again and let the stranger hold her against him. He felt wonderful, and the faint scent of vanilla that emanated from him was intoxicating. She felt the hardness of his body on her back. A shiver ran through her before she could stop it.

"Do not be afraid, my sweet," the man whispered in her ear. "I'm here now."

Her heart leapt at the sound of his sensual baritone. She took three shaky steps forward, reluctantly parting from his warm embrace, and turned to face him.

She'd recognize those eyes anywhere. They'd been imprinted in her memory ever since she met him just one year ago. Those big eyes of his, eyes so blue that they sometimes turned a deep violet. Her gaze shifted over to his lips. He had full lips, the sort of lips you'd want to kiss the moment you see them. Meredith licked her own lips and met his eyes again. His nostrils flared and his intense gaze bored into hers.

Alexander. My loving Alexander.

A couple waltzed quickly in their direction, startling her. He cast a quick, annoyed glance at the couple dancing in their vicinity before turning back to her.

"May I have this dance?" he murmured.

Speechless, Meredith could only nod her agreement.

He walked slowly to the center of the ballroom and held out his arm to her. Gingerly, she stepped forward and took his hand, and drew a deep breath when he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her firmly against him.

They waltzed in silence, his eyes never leaving hers. Sometimes she looked away to escape from his intense gaze and also to make sure her mother wasn't watching. Fortunately, she was quite entertained with the flock of old birds nestled around her. Meredith would've sighed with relief had her body not been pressed hard against the man. Her breasts were crushed against his rock-solid chest and she could barely breathe from the pressure and from the sensations he was giving her.

"Look at me, Meredith," he commanded.

Slowly, she looked at him. His eyes looked ardent and determined as they moved down to her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. She felt his hand move around her back, tracing a path until he reached her derriere. Meredith gasped and closed her eyes.

"Look at me," he persisted.

Her eyes flew open. He stared at her for a few moments before he nuzzled her masked face, teasing her lips with his. He trailed her lower lip with the tip of his tongue before stepping back to look at her again. Meredith's mouth went dry at the same time as her insides turned to liquid. She felt she was in a dream. The people in the ballroom had ceased to exist. They were the only two people in the room.

And then she realized that they were indeed the only two people in the room. The ballroom, once luminescent and lively, was now dark and deserted. Emptiness surrounded them. Her lust momentarily turned to panic. Where had everyone gone? What was going on? She tried to disengage from Alexander's embrace, but he held her firmly. She put her hand on his chest to create a barrier between them. "Please—just let me go."

"I will never let you go." He said darkly. "Not in this lifetime. Or the next."

His words held an ominous tone that wasn't lost on her. A sense of foreboding took over, but was quickly forgotten the moment his hands, no longer gloved, moved to the small of her back. Then he placed one muscled leg in between her thighs, creating a barrier of his own. She could feel the rigidness and throb of his cock pushing against his breeches.

Passion gripped her. She'd waited too long for him, and had no intention of wasting another second of their time together. Her lips captured his in a long, passionate kiss.

Sweet, so incredibly sweet, his lips against hers. She took a breath, relishing the scent of him, and her heart melted when he parted his lips and responded to her kiss. He made a soft groaning sound in the back of his throat as he caressed her with the tip of his tongue, sending a tremor through her. When the kiss intensified, the contact created a jolt of pleasure so intense it made her cry out.

After they parted, she gave him a sultry little smile. "Alexander," she breathed out. "I love you. I love you so much it hurts."

A flash of anger crossed over his face. "Don't you ever mention the word 'love' to me again, you understand? Don't pretend you're here for anything other than my cock."

A violent flush heated her face and neck. "Alexander, what on earth has come over you?"

Was this truly the wonderful dominant male she'd loved and submitted her mind and body to for almost a year? Why was he behaving so strangely? Was he upset about her mother's meddling? Had their short—though torturous—time apart upset him that much? Bemused, she was about to turn away from him when he pulled her hand and guided it to the front of his breeches. His erection felt enormous against her palm. "This is what you want, isn't it?" he purred as he nuzzled her titian curls with his nose. His tongue dipped into her ear, forcing a moan out of her. "Isn't it?" he repeated.

