Hold on to the Nights

by Karen Foley

  “I can’t keep doing it, Val. To my readers, the stories are just steamy tales about the Galaxy’s End characters, but I know they’re more than that.” She stared at the cover of the magazine. “I know they’re really my own fantasies about Graeme, and they’re not healthy. If I really want to put him in my past and move on with my future, then I need to stop writing about him. About Kip.”

  The photograph of him was so clear that Lara could see the individual stubble of whiskers on his jaw. Tiny laugh lines splayed out from the corners of his eyes and for a moment, Lara’s heart contracted painfully. She ran her fingers over the image. Beneath her hand, she could almost feel the rough velvet of his cropped hair.

  “I understand how you feel, Lara, I do,” Val said, her voice sympathetic. “But your stories have such a huge following. I checked your stats this morning and the story that you posted last night has already received more than ten thousand hits. Ten thousand hits in just one day, Lara! That’s completely crazy, you know that, right? I don’t think you have any idea how popular your stories on these Web sites are.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll find another character to focus on, then. But I can’t keep writing about Kip Corrigan. He’s too real to me, and it brings back too many memories. I need to find something else to write about.” Lara glanced at her watch. “Listen, Val, I have to go. The masquerade ball is starting soon. If I’m really going to do this, then I should probably go scope out the situation first.”

  “Okay. Call me. Anytime, for any reason. Promise?”

  “I promise. I’ll call you as soon as I get back to the room.”

  She hung up and placed the phone on the table. She and Valerie had been roommates since their first year of college and they were closer than most sisters. After they’d graduated, they’d continued to share an apartment. Valerie knew all Lara’s secrets, including her reasons for attending the fan festival.

  Lara looked again at the magazine she held in her hand. The caption beneath the photo read, “Graeme Hamilton—Sexy and Single!” Lara groaned. Sexy? Most definitely. Single? Most definitely not.

  Should she venture down to the convention and join the hordes of other women all clamoring to get a glimpse of the hot Hollywood stud, or bide her time until she could get him alone? Lara glanced at her watch. If she wanted to join the festivities, she’d need first to slip into the Galaxy’s End costume that she’d brought with her. She’d specifically ordered a costume that would conceal her identity and allow her to blend in with the crowd. There was no way she wanted Graeme to recognize her before she was ready. She had a plan for how their encounter would unfold, and it didn’t include crowds of partygoers.

  Even now, after two weeks, she still couldn’t quite accept the chain of events that had brought her to the second annual Galaxy’s End fan festival. Her gaze slid reluctantly to the sheath of legal documents that she had carried with her from Chicago to Las Vegas. They lay on the polished surface of the desk looking harmless enough, but Lara knew better. Those seemingly innocent papers had turned her safe, orderly world upside down.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered under her breath, and, giving into temptation, snatched up the letter that lay folded on top of the documents.

  Most people came to Las Vegas for a quick wedding. She’d come for a quick divorce, or at least a quick signature on the divorce papers that she’d brought with her. The kicker was, the guy in question didn’t even realize he was still married. Each time Lara tried to envision how he might react to that little tidbit, she had a full-blown panic attack.

  She could have let her lawyer handle the nasty job of breaking the news to him, but she felt strongly that this was something she should do. She was a true glutton for punishment.

  Sinking into the upholstered chair near the bed, Lara unfolded the letter and reread it, although she knew the contents by heart.

  My darling Lara,

  By the time you read this, I will be gone. I know that you despise me and I don’t blame you, but please don’t destroy this letter without first reading it through. I realize how difficult it was for you to visit me here at the hospice center today, but I am grateful to have seen you one last time before I go. For the first time in five years I have hope that you might eventually forgive me. Please know that what I did, I did because I loved you.I wasn’t the best of fathers, but I always wanted what was best for you. When you came to spend that summer with me in London, you were so grown-up. My hope was that we would finally develop the kind of closeness that divorce and distance had prevented, but I was too caught up with my job.

