One-Night Man

by Jeanie London

  "So, what do you want to know?"

  "Any threatening letters? What about posts on those reader boards? I logged on to a few of your fan sites last night."

  "You did?" she asked, surprised.

  "I did."

  The roguish Josh she knew returned in one bold glance, and Lennon's anxiety melted away.

  "I post onto the boards occasionally to say hi, but I can't keep up with all the threads. I'd never have time to write. I can't think of anything unusual. Most of the people seem like nice readers who are into romance."

  "Any letters come from anywhere unusual? Someplace that sticks out in your mind?"

  She shook her head. "Not really. I get letters from all over. I don't publish my post office box address, for security reasons, so my publisher filters all my reader mail before I get it. Most people don't write unless they have something good to say. Although I do get the occasional putdown. Oh, and then there are the prison letters."

  Josh blinked and his double bourbon clanked down hard on the table. "The what?"

  "Letters from prisoners. Romances are a big hit in prison." She smiled. "Most tell me how much they like my stories. I do get some telling me that I'm writing morally offensive stuff, but that's to be expected. I write sensual romance and it won't appeal to everyone."

  "Like erotic art galleries."

  Lennon nodded.

  Josh sipped.

  They didn't speak, enjoying a companionable silence that heightened Lennon's awareness of how quiet the VIP lounge was compared to the craziness of the casino beyond, of how cool the climate-controlled air was after their frenzied rush through the French Quarter.

  When an insistent ringing interrupted the silence, Lennon nearly jumped out of her chair. Josh smiled and reached into his jacket for his cell phone.

  "Eastman." He caught her gaze. "So she's okay. Good."

  Lennon realized Olaf must be on the other end.

  "We're clear. I haven't talked to museum security yet. They won't know anything until they're finished dealing with the police, and I want their spin on what happened. I'll give them a call before taking Lennon back to the hotel. Where are you?"

  Whatever answer Josh received made him smile. "You made good time. Why don't you start back? We should arrive around the same time. Good work."

  He ended the conversation and returned his phone to his jacket. "Miss Q and Olaf are fine."

  "Thankfully." Lennon set her rumpled napkin back down on the table and picked up her glass. "So what are we going to do until you call museum security?"

  "I think our luck's changed. Ever gambled, chere?" His grin flashed, nearly making Lennon choke on the sip of water she'd just taken.

  She had tears in her eyes by the time she managed to catch her breath again, but she managed to gasp, "No."

  "Come on, then. It's an experience every girl should have."

  Lennon bet he said that to lots of women, but she followed him as he tipped the waiter and steered her out of the lounge.

  Excitement filled the air along with the flashing lights and crowds of players on the gaming floor. "Want to try a table?" Josh glanced around at the action. "I'll find one where you'll fit comfortably."

  But Lennon knew she'd never fit in comfortably with the guests leaning intently over tables where dealers dealt hands of what she recognized as poker.

  She had no trouble envisioning Josh curled over any of the tables, though--self-assured and oh so handsome as he gambled big bucks to while away the hours. On the heels of that image came another--Josh wearing a black Stetson hat, a cheroot clenched between his teeth as he gambled on the deck of a Mississippi steamboat.

  For the first time since she had begun writing romances, Lennon thought she just might want to try her hand at a story with an American setting.

  With Josh as her hero.

  "This is way too much for me," she said, turning on her heel and heading out of the Blue Dog Poker Room.

  He caught up with her in three brisk strides. "Why don't we start with the machines, then. Less threatening."

  "Threatening? As if."

  But she knew he saw right through her. Aside from the fact that she'd run a fast few miles in dress pumps today, she found herself completely discombobulated. By him. Not that she'd ever let him know that.

  "So, what do you do have to do in here to be on a first-name basis with the staff?"

  "Spend a lot of money."

  Did he usually come alone or was this his idea of a cool date? She could think of no subtle way to ask and decided not to speculate. Dates were for people who wanted to spend time getting to know each other. Dates weren't in the picture for her and Mr. Wrong here. If they were going to become better acquainted, they were going to do it horizontally.