Desire surged through her body as her fingers closed firmly on his erection and gave his shaft a hard squeeze. Alexander closed his eyes and groaned. "Yes," she relented. She'd let him do his little withholding dance. For now. "This is what I want, what I've always wanted."

"Then let me give it to you."

"Yes." She squeezed his hardness again as she felt his fingers loosening the laces of her gown. "Yes, please."

The corset came next. He loosened the stays, then he lowered the upper half of her gown and corset all the way down to her waist. Her naked breasts rose and fell with her rapid breathing, her nipples turning into hard little peaks encircled by rosy flesh.

Through half-closed eyes Meredith stared up at Alexander. Even with his mask on, his emotions were clear, and it was impossible not to be aroused by his expression. Possessive, slightly mocking, and totally authoritative. He didn't have to touch her for her body to respond, and it was definitely responding. It practically hummed with desire. And when his hands finally moved over her breasts and pinched her erect nipples between his fingers, the combination of sharp pain and erotic pleasure made her gasp with shock.

He lowered his head and worked on her silently, using his fingers, the palms of his hands, and his lips and tongue. He touched a nipple with his lips, tentative and featherlike, before claiming it completely.

Heat shot up and settled somewhere between Meredith's thighs. She had forgotten how great he was, and how he'd made her feel things that she had never felt before, not even with her late husband.

Now his movements were becoming more urgent and erotic. He switched from her breasts to her stomach, circling her navel with his tongue, then back to her breasts, nipping one hard nipple lightly with his teeth. Meredith bit her lower lip and let out a strangled moan. Why on earth had she let her mother keep her from spending the rest of her life with this wonderful man? She was a fool. Her mother would never control her again. From now on, she would only yield to Alexander—her Master.

Alexander lifted her skirts and removed her petticoat and undergarment. Then he took two steps back and appraised her. "I love the fact that you're a natural redhead," he told her pleasantly. "The hair on your cunt is darker than the one on your head—an interesting shade of mahogany. Simply beautiful."

Meredith felt herself blushing scarlet at his compliment, but all thoughts soon left her when she felt his breath just inches above her wet passage. A shock of pleasure paralyzed her limbs the moment his lips made contact with her body. He nipped, nibbled, licked and kissed his way down her thighs, one hand reaching between them, forcing her legs apart. His hands moved under her buttocks, lifting them, pulling her towards him. His tongue found the swollen bud that peaked out of her silky folds, and pressed his lips against it, sucking hard and fast. Meredith let out a startled cry when he began to stab his tongue deep into the very depths of her as his fingers flicked on her clitoris.

Seeing the top of his head moving between her thighs was almost as agonizing as the sensations he was giving her. She grabbed a fistful of his dark hair and pushed his head closer, so as to feel his tongue deeper inside. She struggled to keep control of her legs, for it was impossible to stand still while he held her so expertly on the brink of release. Her hips pushed toward his face as she forced his head closer, but this time he simply moved back, dug his fingers harder against her bottom, and teased her with his tongue, lessening the intensity of his ministrations so as to prolong her torment.

"Please," she cried. "Please, Mr. Ashford, I don't think I can bear it much longer."

The fact that she'd called him "Mr. Ashford" had pleased him—she knew it had—because Alex's tongue moved faster, and he let her thrust her body hard against his face. In the past, Alex had ordered Meredith to call him "Mr. Ashford" during their intimacy. (And sometimes daringly in public.) It was, he'd said, a show of respect and deference, for he was her master and owner.




The Lure of The Night Ch. 03



"How about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes?"

Mr. Morris looked up from his expense report and scowled at Larry, his assistant. "Absolutely not. Out of the question."

Larry frowned. "Why not?"

"I don't want that scientologist freak around me. Bored me half to death talking about his newfound religion at last year's Cannes Film Festival. Who's next on the list?"