  I don’t blame you for falling in love with that boy. You always had a romantic heart, and you thought he was your Prince Charming. But when I discovered you had eloped with him, I did what any father would do. Lara, you were just seventeen, and so naive. So sheltered. So trusting. He had nothing to offer you. I knew, eventually, he would break your heart and maybe even ruin your life. So I put you on the next flight back to the States and directed my lawyers to file the annulment papers, hoping that you would forget him. I never guessed that I would lose you completely in the process.

  Yesterday, my deepest wish came true; you finally came to see me and brought with you a man whom I believe will love you and care for you as you deserve. And now comes the most difficult part of this letter, for I have a confession to make that will not endear me to you.

  Your marriage to that boy was never annulled, and my legal counsel informs me that despite my best efforts, you are still legally wed. I didn’t tell you this earlier, because I thought that if you knew, you might return to him. But now that you are over him, and in the event that you plan to marry again, you need to know the truth.

  Please know that I only want your happiness.

  Forgive me.

  Your father,

  Brent Whitfield

  Lara dropped the letter into her lap and gave a small huff of laughter. Even at the end, her father had refused to call Graeme anything except that boy, as if by doing so he somehow diminished Graeme, both in his own mind and in Lara’s eyes.

  The news that she and Graeme were still married had hit her like a physical blow. She’d tried so hard to forget him, but the letter had brought all the emotions back in sharp relief—the longing for what might have been and the regrets for what would never be. Worse, she’d begun dreaming of Graeme again, and certain things had come back to her in startling clarity; his laugh, his smell…his taste.

  Christopher had no idea she’d once been married, and Lara didn’t relish telling him, even if that marriage had only lasted for two amazing, unforgettable nights. And if she was honest with herself, one of the reasons she was so reluctant to tell him was because a part of her realized that after five years, she shouldn’t still be thinking about those two nights as often as she did.

  Almost absently, Lara reached inside the open collar of her blouse and withdrew the small, round locket that lay nestled between her breasts. The silver was warm from her skin and she ran her finger over the delicate open-face filigree on the front, in the shape of a Celtic love knot. Helpless to resist and knowing she was a true glutton for punishment, she flicked the locket open.

  On one side nestled a tiny photo of Graeme. His lips curved in the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes gleamed with suppressed laughter. Lara recalled the day the picture had been taken. She and Graeme had been walking along the Thames, arms wound around each other, when a peddler with a Polaroid had offered to take their photo for five pounds. Graeme hadn’t been interested, but Lara had insisted. She’d wanted a photo of Graeme, and had tormented him until he’d finally capitulated. He’d encircled her in his arms with his chin resting on the top of her head.

  Afterwards, he’d taken one look at the photo and declared it unfit to keep, although Lara hadn’t missed how he gave the peddler ten pounds instead of five. She’d tried unsuccessfully to wrestle the photo from him until they were both breathless and laughing, and then the photo had been forgotten altogeth
er.

  Lara hadn’t thought of the picture again until the day Graeme had given her the locket. He’d carefully snipped her face from the photo and had tucked it into one side of the locket, facing his picture. Lara had liked to think of their images, closed in the snug space, eternally kissing.

  The locket had been her wedding gift from Graeme. Snapping the locket closed, Lara dropped it back beneath her blouse. Despite everything, she’d never been able to put the locket away. She wore it every day, like a talisman. It represented all the dreams she’d once had, the dreams that would never come true, thanks to her father. Even at his bedside, knowing he would die soon, she’d been unable to speak the words that she knew he’d longed to hear.

  I forgive you.

  You did the right thing.

  I’m happy with the way my life has turned out.

  After her father had died, Lara had come to the bitter realization that if her life hadn’t turned out exactly as she’d hoped, then she had only herself to blame. She needed to forgive her father, cut her losses and move on. Getting Graeme to sign the divorce papers would be the first step.

