Red Letter Nights

by Alison Kent; Karen Anders; Jeanie London

  He breathed deeply of her sex, the musky warmth, salty and moist and aroused, then slipped his tongue between her folds to circle her clit.

  Her cries grew louder, and she begged for more with an upward surge of her hips. He tongued the hard knot of nerves, her plump flesh, circled her entrance and pushed inside. She sucked in a sharp breath, and then began to pant.

  His cock throbbed. He ached to fill her. The need worsened when she begged, “Randy, please.”

  Another time, another place…another woman and he would have waited. With Claire, his desire was too strong.

  Braced on his knees, he rolled on a condom before bringing his body to rest above hers. The absence of light in the room didn’t keep her eyes from sparkling.

  She reached between them, held his cock, rubbed the head in and out and around her sex, finally pushing up to take him deep into her body.

  He settled in, amazed at how they fit together, at how little control he had when buried inside where she was so tight and so warm.

  Her hands squeezed his shoulders. Her heels dug into the backs of his thighs. She moved up and down to the beat of her need, holding him harder, pushing against him. He clenched his jaw until he swore his molars would crack.

  And then it was too late. Holding back wasn’t going to happen. He stroked long and hard and fast, and then he let go, sliding a hand between them, fingering her clit.

  She followed, crying out as she came. The sounds she made, the touch of her hands, the way she’d asked him for nothing nearly tore him apart. That didn’t mean this was emotional involvement.

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

  HE STAYED THE NIGHT.

  She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe either that she was the first into the shower, or that he was still in her bed when she came out of the bathroom wearing her robe.

  She would have loved to shower with him, to get her hands on his warm, wet and nicely large body, to soap him up and stroke him, to wrap her legs around his waist as he backed her into the wall and filled her.

  But she didn’t have time this morning for that pleasure. Her appointment was scheduled for nine.

  She was in the kitchen pouring coffee when Randy walked up behind her. He’d showered, but he hadn’t shaved. And she had to admit she liked the look of the day’s growth of beard.

  She wasn’t as crazy about the feel, however; it scratched when he bent and kissed her.

  “We’re going to have to talk about your face,” she said, turning to pour his coffee. “If you want to kiss me on a regular basis, the stubble’s got to go.”

  “I’ll get rid of it tonight.” He took the coffee she offered. “I’m late, and need to run home and change.”

  Sipping her coffee, she nodded, thinking how easily she could get used to this morning routine. “You still owe me breakfast in bed.”

  He grinned, his teeth so white in contrast to his lashes and beard. “Tomorrow. I promise. You’ll need a good start to the day.”

  Always Mr. Cryptic. She tried not to sound too interested when she asked, “Why’s that?”

  “I have a fund-raising Christmas gala for work tomorrow night. It’s at the Bourbon Orleans.” He paused, one heartbeat, two. “I’d be honored if you’d accompany me.”

  At the last minute? He was asking her to a big-time social event at the last minute? “As your date?”

  “Well, yeah.” His grin broke her resolve not to fall for him hard. “I already have a limo driver.”

  She rolled her eyes, silently panicking over what she would wear. “In that case, I’d love to.”

  “Great. We’ll need to leave here at six-thirty.”

  “I think I can manage,” she said, and brought her cup to her mouth.

  He started for the door, stopped. “Do you want me to wait for you? You can follow me downtown if you want.”

  Follow him? Downtown? Why? She’d lived here longer than he had. “I think I can manage.”

  “Okay, then.” He left his coffee cup in the sink and bussed her cheek with a kiss. “I’ll see you there.”

  “See me where?” she asked, the niggling of the night before suddenly returning.

  “At the office,” he said, and left her with a wink on his way out the door.

  The office. The office. The one where his uncle “conservatively administered” educational grants and scholarship funds. She collapsed onto the bench of the breakfast nook.

  She was sleeping with a client. Er, a prospective client. Either way, could she possibly be any more unprofessional?

  Not only that, she’d agreed to be his date at a work function tomorrow night. Talk about conflict of interest.

  And now she was going to have to walk into this morning’s meeting and pretend all was right in her very screwed up world.

  This called for more than a stop at Café Eros, she mused, rubbing her aching forehead. This called for a full-fledged therapy session.

  Claire found her purse on the sofa where she’d left it last night, dug her phone from inside, curled into the sofa’s cushy corner, and dialed Tess Autrey’s private line.