  "Sit here." Josh urged her toward a newly vacated machine in the middle of a row. "This'll be a good one. Looks like that guy had been here awhile."

  She wasn't exactly sure why that would make this a good machine, and would have asked, but the woman sitting at a machine nearby cocked her head toward the chair. "Have a seat, babe. I need a change of scenery for luck."

  Lennon wasn't exactly sure she'd fulfill that requirement, because the woman never actually took her eyes off her video screen. She worked the buttons in a blur of motion that Lennon could barely follow, and even managed to reach for a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray by her elbow.

  "First time, babe?" she asked.

  Lennon wondered what had given her away--her wide eyes or the handsome man digging out his wallet beside her. Josh inclined his head in greeting, then fed a...

  Hundred dollar bill?

  "This machine eats hundred dollar bills?" she squeaked, drawing a glance from the distinguished gray-haired man seated beside the smoking woman.

  "Mr. Cute's paying, babe," the woman said. "Spend big."

  "Maybe Auntie Q's right," Lennon said weakly. "I earn a pittance compared to people who can afford to do this for fun."

  "Like the lady said, chere. It's on me. You've got to play big to win big."

  And with Josh leaning over her shoulder, Lennon learned to play video poker. She'd played real poker before and knew all the winning combinations, which clearly meant nothing once her neighbors joined Josh in coaching her on strategy.

  "Personally, I never hold for a straight," the smoking woman, who introduced herself as Marguerite, said.

  Her distinguished partner, Nick, agreed. "You're better off with a new deal. You might get something better."

  Josh nodded, agreeing with their new acquaintances' strategy. Lennon pressed the button for new cards.

  "See?" he said. "Now you've got two pairs and a win."

  "Not much of a win," she complained. "I haven't won back what I lost on the last hand."

  "That's why you have to keep playing," an older woman with white hair shouted from the far side of Nick, showing that she'd been listening to their conversation. When she shot them a twinkling glance, Lennon was reminded strongly of Auntie Q.

  "My mother, Louise," Nick said, still managing to play his cards while performing introductions.

  "Hi, Louise." Lennon waved and then proceeded to lose every red dime of Josh's money.

  He generously pulled out his wallet, but before Lennon could tell him to save it, lights flashed on Marguerite's machine. She jumped from her chair, squealing with delight. Lennon caught her ashtray before it hit the floor and started a fire, while attendants rushed over.

  Josh, Nick and Louise explained the proceedings of confirming a win, and when all was said and done, Marguerite handed Lennon a crisp new fifty and a deck of complimentary cards, and invited her to come again and bring more good luck. She, Nick and his mom all played the same machines every Wednesday and Saturday nights.

  Lennon bid them goodbye before forcing the bill into Josh's hand. "Now I only owe you fifty."

  "Ah, chere, I was hoping you'd work it off."

  He sounded so disappointed that Lennon couldn't contain a laugh, but
her amusement lasted only a split second before Josh planted a soft kiss on her forehead and said, "I still have the other fifty to look forward to."

  Flashing lights and buzzing sounds faded beneath a wave of awareness that made her knees grow weak. Judging by the way he wound his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close, Mr. Wrong knew just how welcome his touch would be.

  She tried not to sigh, tried to maintain some semblance of control when this man worked his way down her temple with tiny kisses. And she just might have managed it if Josh hadn't chosen to lean back against the wall.

  Lennon went with him, off balance, forced to press her hands against his chest and hang on. Silly her, though. She should have known he wouldn't let her fall. He braced her against him with his thigh wedged between hers, his hard muscles zeroing right in on the spot that made her ache.

  A moan slipped unbidden from her lips, and Josh caught the sound with his kiss, leaving no doubt that the chances of surviving this weekend without making love weren't good. Especially when he trailed his hands along her back and waist as if he had every right in the world to touch her.

