The Lure of The Night Ch. 01

"Sabine blinked, grasping the doorknob as if her life depended on it. Her body stood rigid, her eyes wide, her mouth contorting into something that resembled an O. Shock swift through her in the form of nausea. Her lover—her wonderful Alexander—was now seducing her mother. Her father had traveled to Nantucket on business the day before. Mrs. Deveraux and Alexander had the place for themselves. And even though pain and shock mingled in her insides, she said nothing, and did nothing. She just stood there, watching everything as if in a trance.

" ' Touch yourself,' Alexander said, his voice a masculine growl. 'Pleasure yourself for me.' Obediently, Mrs. Deveraux moved her hands away from her breasts and slipped them down to her feminine passage, dipping two fingers into herself. A wave of sickness swamped Sabine while she watched her mother trace a slow path through her silky slit and begin to massage her clitoris.

"Alexander's eyes darkened with passion as he sank down on to the bed, his large member protruding from his trousers, hard with desire, and teased Mrs. Deveraux's passage with the flaring tip. 'Beg for it,' he demanded. 'Beg me to fuck you.' He pressed the head of his penis against her clit, and then he rubbed it on her aching nub, nice and slow, up and down, again and again. Mrs. Deveraux let out a grunt of sheer agony.

" 'Beg for it,' Alex commanded.

Clouded with arousal, Mrs. Deveraux begged in a voice that bordered on despair. Satisfied, Alexander entered her with an artful skill that Sabine knew all too well. He made his way inside of Mrs. Deveraux slowly at first, making her feel every bit of his long, thick cock, stretching her almost to the hilt. He withdrew with the same languid motion, and Mrs. Deveraux looked as though she'd died and gone to heaven. He entered her again, harder this time, almost plunging, and he moved inside of her with thrusts that were rough and pummeling, almost merciless. For it wasn't about her pleasure anymore—it was about his. He derived pleasure from her torment. Not that Mrs. Deveraux cared. She enjoyed every bit of his tumultuous fucking, and she arched her back to feel him deeper inside of her. His thrusts were vigorous at this point, almost animal-like, as he flicked out his tongue and claimed one hard nipple, then the other. After that, only screams of Mrs. Deveraux's pleasure filled the room, and Sabine, having had enough of watching her lover taking his mother with the same unnerving passion he had once taken her, turned and stalked out of her mother's bedroom. Sabine was found dead in her chamber the very next day. The poor girl had hanged herself."

Fear gripped Millie's heart when she heard the last sentence, blotting out the surge of arousal which only moments before had filled her. The story had gone from erotic to downright sinister in a matter of seconds. "And—so then what happened?"

Marla squirmed on the bed, indicating that she, too, was turned on with the story. "Grief took over the household. Mr. Deveraux was devastated. Sabine was his little girl. He doted on her like he'd never doted on his wife. Speaking of whom, Mrs. Deveraux hardly said a word after the funeral. She spent most of her days either lying in bed or staring out of her bedroom window. Mr. Deveraux thought that his wife was mourning her daughter's death. But something else was plaguing Mrs. Deveraux, a loss so profound that it broke her heart with each passing day. Mrs. Deveraux killed herself just two weeks after Sabine's suicide. Her husband was having breakfast in the garden room when the sound of a gunshot rang out. She had used her husband's pistol to end her life."

A sullen silence filled the room. Amiable chatter filtered from somewhere in the hallway, no doubt the other staff members were having fun now that they were off duty. Collecting her thoughts, Millie caught sight of herself in a nearby mirror. She shifted her gaze to Marla, not wanting to see her monstrous reflection. She hadn't noticed the vanity mirror in her new bedroom. She would cover it up as soon as Marla left the room.

Frowning, Marla cast a glance at the mirror and turned back to Millie. "You're a pretty girl, Miss Foster. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"I'm not pretty."

"Yes, you are," Marla insisted. "And you'd look prettier if..." She stopped, a horrified expression passing over her face when she realized her faux pas.

Millie smiled sadly. And you'd look prettier if you didn't have the scars. She wasn't angry with Marla. Many people had said the same thing. Millie had once been very pretty, some had even called her beautiful. At twenty-eight, she was petite—only five feet and three inches—with chestnut-brown hair and a heart-shaped face. She also had long dark lashes that framed large hazel-green eyes, her most attractive feature. Now a series of capillary-like scars that began at her hairline and ended at her jaw overpowered her delicate face. A beauty indeed.

"What happened to Mr. Deveraux after his wife died?" Millie asked, changing the subject.

Marla was silent for a moment. Then she sighed and said, "He sold the house and moved back to Paris. He said the house was cursed, but I'd say this place is haunted. Mr. Ashford has refused to leave his home long after his own death."

"But how do you know it was his ghost?" Millie prodded. "The Deveraux family moved into the house just five years after the fire. Mr. Ashford could have been alive."

Marla shrugged. "He could have been. The problem is that no one ever saw him."

"Was his body found after the fire?"

"He and his wife were in his bedroom, the very room the fire took place. They found Meredith's body, or what little remained of it, but not Alex's. Everyone just assumed that the flames had incinerated him. Pieces of his clothes had been found, and human bones were scattered about."

Millie shivered at the thought. "And what about Meredith?"

"What about her?"

"Her ghost. Has anyone ever seen her ghost?"

Marla shook her head. "The woman is probably resting in peace, enjoying eternity the way her husband never could." Marla sighed and made the sign of the cross, then jumped off the bed and walked briskly to the door. "I should go. Mr. Morris is probably wondering where I am." But before she left, she imparted some final words to Millie. "They're just stories, Miss Foster. I doubt that any of it is true. Don't let them keep you from having a good night's sleep."

Millie smiled uneasily. But what about the cloaked figure I saw this morning? She tried to squash her misgivings from her head as she covered the vanity mirror with a white bed sheet and then settled back to bed. A thought traveled to the forefront of her consciousness as she tried to fall asleep. What exactly happened the night of the fire? Why did Mr. Ashford set his bedchamber on fire, killing both him and his wife? Was jealousy really the culprit, and had he really died? The rumors surrounding Meredith Ashford's infidelity had all been speculation with very little detail to back it up. She should have asked Marla. She had every intention to inquire about the details of that night, and she knew that Marla had all the answers. Millie did not know why, but the Ashfords intrigued her very much, especially Alexander. If his ghost ever seduced her—which he wouldn't, of course—she would never kill herself if he left her. The thought of losing her mind over a man—a dead one at that—was just ridiculous. Typical Victorian gothic story. She wondered if the people who had made up the stories had read Henry James's The Turn of the Screw. It was not unlike that James's masterpiece, but with a bit of porn thrown in for good measure.

With that derisive thought in mind, she closed her eyes and let sleep claim her. No more thoughts of Alexander Ashford and his nocturnal visits to impressionable women. No more thoughts of her deformity and the fact that she would have to face a roomful of colleagues tomorrow. No more thoughts, period. Tomorrow would be another day.