Red Letter Nights

by Alison Kent; Karen Anders; Jeanie London

  What she found was the freedom of surrender. She gave up, crying out as she came, feeling the surge of Randy’s release deep inside as he followed.

  It was quick and reckless, a heated burst that wasn’t enough. It was the fling she’d asked for, but as she curled up beneath the sheets next to his big warm body, she decided that Santa hadn’t quite got it right.

  GOOD THING Claire hadn’t gone into this affair expecting true romance—or even breakfast in bed. Randy was gone when she woke. She showered and dressed for the office.

  Had she known when she left last night that she’d arrive home to a working AC, she would’ve packed up her laptop and carted her work home with her.

  A day spent in slouchy sweats sounded like heaven. But she hadn’t known, making pumps and panty hose the order of the day.

  Before she headed for her car, however, she headed for Café Eros. Calories, schmalories. After last night, she needed caffeine and sugar, and no one provided both better than Chloe Matthews.

  At the entrance to the alley leading out of Court du Chaud, Claire ran—not unexpectedly—into Perry Brazille. Perry wore an orange tank top with her gauzy ankle-length skirt. “This is a cruel, cruel joke. If I wanted to sunbathe in winter, I’d live Down Under.”

  “No kidding,” Claire said. “I’m hoping coffee and Chloe’s Christmas pastries will go a long way to reminding me that Santa’s on his way.”

  Perry hooked her arm through Claire’s. “I’m right there with you, though I was thinking of starting the day with chocolate.”

  Laughing, the two women entered the café’s courtyard where seasonal blooms spilled in a riot of color from the center fountain that now served as a planter. They chose a nearby table covered in a cloth of Christmas red and gave their order to the server.

  “How’s Della?” Claire asked, knowing Perry had been spending as many nights at her aunt’s place lately as at her own.

  Perry gave a noncommittal shrug. “She’s not eating, hardly sleeping. Is wasting away to nothing.”

  Della Brazille was a prominent New Orleans psychic whose services were often sought by the NOPD. While Perry kept her aunt’s confidences, she wasn’t always as successful at hiding her own concern for the toll taken by Della’s mental gift.

  The server brought their order, and Claire poured cream into her coffee. “I figured things were rough since you haven’t been home much lately.”

  Perry remained quiet, sipping at her own coffee—strong and straight black—before her mouth broke into a grin. “She has a suitor. A detective. She’s being stubborn about his advances, of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? I think he scares her. Not in a bad way. Just in a…man way.”

  “Now that’s something to which I can totally relate.” Claire sliced into her warm apple fritter. “Have you ever had a man try to buy you?”

  “Buy me how? Pay me to sleep with him?” Perry asked.

  That wasn’t what Claire had thought was happening; she certainly hoped she hadn’t been wrong. “More like to be with him.”

  Perry cradled her mug in both hands. “Without sex.”

  “No.” Claire shook her head. “There’s sex, but there’s also talking and cooking and dating and air-conditioner repairs involved.”

  “Sounds like domestic bliss to me,” Perry said, biting into her chocolate cruller.

  It was edging toward exactly that when it was supposed to be a holiday fling. Claire sighed. “It’s got to be the heat. I didn’t get my Christmas cards mailed out when I should have. I haven’t shopped for a thing. And then I thought it would be fun to spend the holidays with a man—”

  “So you bought one.”

  Was that what she’d done? Bought Randy with the promise of sex? “Not really. I put him on my list and Santa brought him early.”

  “And now you’re thinking you might be ringing in the New Year with wedding bells?”

  “Oh good grief, no.” Making the leap from a fling to marriage would require legs a lot longer than hers. “I’m just being forced to accept that I’m not cut out for a meaningless fling.”

  “Welcome to the club, girlfriend.”

  “How do men manage it?”

