An All Night Man

by Brenda Jackson

  "You weren't happy there?” he guessed.

  "No,” she said flatly. “I didn't deal with the clients—that was Jack's and my parents' job. I dealt with the business side. I was a glorified office manager.”

  "You told me that you had plenty of experience in the business,” he reminded her.

  "I've heard enough stories about it, but Jack and my parents thought it was best if I was kept away from the clients,” she said, while avoiding his eyes. “Something about my lack of tact.”

  "I don't know what you mean!” he said, feigning surprise.

  She laughed, then admitted, “They were right. I never wanted to be in the fancy restaurants making deals or meeting the latest Hollywood-It-Girl. None of that meant anything to me. The whole Hollywood scene has always left a bad taste in my mouth. I started taking classes at night to earn a Ph.D. in English because I was bored and I thought it would be a fun way to spend my empty evenings.” Clark's cock twitched because he could think of more fun ways to spend her evenings. Olivia continued, oblivious to his sudden ragged breathing, “After I finished the program, I was offered a temporary position at the community college. I was going to use it as a stepping stone. The first moment I stepped in front of a classroom I knew it was what I had been born to do. Temporary became permanent and I'm still there.”

  "I bet you're a good teacher,” he said sincerely.

  Olivia smiled bashfully, and he knew he was right. She met his eyes and said, “If you're doing what you love, other people feel that.”

  She wasn't talking about anything relating to sex, but that's exactly where his mind went. He'd love making love to her and she'd feel it. He abandoned all pretense of ignoring the sexual tension between them and asked bluntly, “Are you still seeing that man you brought to dinner at your parents' house three weeks ago?”

  "You remember him?” she asked, obviously surprised by his abrupt change in the subject.

  He had watched every move she had made that night, like some kind of third-rate stalker. But he settled for simply saying, “Yes.”

  Olivia didn't respond, but instead stared at the book in her hands. She was nervous. It was probably a good thing she was being careful around him, since Clark was scaring himself right now. He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her.

  She finally answered, “No, but neither Stan nor I would classify our few dates as 'seeing each other'.”

  Clark grinned, relieved because he had been a little worried about that pencil-neck, uptight fellow professor-type. Clark hadn't liked how the man had looked at Olivia, almost as if the pencil-neck had the right to possess her, to touch her. As far as Clark was concerned, no man should have that right, except him. He'd worry about what that meant later.

  "Why aren't you dating anyone?” he demanded.

  Color flushed her brown cheeks and Clark had to grip the edge of the seat to resist the instinct to rip aside her skirt and to drive into her. It was almost sensory overload, her scent, her laughter still fresh in his ears, and the sight of all the luscious brown beauty waiting, wrapped for him.

  "The simple answer is that I haven't found the right person.”

  "And the complicated answer is . . . ?” he prodded, leaning closer to her.

  "The complicated answer is ... I haven't found the right person who is ready to find me,” she said, hesitantly, looking at him.

  Clark couldn't move as he held her gaze that had suddenly become dark. While every instinct in his body urged him to kiss the lips she had just silently parted, his brain was in sheer self- preservation mode. If he touched her, it would be over. The late- night parties, the spur-of-the-moment trips around the world, the single life that was supposed to love to live. He would lose his life as he knew it.

  Olivia suddenly shook her head then turned to the book again. “Ultimately, Mr. Darcy is a fictional character—sheer fantasy— and I don't believe in fantasy men.”

  His voice was satin smooth as he said, “I fulfill people's fantasies every time I make a movie. Give me a chance to make yours come true.”

  He almost cringed because he sounded like a straight-to-video corny hero, but he had never been more sincere.

  Surprise filled her eyes, then suspicion, before she demanded,

  "Why do you suddenly care about my job or who I date, or ... or my fantasies? You haven't shown any interest in me or my life since my brother introduced us five months ago. In fact, if I remember correctly, the introductions weren't over before you turned away and pulled out a cell phone.”