  When a passerby made a laughing comment about finding a bed, Lennon dragged her mouth from his. "We're drawing a crowd."

  "My reputation's already trashed, chere," he said amiably.

  "And you're doing quite a number on mine, thank you." Bracing both hands against his chest, she pushed out of his arms to the sound of his laughter.

  "Come on, then." He led them to the valet station to get a cab. "I'll give the museum a call and we'll grab a taxi."

  He made the call from inside the valet entrance. From his sober expression and the half of the conversation she overheard, Lennon guessed the police hadn't been able to determine if the blasts had been gunshots, either.

  "No slugs or evidence of bottle rockets," Josh confirmed, snapping his phone shut and slipping it back into his pocket. "But the guard convinced the police he heard shots, so I told them to report the letters, too. They'll conduct an inquiry."

  An inquiry sounded good, but Lennon didn't get a chance to comment before Josh herded her through the door.

  One wave from a valet and a cab quickly pulled onto the ramp from the street. She preceded Josh inside, found herself quickly sandwiched against him on the vinyl seat. Just the feel of his hard body pressed close made her feel protected and safe.

  Made her want Josh more than she'd ever wanted a man.

  Lennon gazed up at his strong profile, admitted to herself that she'd gone and confused Mr. Wrong with Mr. Right and the only thing to do about it was have a fling to get herself straight on the differences.

  A last wild fling with a one-night man.

  But how should she tell him? Jump his bones when they arrived back in the Carriage House? Surprise him tonight with a mysterious seduction at the masque?

  The endless possibilities left Lennon light-headed and keyed up on their return to the hotel, where they found Olaf parked at a back entrance. Josh assisted Auntie Q from the car and signaled Olaf to drive around to the valet station while he ushered her and Lennon inside.

  Relieved to see Auntie Q's color had returned, Lennon nevertheless made her promise to rest. "I want you to turn off your phone and lie down until it's time to get dressed for tonight. You've still got plenty of time."

  Before long Olaf returned, and after a brief consultation between him and Josh, they all headed off to their separate accommodations to rest before the night's events.

  The minute they arrived in the Carriage House, Lennon noticed the message light blinking. "It's probably the front desk letting me know that Vittorio dropped off your costume," she said.

  She heaved a sigh when the formal chocolate-colored frock coat and beige breeches arrived a short while later.

  "Perfect. Now if it only fits." Whipping off the clear plastic garment bag, she handed the costume to Josh. "Try it on."

  "Now?"

  "If there's a problem, I'd rather not deal with it ten minutes before we're expected in the ballroom."

  Without argument, he draped the costume on the bed and began to undress. Lennon took the opportunity to check her own costume for any last-minute surprises.

  The embroidered white "lingerie" dress with a green velvet Spencer jacket perfectly detailed Jane Austen's England, and when she'd had it made, Lennon had been delighted with the craftsmanship and her decision to attend the masque as Elizabeth Bennet of Pride and Prejudice fame.

  Though playing the role of a romance heroine appealed, she couldn't help finding the dress too prim for a woman planning to live out her fantasy with Mr. Wrong.

  She wanted something to spice up the costume, so that the sight of her would make Josh squirm throughout the masque tonight, let him know he was in for the fling of his life. She couldn't think of a thing.

  Hanging the gown back up, she eyed the lace-edged petticoat with growing discontent. She wasn't in the mood to be prim, no matter how much Jane Austen had contributed to the romance genre of her day, paving the way for today's authors.

  Then Lennon remembered something Josh had said, and inspiration struck.

  I hope you're going as Lady Godiva.

  Did she dare? Glancing over her shoulder at the man, she found him bare-chested and barefooted and unzipping his fly with a leisurely motion that had to be deliberate.

  She did.

  Lennon headed straight to the telephone in the other room, intent upon making a phone call before Josh finished dressing. And she'd no sooner replaced the receiver in the cradle when he reappeared, still bare-chested and wearing his slacks, though the button hung open to reveal that sliver of hair below his navel.