  “I like to pretend they don’t. That they agonize and suffer like we do.” Perry grinned as she reached for the last bite of her cruller. “But since they don’t have girlfriends to bond with, they keep it all inside where it gets toxic and deadly.”

  “Hmm. I wondered what caused all that yelling at the TV during sporting events.”

  “That. And then there’s the smell.”

  Claire sputtered her coffee. “There’s definitely something to be said for not having to share a bathroom.”

  “You can say that again.”

  5

  RANDY STOOD staring out his fourth-floor office window at the tops of the palms edging the sidewalk below. On his desk lay the marketing portfolio for the image-consulting firm who’d be tackling the offices of the Flatbacker Foundation.

  First Impressions. Owner, Claire Braden.

  The spiel he’d given the partners about the office needing a makeover and the foundation a corporate image—not to mention a working environment—more in keeping with their mission statement was a load of bull.

  He’d needed an in with Claire.

  He’d wanted her from the moment he’d first seen her on her balcony. He’d been determined to take his time, to discover what he could about her before making a move. The approach was the same one he’d used for years when pursuing an acquisition, when engaged in a power play.

  But now that he’d met her, slept with her, gotten to know more about her than he’d expected to learn so easily or soon, what had seemed a cut-and-dried plan had him second-guessing the tenets that had been the backbone of his success.

  Until moving to New Orleans in September at his uncle’s request, he’d lived in Texas—Austin, to be exact—where his first twelve years were the ones that held the most memories.

  Memories of a life in foster care and months spent on the streets before Charles and Elizabeth Schneider stepped into his path of self-destruction and saved him from himself.

  His adoptive parents had provided a fair upbringing in which sentiment played no part. What they’d taught him instead was the value of loyalty, the return gained by respect, the worth of a portfolio.

  He’d come to the Schneider’s with the clothes on his back, clothes that had gone up in smoke literally leaving him with nothing to his name, nothing of his own, nothing but twelve years he wished he could forget.

  Sounds of sirens and despair. Sights of flashing lights and desperation. Smells that came in one of three fragrances: soured or spoiled or stale.

  He grit his teeth against the rise of emotion that churned and burned center chest. Those memories were ones no man—or woman—could take away.

  Or so he’d thought until meeting Claire.

  She was aggressive. She was confident. She knew what she wanted and went after it. And she seemed to want him. It was almost as if she was the piece of his life he’d never accepted was missing.

  She’d asked him what one thing he most wanted had he not yet been able to buy. The answer was simple.

  He wanted Claire.

  CLAIRE DIDN’T HEAR from Randy all day. She hadn’t told him where she worked or given him her cell or office number. She figured with his resources, he’d have no trouble finding her if that was what he wanted.

  Obviously, it wasn’t.

  That reality should have come as a relief. If he’d changed his mind about hooking up, she wouldn’t have to answer the question he’d asked her last night before leaving. Of course, she wouldn’t be getting an answer to hers either.

  But somehow she couldn’t equate his tales of acquiring material possessions with her having to choose between being a kept woman and living in poverty without telling him why.

  She’d never had to do without, at least not in the sense that he had. Her fam
ily had been very average, very middle class. If she’d had to give up anything, it had been the friends she’d left behind with her family’s every move.

  In those cases, having money wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. Starting over was an emotional—not a financial—burden. What the constant moves had done, however, was make her hyperaware of what she had to do to fit in.

  Switch out boots and jeans for flippy skirts and ballerina flats. Wear big bangs and big curls one year, a sharply wedged pageboy the next. Dump the Goth-look when sweaters and polos and boat shoes became the order of the day.

  She’d made a career out of image, the downside being that she’d never taken time to discover herself. Even now she dressed to meet a client’s expectations rather than cementing a look that simply said, “Claire.”

  Pulling her Camry into the garage, she briefly wondered if Randy was already home. She’d left the office earlier than usual; in the morning she had her first meeting with the partners of the Flatbacker Foundation, and she needed a good night’s sleep.