  "You haven't exactly been part of the welcoming committee, either,” he shot back. “And I know that you did not accidentally pour enough salt to start a mine on my plate two weeks ago, either.”

  He thought he saw a brief spurt of guilt cross her expression before she retorted, “What do you need me for, when you're obviously welcomed by every other woman you've ever come into contact with?”

  He was still annoyed, more annoyed than he had a right to be, considering she was right, but his gaze still dropped to her breasts. He licked his lips as he visually traced the lush shape of her breasts—more than a handful, and one hundred percent natural. His hands flexed.

  "The tabloids exaggerate, Liv,” he said, on a sigh of sheer need, and she visibly went from annoyed to confused within seconds.

  The air between the two became thicker. Something shifted and hung between them. Clark wanted to touch her and caress her cheek, but he didn't. Not yet.

  "Don't you want me to help your fantasies come true? I have a few of my own that you could help me with,” he whispered, his voice husky, as he gently smoothed several strands of hair from her face.

  "What. . . what are you doing?” she stuttered, confusion in her eyes as she obviously felt the desire he was no longer able to conceal.

  "Something I should have done a long time ago, and then maybe I wouldn't be this desperate or this hard,” he murmured then leaned closer, inhaling her scent, inviting the heat of her breath on his mouth. “I want you.”

  She instantly responded. “No, you don't.”

  "We can debate that point later,” he said, his gaze pinned on her mouth. “I have more important things on my mind right now.” The most important thing was to finally discover what she tasted like, so he did. The first taste of her mouth was like a drug, strong and completely toxic. The best kind of toxic because he realized that he couldn't stop kissing her. Not now, not ever.

  Olivia should have stopped the kiss, especially when his slick and restless tongue slipped between her lips. This was madness. She was being kissed by Clark Stone, not the actor who everyone loved, but the man who had been in her fantasies for the past five months. It couldn't be real. The man had barely acknowledged her, but now he was clinging to her lips, clinging to her, as if she was a co-star in one of his movies during a love scene.

  Her brain shouted at her to stop the kiss, but her body . . . her body was luxuriating in the rush of sensations and emotions that she had never felt before. Not in almost thirty years had she ever felt such intensity, such a rush of heat and such wanting. It was drugging, it was crazy. And she wanted more.

  Olivia raked her tongue against his and groaned into his mouth. He answered in a deep moan that reverberated through her throat and traveled down to the core of her body that pleaded with him to fill her. She felt the world tip and then felt the soft leather of the seat under her back. Clark followed her down, laying on top of her, his large, overwhelming body, covering hers. He was so big and so hard that Olivia should have felt intimidated, but instead she wanted to melt into him, accept more of his body.

  The bruising kiss continued, as if he couldn't get enough of her mouth, her tongue. His tongue never stopped stroking, his lips never stopped pulling. Olivia was going to drown from the sensations. One of his hands moved between their bodies and touched her breast. She arched underneath him from the jolt of nerve endings he burned with just a simple touch that shouldn't have caused such a riot through her suit
jacket, blouse, and bra. She felt a shudder wrack his big body. He gently squeezed her right breast and she whispered his name, and grounded her pelvis into his hardness that rested between her legs. She wanted the jacket off, the blouse off. She wanted everything gone that separated her from feeling Clark's bare touch.

  "Liv, you're killing me,” he moaned into her mouth.

  Olivia took the opportunity to nip his lush bottom lip, then ran her hands along the chiseled length of his arms. She couldn't stop her hips from continuing to move against him, no longer hinting, but demanding what her body wanted.

  Clark suddenly cursed and tried to pull from her arms, but she clung to his shirt and ground her mouth against his. He immediately responded, his tongue battling with hers, his lips clashing against hers. She was addicted to his taste and, like a junkie, she didn't know how to stop.

  "Uh . . . excuse me, Mr. Stone,” came Matt's hesitant voice that was entirely too close and too loud to mean that he was still sitting in the front of the limousine behind the privacy shield. “I tried to tell you that we were here—”

  Olivia gasped and tried to push off Clark as she felt the rush of fresh air from the open backseat door, and she realized for the first time that the limousine had stopped moving.