  "Where is it?" she asked breathlessly, almost vibrating with her own boldness. "Don't tell me it didn't fit. Vittorio's got to be close to your size."

  "It fit," he said. "Well, almost."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  Disappearing into the bedroom again, he reappeared with the frock coat still on the hanger. "Lennon, look at this coat. Aside from the fact that it's so tight I won't be able to move my arms, this jacket has...stuff in it."

  "What do you mean, stuff? Let me see it."

  As soon as Josh handed her the frock coat Lennon recognized the trouble. "This isn't stuff. It's padding to make your waist look smaller. It was the rage during the Regency."

  "It's not the rage now. I'm not wearing this."

  Lennon frowned. "The padding only makes your shoulders and chest look larger--"

  "It makes me look like a Saints' linebacker in drag."

  For a moment Lennon could only stare as that image formed in her brain, then she leaned back against the desk, unable to stop chuckling. "Come on, Josh. I know it's a different look for you, but can't you just run with it for tonight? You'll have a mask on, so no one's likely to know it's you, anyway."

  "No." He sounded resolute. "Who's this supposed to be?"

  "The Marquis de Sade."

  Technically, the costume was more English Regency than French fashion of the time, but she couldn't resist fueling the fire, and was rewarded by his scowl.

  "Forget it, charity case. I'm not dressing up like a man who spent half his life in prison for torturing women."

  She folded her arms over her chest, just as resolute. "He was a gifted writer. Dark, true, but gifted nevertheless."

  "I've got an idea." Josh went back into the bedroom.

  They were both just full of ideas today. She only hoped his was as inspired as hers. Unfortunately, when he reappeared she realized that she'd won the inspiration contest hands down.

  He was dressed in jeans, a leather jacket and sunglasses. While he looked great--a hero from a redemption romance about a bad boy, no doubt--he didn't look like any character she could recognize. "Who are you supposed to be?"

  He stared at her over the rim of his sunglasses, clearly affronted. "James Dean."

  "And exactly what was his contribution to erotic culture?"

  Josh flipped
the sunglasses onto his head and peered at her with eyes wide with surprise. "You're kidding, right? The man made three films and women have lusted after him ever since."

  "I'm missing something here. Women lusting after a dead actor translates into erotic culture how? I can see if he made racy movies or something--"

  "It's the image, chere. Look at Casanova."

  "Casanova kissed and told. He dated half the women in his time and then wrote extensive memoirs about his experiences."

  Josh shrugged. "I don't do orgies and I'm not going to this party dressed like a man who did. I'll go as your hero. Milord Spy. We'll lose the jacket--"

  "You won't look like my hero without the jacket. Besides, I hardly think Milord Spy signifies a person who has contributed significantly to the understanding of erotica through the ages."

  "That's an opinion I'd expect from Louis Garceau."

  Lennon wasn't going to waste her new and improved costume on him unless he played a real role, too. Of course, she couldn't actually tell him without spoiling her surprise. "No."

  "If you won't compromise, James Dean is my final offer."

  That cool green gaze told her he wasn't kidding.

  One of them was going to have to bend, only Lennon didn't feel much like bending at the moment. She'd already bent enough this weekend. She'd bent by giving in to Auntie Q's coercion about sharing her suite with Mr. Wrong. She'd bent when she'd sacrificed her good reputation by letting everyone think she was having an affair with Josh Eastman. She'd bent by giving up her search for Mr. Right and deciding to have the raging affair--even though Josh didn't actually know about her plans just yet.

  She wasn't bending any more today, thank you.

  "All right, black sheep. I know how to settle this. You're a gambling man, right?"

  His expression settled in wary lines. "I am."

  "Well, then, how about a game of poker?" Reaching into her suit pocket, she plucked out the deck of cards Marguerite had given her for luck. "If you win, you go as James Dean. If I win, you wear the costume--with the jacket--and introduce yourself as the Marquis de Sade. Deal?"