  Unzipping the outer compartment of her suitcase, Lara withdrew the bulky envelope that contained her costume. She’d ordered it just two days before leaving Chicago and had almost given up on receiving it in time to bring it with her to the convention. In fact, the UPS delivery truck had arrived at her townhouse at about the same time as her taxi had arrived to take her to the airport. She’d shoved the package into her suitcase and hadn’t yet had an opportunity to look at the costume. Now she turned the lumpy packet over in her hands, noting the return address.

  Dressed to Thrill, Chicago.

  Lara had ordered costumes and accessories from the small shop before, but only to support the children’s theater program. The nonprofit venture had a small staff and an even smaller budget, but the expressions on the kids’ faces when they saw their new costumes made it worthwhile.

  The envelope that contained her own costume was lumpy and hard in places, and Lara knew without opening the package that it didn’t contain the shaman robe and hood that she’d requested. Of course, she hadn’t specifically ordered the shaman costume. She’d indicated that any costume from the Galaxy’s End television series would fit the bill, so long as it concealed her identity. What had the costume shop sent her instead? Turning the envelope over in her hand, Lara tore it open and dumped the contents onto the bed, ripping aside the lavender tissue paper.

  What the—?

  Lara gingerly picked up a piece of the costume and inspected it. No. There was absolutely no freaking way she could wear this outfit. She’d asked for a costume that concealed her identity, one that would let her blend in with the crowd and enjoy the festival, secure in her own anonymity. Instead the costume shop had sent her…a skimpy slave-girl outfit!

  And not just any slave-girl costume, either. It looked suspiciously like the one that Princess Leia had worn in the Star Wars movie.

  Pushing aside the remnants of tissue paper, Lara spread the bits and pieces of the costume out on the flowered bedspread.

  Yep, there was no doubt about it.

  There in front of her was a perfect replica of the famous metal bikini with its wrought-gold top and bottom, the delicate, curved slave bracelets for her upper arms, the chunky slave collar and chain, and the tiny suede booties, cleverly designed with straps and Velcro to conform to any foot.

  The only difference was that this ensemble also contained a gold mask, reminiscent of the Venetian Renaissance. Covering everything but the mouth and chin, the mask curved elegantly along the sides of the wearer’s head and locked into place at the back.

  How could the costume shop have made such a colossal mistake? There was no way she could wear this outfit, of course, and she felt a pang of regret that she would have to miss the masquerade ball.

  Lara picked the mask up, turning it over in her hands and admiring it in spite of herself. Finely crafted, the mask was a work of art. How would it feel to wear such a gorgeous creation? Hesitating only briefly, she slid the mask over her face and fastened the closure. The lightweight metal felt cool against her skin.

  When she peered at herself in the mirror, it was like looking at someone else. Even the familiarity of her own body, clad in figure-hugging jeans and a turquoise tank top, did little to dispel the sense that she was actually looking at an exotic stranger.

  Entranced, she touched her fingers to her lips, exposed beneath the bottom edge of the gold face plate. She’d always considered her mouth too full, but now the gold mask framed her lips and emphasized their plumpness. They looked…hedonistic. Except for the glittering blue of her eyes behind the eye slits and the thick, red-gold hair that fell to her shoulders, she was unrecognizable.

  Mysterious.

  Lara glanced at the rest of the costume. Did she dare? She’d played a lot of dress-up games as a kid, but nothing like this. She’d never worn anything so risqué in her entire life. She’d asked for a costume that hid her identity so that she could size Graeme up without worrying that he might recognize her. But now, instead of being an anonymous observer, she’d stand out like a neon beacon. The costume was a scant step away from complete nudity. Not that she thought Graeme would recognize her even if she did decide to wear the costume.

  What had Valerie said? That she’d changed in the last five years, so much so that even Graeme would have a hard time recognizing her. The mask would hide her features, and he wasn’t even scheduled to make an appearance at the costume ball that was kicking off the convention tonight.