  "Close the door,” Clark growled.

  He didn't move off Olivia, but planted open-mouth kisses on her neck. Olivia never knew that her neck was that sensitive, that the feelings in her neck connected directly to other, more intimate parts of her body. Despite Matt's presence, she moaned from the pleasure.

  "Clark,” an unfamiliar male voice said, sounding amused and concerned.

  Clark froze, then quickly moved off her. He smoothed down her suit, his movements efficient and impersonal, then he climbed out of the limousine. Olivia felt her entire face flush, for a reason that had nothing to do with lust or hot kisses. She had never been so embarrassed, so out of control. But, when Clark touched her, she had no idea who she was.

  "Olivia,” Clark called her name from outside the limousine.

  Olivia forced herself to get out the car. For a moment, she forgot about her embarrassment, forgot about the still lingering sparks in her body from Clark's kisses, because she was looking at paradise. The limousine had stopped in front of a white spilt-level ranch house, with a wraparound porch, that was surrounded by rolling, green hills and towering redwoods. The air even smelled more fresh, more crisp than any air she had smelled before. Olivia had never been a “nature person.” She got the shakes if she didn't have a Starbucks coffee in her hand by nine o'clock every morning, but she knew that she was looking at heaven.

  Olivia turned from the view and the embarrassment returned as an older man, who stood next to Clark, stared at her. He wore faded jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, and a plaid shirt. He even wore a much-creased and obviously much-used cowboy hat. He looked like an older black version of the Marlboro man, tall, rugged, and unfazed by anything.

  "Jarod, this is Olivia Hawkins,” Clark introduced her, as if the two hadn't been clawing each other only moments earlier. “Liv, this is my father, Jarod Danforth.”

  "Nice to meet you,” Olivia said, shaking the man's offered hand. His grip was strong and callused. Jack had mentioned that Clark and his stepfather were close, and Olivia could tell by Clark's easy smile at Jarod.

  "You, too,” Jarod murmured, examining her, with a set of unspoken questions in his dark eyes, no doubt wondering where his Hollywood-perfect stepson had found her.

  Olivia was saved by a high-pitched shriek and then an older woman ran from the house toward Clark. Olivia couldn't help but smile as the woman threw her arms around Clark, the love evident on her lined dark brown face. She looked like Clark, dark chocolate, perfect, and beautiful. Even with silver threaded through her black, short hair, with her thin, athletic figure, she could have given the twenty-one-year-old women on the cover of magazines a run for their money.

  "Mom, you look great,” Clark said, while planting a kiss on her forehead.

  Clarice Danforth smiled, then hugged him again. “I'm so happy to see you, baby. I wish Jarod and I didn't have dinner plans with the Brosnans tonight. ... If you had told us sooner that you were coming. Maybe we should cancel—”

  "Don't worry about it, Mom,” he said, gently, as he brushed strands of hair from Clarice's eyes. “Besides, I'll be at Steve and Dominique's for most of the night, and I have to leave early in the morning for Scotland.”

  Olivia's heart pounded at the gentle tone in his voice. Clark was apparently capable of gentleness. Olivia swallowed the sudden lump of arousal and embarrassment in her throat because she realized that she had just experienced a different form of Clark's gentleness in the backseat of the limousine.

  "How was the drive?” Clarice asked her son.

  "Very interesting,” Clark responded, as his gaze drifted to Olivia. She averted her gaze in embarrassment when his mother turned to her.

  "This is Olivia Hawkins,” Jarod performed the introductions since Clark was unwilling or unable to, as his eyes silently kissed her still swollen and tingling lips.

  "Hello, Olivia,” Clarice said, with an open smile.

  "I work for Clark,” Olivia blurted out. When Clarice and Jarod glanced at each other, Olivia shook her head in dismay and said quickly, “I mean, I don't work for him like that, I don't work for him at all. . . . My brother, Jack, is a publicist, and I'm here in his place in a strictly professional, business capacity.”