  She walked through the living room toward the stairs, kicking off her shoes, peeling off her panty hose, tossing her purse and attaché to the sofa. And then she laughed. That habit right there pretty much defined who she was.

  Wondering how seriously her clients would take image advice from a world-class slob, she walked from her bedroom onto the balcony to take in the Christmas tree, doing a double-take as she registered Randy slouched back and relaxing in one of the wrought iron chairs.

  Once she’d caught her breath, she glared and said, “Two days, and I’ve figured out two important things about you.”

  His mouth curled deviously. “Which are?”

  “You don’t like discussion questions.” She held up one finger then another. “And you know too much about breaking and entering.”

  “I’m better with numbers than words.” He paused, added, “And even better at picking locks.”

  She moved to the opposite corner of the balcony and leaned her back against the brick wall. The position afforded her a view of Randy to her right, the courtyard to her left.

  One view to calm her. One to undo every bit of that calm. Her smile felt shaky when she responded. “A man of convenient and marketable skills.”

  He laughed. “I’ll give you the CPA. I’m not so sure my days as a delinquent would inspire employer confidence.”

  As an image consultant with no image, she could relate. Her gaze settled on Randy’s laced fingers where they rested at his waist, and she swallowed hard. “So your ability to buy happiness is a result of crunching numbers?”

  He gave a brief shrug. “I was a day-trader for a few years. Got out before it became a health hazard.”

  “Someone made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

  “My uncle.” He shifted in his chair and stretched out his legs. “He and his partners were about to conservatively administer themselves into bankruptcy.”

  “Ouch,” she said, his words ringing a faraway bell. “I’m sure your obsession with the almighty dollar will pay off for them nicely.”

  “What about you?” he asked, seeming to settle in even more comfortably.

  She, on the other hand, felt as stiff as if she were awaiting a root canal. “What about me?”

  “A life of poverty, or that of a kept woman?”

  Oh. That. She glanced toward the tree and gathered her wits before looking back. “I’ll answer, but I want you to know it’s not a fair question.”

  One of his dark brows lifted. “Was ‘fair’ part of our bargain?”

  “No, but this question is the sort that deserves more than a one-or two-word answer.”

  “One or two words are all that I want.”

  “Why?” When his lips narrowed, she went on, no matter her aggravation. “At least tell me why you don’t want an explanation.”

  This time his shrug was careless. “I don’t need one. The explanation is inherent in the answer.”

  Not for her, it wasn’t. “It’s not inherent. It’s complicated.”

  He nodded; she couldn’t decide if it was being thoughtful or condescending. “You want me to know that choosing to live as a kept woman would give you the means to help others. That it wouldn’t be about what you might want for yourself.”

  Uncanny how accurate he was. Was he testing her? Deciding how they fit out of bed? If she shared his appreciation for the finer things in life?

  If she understood the happiness of not doing without what money was able to buy?

  “Yes. I would choose to be a kept woman.”

  “For the reasons I gave?”

  Infuriating man. “I thought you didn’t need an explanation.”

  “I don’t. You do.”

  She wanted to roll her eyes. He was obviously out to prove that being a have was better than being a have not, that there was nothing wrong with enjoying the fruits of one’s labors. And there wasn’t.

  But equating riches to emotional well-being wasn’t the same. At least not for her. The things she wanted most out of life were things that couldn’t be bought—no matter what personal wealth she acquired.

  She wondered if their priorities were truly that far apart. Or if he simply took a perverse pleasure in goading her. For some reason, she wanted to bet on the latter. “What I need is an explanation from you.”

  “About?”

  Her turn to make him squirm. “What one thing do you want most in life that you haven’t yet acquired?”

  He didn’t hesitate or stutter or make her beg. All he did was meet her gaze and say, “You.”

  HE’D WONDERED if she would answer. No, he’d wondered if she would answer honestly. If she’d choose to be noble or if she’d put herself out there and let the chips fall. Hell, he wouldn’t have challenged her if he’d thought all she would do was cave.