Larry sighed. Mapping out invitation lists used to be the best part of his job, but now it was an ordeal. His boss was so adamant about turning this house into a legendary hot spot in the same vein as New York's seventies classic Club 54—but with a turn-of-the-century theme and, if possible, more hedonistic and decadent—that he'd taken all the fun out of planning ahead. Larry was fresh out of college, eager to please his somewhat ridiculous boss, but Mr. Morris's demands had tempted him to resign more times than he cared to admit. It wasn't like he needed the damn job. He could live off his trust fund for many years. This job had its fun moments though. Aside from the wild parties Mr. Morris threw in his lavish California mansion, the man was a comical sight to behold, especially now with that ridiculous pencil-thin mustache he was sporting. Mr. Morris was not a man of great stature. He was only about an inch taller than Larry, who was five-seven. But Larry was thin and fit, whereas Morris's physique could be best described as paunchy. The old man did have blue eyes and blonde hair, and was probably moderately handsome in his youth, but his eyes looked heavy and tired, and the few strands of hair he had left on his head were now a distinctive shade of silver. Mr. Edward Morris was definitely too old for the sort of parties he always throwing, but who was Larry to judge, especially when he enjoyed said parties?

"Who else have you got?" Mr. Morris asked again, lighting a cigarette.

Larry heaved himself up from the rather uncomfortable Edwardian armchair he was sitting in and inspected a box in the corner of the study, eyeing the rather large computer monitor perched on top of the antique desk. Hadn't the old man forbidden the use of modern technology in the house? Was he the only one allowed to be anachronistic? Larry had left his BlackBerry in his Porsche because he didn't want to break the rules. He should've known that Morris's no-gadget requirement wouldn't last. Shaking his head, Larry grabbed his notepad and pen, flipped a page and held it in front of Mr. Morris as his butt landed painfully on the armchair.

"Read it out to me," Mr. Morris ordered.

Larry gave his boss an exasperated look, but he had learned from experience that the only way to cope with Mr. Morris's diva antics was to ignore it and charge ahead. "Brad and Angelina?"

Mr. Morris's eyes brightened, closing the business folder in front of him. "Now that's more like it! Of course, they're invited! But only if they wear the proper period costumes."

"Of course." Larry scribbled something on his notepad. "Jennifer Aniston?"

Mr. Morris puffed on his cigarette, his mustached lips curving into a smile. "Absolutely. The club could use a little Brad-Angelina-Jennifer drama."

"I don't think Jennifer Aniston cares about those two anymore," Larry pointed out.

"Of course she cares! She's still single, isn't she? Who else?"

Names were dropped, and Mr. Morris either nodded his approval or shook his head in objection. While the minutes passed and the invitation list increased, Larry became progressively bored. These sessions had been a lot more exciting at Mr. Morris's San Francisco mansion. Now those were great parties! No matter what Mr. Morris thought, the east coast did not have the flair and glamour that the west coast had. Besides, this house gave Larry the creeps. Those stories he had heard about the fire and the so-called curse... sinister stuff. Not that the place was a bad sight to behold. It had probably been spectacular in its heyday, but it now bore the aftereffects of decades' worth of ruin and neglect. Mr. Morris should have bought that neo-Gothic mansion Larry had showed him in L.A. That would have been a better—and safer—choice. 

"Is that all?" Mr. Morris asked, extinguishing his cigarette on an antique ashtray.

Larry shifted uncomfortably in his chair and flipped another page on his notebook. "How about some more people from the music industry? How about Will.i.am.?"

"Will I what?"

"Never mind." He closed his notebook and sighed. "That takes care of the entertainment industry, and we've already added your business partners and friends to the list, but what about artists and novelists—people of artistic worth?"

Mr. Morris's bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Like who?"

"Like David J. Seton."

"Who?"

"David J. Seton, the English writer."

"Never heard of him."

Larry's brown eyes widened with surprise.

"Is this English writer noteworthy?"

"He certainly is." Larry cleared his throat and smiled. "His stories are bold and controversial, and they've all been wildly successful. His latest novel, Madeleine, is being made into a movie with Natalie Portman in the title role!"

Mr. Morris nodded, impressed. After a moment of silence, he said, "And you think he should be a guest at my club?"

"He would be perfect for this club!" Larry enthused. "Mr. Seton is one of England's most notorious hedonists."

Mr. Morris raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Well, he's more of a reformed hedonist, actually. He's married now. His wife's name is Marjorie Fordham, his book editor and, apparently, the inspiration behind Madeleine. Lovely woman. I met her once at a club in Albany."