  Clarice's eyes crinkled at the corners, like Clark's, as she smiled and asked, “Would you like homemade brownies and milk in a strictly professional, business capacity?”

  Olivia smiled sheepishly then relaxed and said, “That sounds good.”

  Clarice linked an arm through Olivia's arm and led her toward the kitchen. Olivia glanced over her shoulder to see Jarod leading Clark in the opposite direction. She tried not to feel disappointed. She told herself that she could handle being away from Clark, despite his ability to make a woman want to holler.

  3

  .

  Olivia stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror and frowned at the too-tight jeans she had been forced to wear. Clarice had offered Olivia jeans, a T-shirt, and boots so that Olivia could change from her suit, which didn't exactly fit the horse-and-straw surroundings of Red Creek. Olivia hadn't wanted to change. Her suit was like her armor and had been the only reason she hadn't been caught in the backseat of the limousine with Clark in between her legs, rather than just on top of her. But, it had been difficult for Olivia to refuse the older woman, another trait Clarice shared with Clark.

  Olivia sucked in her stomach then managed to snap the jeans closed. She vowed to start her diet immediately . . . although, it would have to be tomorrow, since she had eaten three of Clarice's caramel fudge brownies earlier. She shook her head and immediately reached for the button to wrestle the jeans off. There was no way she could leave the room, looking like this. The tightest clothes that Olivia owned were exercise clothes and she only wore those to clean the house. Just as she started to unbutton the pants, there was a knock on the door.

  Olivia's throat clogged as she froze. Clarice and Jarod had already reluctantly left for their friends' house, so Olivia knew it wasn't either one of them on the other side of the door. She hadn't seen Clark in a couple of hours, and she had assumed—or, maybe, hoped—that he had already gone to his friends' party without her. But, the truth was that Clark was outside the door, and he was going to finish what they started in the limousine. She knew it, how a woman always knew when a man planned to finish the unfinished. Olivia was scared of Clark, of his mastery over her body. A few minutes in the limousine and she had changed from a respectable, conservative college professor into a woman who begged. No man should have that much power over her, especially a man she would probably never see again after today. And because she was powerless, she found herself walking to the door and opening it.

  Olivia gasped when she saw him. He had changed, too, an
d now wore worn blue jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, boots, and a black cowboy hat. He should have looked comical, like a Hollywood star playing dress-up, but this was the real Clark Stone. Every unbelievable sexy inch of him.

  Clark barely shot a glance in her direction before he looked around the room and whistled. Clarice had placed Olivia in Clark's boyhood bedroom, which included all of his old football trophies and awards, posters of athletes and Janet Jackson, and the military camouflage bedspread.

  "I can't believe Mom hasn't changed this room since I was eighteen years old,” Clark said, walking into the bedroom. “I haven't really looked in here since Mom started putting me in the guest bedroom downstairs.”

  Olivia closed the door behind him, and the room grew smaller, until she felt there was no inch of the room not filled with Clark.

  "You played football? Football jocks and drama geeks don't eat at the same lunch table in school. How did you get involved with acting?” she croaked, attempting to be normal around him. Just because her body was overheated with need for him and honey dripped from her body at the sight of him didn't mean that she couldn't attempt to have a normal conversation.

  "For the first twenty years of my life, I breathed, ate, drank, and slept football,” he said, his gaze still roaming around the bedroom. “I had a football scholarship, and things were going great, until I injured my knee junior year. Before the injury though, I needed a few extra credits and a drama class fit my schedule—I didn't have to wake up too early or stay too late—and it fit, like football never had . . . hey, I thought 1 had lost this.”

  He walked across the room in a daze, then grabbed a stuffed animal that rested on a built-in shelf. Olivia laughed at the amazement and joy on his face. He turned to her, clutching the toy, then his smile faded. His whole expression faded and the toy fell forgotten from his hand. Clark's gaze grew as hot as a blazing forest fire as he stared from her feet to her mouth, taking in the too-tight clothes. He became so still that Olivia wondered if he still breathed.