  He could’ve argued her choice proved his point that happiness was most definitely for sale—even if her happiness seemed bound up with having the means to help others. But he hadn’t. He’d given her a noble out. One she’d refused.

  Then he’d pushed out of the chair where he’d been sitting, taken hold of her wrist, and tugged her into the bedroom. He was tired of talking. The sex they’d shared last night had been like a series of flash fires exploding, but with too much conversation between.

  Tonight would be all about making love.

  He wanted to drink her in, to learn her, to make himself so much a part of her she’d lose where she ended and he began. And he wasn’t deterred by the fact that what he was describing sounded like emotional involvement.

  That’s not what it was. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let that happen.

  Standing at the foot of her bed, he faced her to unbutton her soft pink blouse. Her skirt was brown with pinstripes to match. She worked for herself, didn’t see clients every day, yet she dressed like a corporate lawyer.

  She took her business seriously, as did he, and that pleased him. He would never have to explain work keeping him late at the office. He wouldn’t demand she reschedule an appointment that conflicted with his plans.

  They fit together. They worked. They were the closest thing to being a matched two-of-a-kind he’d known. Except for their disparate viewpoints on money.

  And though he was in no mood to talk, he couldn’t let the subject go. “I’m not a bad guy, Claire. But I don’t like having to defend my life.”

  She glanced from his fingers on her buttons up to his face. Her eyes were a misty blue. “You want to talk about your life while you’re taking off my clothes?”

  “Yes.” He peeled her blouse off her shoulders, tugged it from the waistband of her skirt. Then he reached up to loosen her hair from its binding. “You’re a part of it now.”

  “I am?” she asked, her eyes drifting shut as he finger-combed the long strands.

  His gut tightened. “I may be a bastard when it comes to money. But I don’t shag and run.”

  She smiled at that, a soft lift of the sa
me lips he wanted to feel kissing his body. “You were gone when I woke up this morning.”

  “I stayed as long as I could.” He thought of her spooned up against him and tugged down her skirt’s zipper. The garment slid to the floor. “I had a breakfast meeting.”

  “Mmm. I’m starving.” She stood there barefoot wearing only her bra and panties. Gooseflesh pebbled her skin. “I haven’t eaten much of anything the last two days.”

  “Breakfast in bed. I promise.” He released the clasp of her bra, then filled his hands with the weight of her breasts. Her nipples grew hard in his palms.

  “Scrambled eggs and bacon and buttered toast and orange juice, please.” She grabbed his wrists, wet her lips with her tongue, opened her eyes and met his gaze. “Mmm. You make me hungry.”

  He couldn’t even speak. His throat had shut down. It was all he could do to release his belt buckle, toe off his shoes and shuck down his pants.

  Claire took care of his shirt and tie, and then there was nothing between them but the cotton of his boxer briefs and the scrap of silk she wore as panties. He quickly skinned them out of both. She brought up her arms to wrap around his neck and urged his mouth to hers.

  He kissed her. Stroking his hands down her sides, he pushed her back to the bed. She was warm and giving beneath him, making it hard to remember this was not about involvement but convenience, compatibility, companionship.

  He kissed his way down the center of her body, lingering in the dip of her throat, feeling her shudder when he nuzzled her there. Her scent was light, clean skin and shampoo. His mouth drifted to her breast.

  She arched up into his body and moaned. “I like the way you feed me.”

  He groaned against her skin, moved to her other breast and sucked, rolling her nipple with his tongue before letting go and trailing his kisses lower.

  She shivered, flexed her fingers into the fabric of the quilt beneath her, whimpered when he pushed her heels to her hips and settled between the V of her legs.

  The skin of her belly was sweet-tasting and smooth, as was that of her thighs. What he wanted was more light by which to see her, but it had grown dark outside and the bedroom closed around them like a cocoon.