"There's a club in Albany?"

Larry's face turned an interesting shade of red. "Uh, yes," he stammered. "A boring club. Very boring. So, anyway, are the Setons on the list then?"

"Yes, I suppose they are," Mr. Morris huffed out, waving a hand dismissively at his assistant. "Anyone else?"

"Quinn Armitage."

No sign of recognition flickered in the old man's eyes. Muttering something to himself about self-made billionaires and their lack of culture, Larry crossed one lean leg over the other and elaborated. "He's a famous artist—a painter of erotic art. He's known as the 'Marquis de Sade of the Art World.' " 

Before Mr. Morris could ask who the Marquis de Sade was, Larry continued. "He's also a private club owner. I'm not in the liberty of sharing details about his club, but maybe he'll tell you all about it some time. He might even give you some pointers."

"I don't need pointers," Mr. Morris stated irritably. "I know what I'm doing. But, yes, I suppose you could add this Queen Army guy to the list." 

"Quinn Armitage."

"Whatever." The old man sighed. "Let's continue with this later. Where are my employees? I thought I told them we had a meeting this morning."

At that moment, the office door opened, and in came fourteen people of various heights and ages, with Millie bringing up the rear. She smoothed the hair that fell across her right cheek and crossed her arms to her chest, her shoulders squared. She had hoped to blend in with the crowd, but she felt as awkward and conspicuous as a lone Yankees fan surrounded by violent Red Sox zealots at Fenway Park. 

Her fingernails dug into the skin of her bare forearm and she winced. Hadn't even realized she had been doing it. Slowly, deliberately, she moved to the back row and sat on the edge of a small oak desk near the doorway, her short plaid skirt skimming her thighs. A pristine white blouse and black flat shoes with a big buckle over the front completed the look. It was the most daring outfit she'd ever worn, and it made her feel like a naughty schoolgirl. She'd almost been tempted to part her long hair into two front ponytails, but that would have been far from wise. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

She scanned the people in front of her and recognized Marla immediately. She was standing in the front row, her eyes fixed on Mr. Morris. She wore the black and white maid uniform from the day before—the only one, other than Mr. Morris, who wore period clothing. Everyone else had regular clothes on. Next to Marla stood another woman. She appeared to be in her early fifties, with dark blonde hair and green eyes, a cream-colored pantsuit covering a tall and elegant frame. She looked impeccably put together. Not a wrinkle or crease on her clothes. Two young women stood behind her. The tall one on the right—golden hair, fair skin, small nose—looked on without the faintest show of interest, her full mouth betraying the fact that she was stifling a yawn. She wore skinny jeans and a loose sleeveless top that barely covered her extraordinarily large breasts. A thick black choker with ruby studs hanging from it decorated her long neck. The choker reminded Millie of a dog collar she saw once in one of those Westminster dog shows on TV. It looked out of place on the girl. She didn't seem like the Goth chick type. The girl finally yawned. Millie had never seen someone so beautiful or so bored in her life. She'd feel sorry for her if she hadn't envied her. 

The girl on the left—chin-length dark hair, exotic olive skin, big brown eyes—was quite pretty as well, even if she could stand to lose a few pounds. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she appeared to be surveying the office. Her eyes landed on the mammoth computer monitor on top of Mr. Morris's desk, and she let out a derisive snort. The elegant woman glared at the brunette girl, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like "Stop it." Millie smiled. They were obviously family. How wonderful it must be to have loved ones around you, even if they were scolding you.

Millie's eyes swept over the remaining crowd. The rest of the hired help were men that ranged from early twenties to late fifties, but most of them were young. None of them stood out. No doubt they were there to either serve drinks or work as floor men at the casino. 

"Thank you all for coming," Mr. Morris said, smiling indulgently at his staff. "I'm sure Larry or Marla told you that I have an important announcement to make. I had initially intended to use this house as a turn-of-the-century-themed gentlemen's club. Well, it will still be a period-themed club, but I've decided to change the setting to the good ole Roaring Twenties."