  Maybe she did dare…

  Eyeing the outfit warily, she pulled a single-serving bottle of white wine out of the minifridge. Before she’d even consider putting the costume on, she needed a little false courage. She twisted the cap off the bottle and took a deep swig, and then another. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she stripped out of her clothes and donned the costume. She had a moment’s panic when her breasts refused to cooperate, and threatened to overspill the embossed cups of the bra. It was only after some jiggling and rearranging that she finally managed to subdue them.

  Her silver locket lay nestled between her breasts, and she carefully removed it and placed it on her nightstand. Then she squeezed the bracelets around her upper arms and fastened the gold slave collar around her neck. A short length of chain hung from the front and lay cold and smooth against her breast.

  For a long moment, Lara just stood and gazed into the mirror, hardly able to believe it was herself reflected there. She looked like a decadent offering, designed for a man’s pleasure. Her skin gleamed pale and smooth beneath the bikini, and when she turned experimentally, the crimson cascade of fabric swirled and provided alluring glimpses of her legs. The brevity of the costume shocked her. The front and back of the metal bikini bottom were held together by gold loops, exposing her entire flank.

  Turning to the side, Lara examined her profile, sucking her tummy in and then letting it out. She wasn’t overweight, but there was a slight roundness to her belly that no amount of exercise or starvation could eliminate. But the reflection in the mirror wasn’t of a pudgy girl, but a lushly curved woman. She’d always thought her breasts a bit too large for her small frame, but now the bra pushed them upward to a whole new fullness. They looked…sexy. She looked sexy. Erotic. Words that Lara would never have used to describe herself, but there was no question they applied to her now.

  Lara gazed at her reflection, and a naughty thrill coursed through her. Did she dare attend tonight’s costume ball like this? Just the thought of appearing in public dressed in such a salacious way brought a flush of color to her pale skin. She could have been a character straight from one of her own erotic stories. Which inspired another intriguing thought: how would the intergalactic outlaw, Kip Corrigan, react if he saw her?

  Immediately, Lara’s imagination surged, and she could almost anticipate how the fictional Kip would respond. He’d bend her backward over any availab
le surface and feast on the bounty of exposed female flesh. Then he’d take his time removing the costume, piece by piece, until all that remained was the collar and length of chain around her neck. She could envision him wrapping the slender links around his fist and using the chain to hold her, while he plundered her sensitized breasts with his mouth.

  Warm tendrils of excitement unfurled in Lara’s womb, spreading outward and causing heat to build between her legs. She realized that her hands had drifted to the soft skin of her breasts just above the embossed bra, and her breathing had quickened. Beneath the lower edge of the mask, her lips were parted and damp, as if she anticipated a lover’s kiss, and behind the eye slits, her irises shimmered hotly.

  Closing her eyes, she shifted her internal focus slightly, imagining it was Graeme doing those things to her. The images in her head swam and then sharpened into stark relief, and she gasped softly. Instead of the fictional Kip, it was Graeme who stroked her heated flesh, all the while telling her in explicit, exciting detail what he intended to do to her, his Scottish burr more pronounced with his arousal.

  In her mind’s eye, he fastened his mouth around the aching bud of one nipple, drawing sharply on it. When she might have protested, he tugged gently on the chain, holding her in place. Meanwhile, his free hand skated along the silken skin of her abdomen until he found her core and stroked her slick center.

  Lara’s eyes flew open and she stared at her reflection, more aroused than she could recall being since…well, since the last time she’d had sex with Graeme, five years earlier. In the mirror, her breasts rose and fell in an agitated fashion, and her skin had taken on a warm, flushed glow. Her blood pulsed hot and quick through her veins, and her eyes were filled with sensual need.

  With a soft groan of dismay, she picked up the small bottle of wine and drained the contents in one long swallow, then swiped her mouth with fingers that trembled.