A mixture of shock and delight poured into Millie's ears. Shock from those who had expected, and wanted, an early 1900s setting, and delight from those who visualized a Burlesque-type of club with half-naked women sporting flapper curls and bob cuts, and wearing short skirts over garter belts and fishnet stockings. Pencil-thin eyebrows and elaborate headdresses would complement the bawdy look. Millie shook her head in disgust. She wasn't pleased with this turn of events, and it took all of her self-control to keep from voicing an objection. Talk about a bait and switch!

"It's for the best," Mr. Morris continued. "A twenties setting is perfect for what I have in mind. In those days, during the Prohibition, alcohol was as decadent and forbidden as an extramarital affair. I could bring back the Jazz Age—it'll feel just like Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, only wilder."

Laughter filled the room. Everyone seemed pleased, or at least satisfied, with the changes, all except for Marla. Her lips thinned, disapproval written all over her weatherworn face. Millie smiled to herself. She knew she had found a faithful ally in Marla.

"Any questions?" Mr. Morris asked.

Marla didn't waste any time. "But I thought the club's theme was a tribute to the Ashfords."

Mr. Morris frowned at Marla. "What on earth made you think that?"

Marla's pallid skin blushed scarlet. "You said so yourself, sir. During my job interview, you said you wanted to bring back the class and exclusively of Edwardian times, and at the same time pay a tribute to the original owners." 

"I never said anything of the sort," Mr. Morris countered, voice annoyed. "The Ashfords have nothing to do with the opening of this club. In fact, it is time to put an end to all that nonsense about a curse or a haunting or what-have-you. The Ashfords have no bearing in this establishment. Larry!"

Larry, who had been staring lustily at the pretty blonde with the enormous breasts, jumped at the sound of his name. "Yes, Edward?"

"That's Mr. Morris to you, son," the old man admonished. The self-importance was obvious in his voice. "I want that dreadful portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Ashford removed from the top landing immediately." Mr. Morris turned to the men in the room. "Which one of you fine gentlemen would like to volunteer in helping Larry get rid of the portrait?"

"NO!"

Startled, everyone turned, all eyes fixed on the person who had shouted like a maniac. Instinctively, Millie combed her hair to her face, concealing all traces of her scars. She didn't know why she had reacted so strongly to Mr. Morris's command. All she knew was that her vision had clouded over so fast, and her blood had boiled so hot, at the mere prospect of losing that painting, that she had to hold on to the small desk behind her for dear life. She couldn't let them move that portrait from the wall. She just couldn't.

"Is there a problem, Miss Foster?" Mr. Morris asked.

Everyone was staring at her, waiting for a response. Millie swallowed a hard lump in her throat and smoothed a sweaty hand over her plaid skirt. She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Closing her eyes briefly, she took a deep breath and tried again. "I—I don't think that's such a good idea, sir."

"Why not?"

"Well..." She cleared her throat and tried to ignore the inquisitive gazes around her. "We're recreating a different era, aren't we?"

Mr. Morris nodded, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Wouldn't it be a shame if we threw away such an authentic piece of art? Wouldn't someone—a rich, important person at that—from the nineteen-twenties own something just like it?"

All staff members spun back to Mr. Morris. The old man appeared to be considering her response, deciding if he agreed with her or not. After a moment of silence, he smiled and said, "You're right. The portrait stays." 

Millie's petite body sagged in relief. Man, that was close!

Mr. Morris's smile broadened as he addressed his staff members. "The young lady in the back is Melinda Foster, the club's consultant. She will oversee all period costume and home design details. If you have any questions regarding the time period, feel free to ask Miss Foster anything. She'll be able to enlighten you much better than I can."

Millie flushed. So much for blending in with the crowd. Her eyes skimmed her fellow employees and landed on Marla. The maid gave her an encouraging smile, and Millie warmed up to her all the more. She had found an ally after all.

"All right, everyone," Mr. Morris said. "Meeting adjourned. Coffee and pastries in the breakfast room."

There was a great rustling as everyone shuffled out of the study and headed down the stairs to the first floor, Millie falling far behind. Her eyes sought Marla, and when she spotted her, she shrugged past the crowd, trying to reach her. She had to know if Marla had sent her that weird note about meeting up at midnight. Millie was about to call out to Marla when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turned, and a pair of large green eyes stared back at her. It was the elegant woman in the cream pantsuit.

"So you're the clever consultant," the woman said, a welcoming smile on her face.

Millie blushed at the compliment. "I wouldn't call myself 'clever.' " 

"Oh, don't be so modest!" the woman retorted. "Only a clever young woman could earn such an impressive job title. My name is Anne Bradshaw, by the way, the club's entertainment planner, and this rather pouty young lady next to me is my daughter Megan."

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Millie's gaze shifted to the pouty girl in question. It was the tall blonde with the big breasts and even bigger scowl. The girl stood with her shoulders back, nose up, sizing up Millie before deciding she wasn't worthy of her time. Then she moved her hands to her ears, adjusting what appeared to be a pair of white ear buds. Anne frowned at her daughter.

"Put those away!" she chided. "You're not supposed to use modern gadgets during work hours."

Megan rolled her eyes. "The club is not even open yet. Why should I suffer without technology."

"Mr. Morris wants us to get used to not using them," Anne reminded her.

The girl scoffed. "He's one to talk! Didn't you see the twenty-inch iMac on his desk?"

Anne shook her head, and when she slicked a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ears, Millie saw a thin pale strip around the woman's ring finger. A divorcée, no doubt about it. Poor woman. She obviously had her hands full with this one.

"She's been acting strange lately," Anne said, eyeing Megan with concern. "All she wants to do is mope around in her room. I practically dragged her to the meeting. Maybe if she had young people around her, she would enjoy herself more."

Megan sneered. "She's not that young," she countered, indicating Millie. Then, to add more insult, she gave Millie a disparaging once-over and said, "What are you, like, thirty-five?"

Millie felt her cheeks flaming red. "I'm twenty-seven!"

"See?" Anne chipped in. "She's only three years older than you. And she seems nice. Now stop being a pain in the ass and be nice to Miss Foster."

Megan said nothing, just regarded Millie with a dismissive shrug. Then she turned her attention back to her iPod. Bitch. 

Anne mouthed an apology to Millie before going after her daughter, murmuring something that sounded like a reprimand that fell on deaf ears—literally. Megan ignored her mother, swinging her hips to the music in her ears.

As they made their way to the main foyer, Millie felt another tap on her shoulder. Sighing, she swung back and found the other young woman—the dark-haired one—smiling at her. "I apologize for my cousin's behavior," she said. "Meg has as much depth and personality as a Playboy centerfold. It's just as well that she looks like one."

Both women laughed. "I'm Chelsea Walsh."

She held out a hand and Millie shook it. "Melinda Foster, but you can call me Millie."

"Nice to meet you, Millie." She took two hurried steps to keep up with Millie's brisk pace. "Your job sounds awesome. Too bad I can't do something similar. Meg and I are the club's cigarette girls."

Millie frowned. "Cigarette girls?"

Chelsea laughed. "Oh, you know, we were supposed to be like one of those saloon chicks who sold cigars, cigarettes and brandy from a wooden tray held by a neck strap. But who knows what we're going to be doing now that Mr. Morris changed the setting." 

"There were cigarette girls in the nineteen-twenties."

"There were? Oh, well, I guess I'll be able to make myself useful after all." 

Millie noted the sarcastic tone in Chelsea's voice and wondered what that was about.

They paused on the second staircase in the large foyer, staring up at the painting that topped the last floor of the house. "It's a beautiful portrait," Chelsea said. "I'm glad you convinced that idiot Morris not to remove it. The Ashfords were the reason I took this job."

Millie raised an eyebrow. "Really? Are you a history buff too?"

Chelsea shook her head. "Not exactly. I'm actually a Women's Lib major at UMASS."

Huh. That explained Chelsea's sarcasm earlier. She was an idealistic young feminist, ready to tackle the male-dominated world with her sharp intellect and even sharper claws. Which made her choice of employment rather interesting. Millie couldn't resist asking the girl why she'd accepted this job.

"I thought Meredith Ashford would be an interesting subject for my midterm paper," the girl answered. "Doesn't she seem like a woman before her time to you?"