  “Ooh. A New Orleans area code. This could only be the fabulous Claire Braden,” Tess said when she came on the line. “What’s up?”

  It was all Claire could do to squeak out, “Help!”

  6

  CLAIRE PARKED her car, checked her reflection in the visor’s mirror, grabbed her purse and the leather binder from her attaché, and headed for the building.

  It was eight-fifty-five.

  Tess had been right. There was nothing Claire could do this morning beyond going about her job in the most professional way possible and dealing with Randy later. Unfortunately, dealing with Randy meant dealing with her heart.

  And keeping her heart out of this meeting—not to mention her pique and other assorted murderous emotions—was going to require skills she wasn’t sure she had in her personal image portfolio.

  She took a deep breath, hit the elevator call button, wondering why she was even going through this charade. She didn’t believe for a minute that she’d leave here having landed the Flatbacker account. This was Randy’s handiwork.

  He’d seen her, he’d wanted her and he’d done what life had taught him to do. He’d ponied up the bucks and bought her.

  She didn’t want to believe it but how could she not when his actions screamed louder than words? Never in her life had she felt like such a cheap piece of meat.

  The elevator car arrived, and she punched the button for the fourth floor. On the ride up, she worked for calm, smoothing down her blazer, adjusting the gold chain hanging around her neck, running a hand over her hair.

  When the door opened, she took a deep breath and stepped out into a lobby that surprised her. It was exactly the look her research on the old-moneyed financial firm had led her to expect—rich wood, expensive leather and woven rugs, original oils in gilt frames.

  “Damn you, Randy,” she murmured under her breath. This was so going to be a waste of time.

  Instead of backing out quietly the way she’d come in, Claire lifted her chin, approached the receptionist’s desk and smiled at the young woman’s softly spoken, “Good Morning. May I help you?”

  She offered her business card. “Claire Braden. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Luther Andrews.”

  The receptionist checked her monitor display then gestured toward the waiting area as she picked up the phone. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “Thank you.” Stepping away, Claire studied the heavy furniture, the floral arrangements and low-burning lamps, the paintings depicting hunting dogs and riders on horseback hanging on the dark paneled walls.

  What in the world was she doing here?

  Unless the foundation’s partners had decided to downplay the fact that they could well afford the philanthropy for which they had earned such high regard…

  What in the world was she doing here?

 
Oh, wait. She was here because she’d gotten the jump on her lover, inviting him over for drinks and into her bed before he managed to acquire her the old-fashioned way. With wads and wads of cash.

  “Ms. Braden.”

  Forcing a smile and momentarily banishing her uncharitable thoughts, she turned at the sound of the deep male voice and held out her hand. “Claire, please.”

  “Claire, I’m Luther.” The older man spoke with a John Wayne drawl that fit the boots he wore and the western cut of his suit. His hand swallowed hers. “Let’s stop by my nephew’s office, pick up the boy and get this tour started, this being his idea after all.”

  She liked how he cut straight to the chase. She also liked hearing him call Randy a boy. That tickled her, even when she was ready to throttle him. “I must admit that after seeing the lobby, I’m wondering why I’m here.”

  Luther laughed, a hearty, good ol’ boy guffaw. “Most people never get beyond seeing what you just saw. It’s the rest of the place that my nephew wants to focus on.”

  Interesting, she mused, walking through the door Luther opened and into a long hallway—a hallway no less well-appointed than the lobby in the same navy, wine and deep hunter green. Their footsteps fell silently on the thick carpet.

  Randy’s office brought her first surprise. For one thing, he wasn’t there. For another, the room couldn’t have been more sterile. White walls, industrial gray carpet, metal file cabinets and a matching desk.

  Only the computer equipment and ergonomic desk chair fit the image of the man she knew. It was hard to picture him working in these conditions.

  Harder to admit she’d based her entire opinion of him on the car he drove, the clothes he wore, the cash he’d paid for his town house.

  She’d never even factored in the way he treated her.

  How shallow could she be?

  “Randy, my nephew, came to work with us in September. This was the only empty office.” Luther cleared his throat as if embarrassed. “Since he’s the one putting in the most hours, it only seemed right to let the boy outfit the place.”

  Surely the rest of the offices weren’t so…spare, would be a nice word. Plain, a compliment. Randy’s office was nothing if not ugly.

  What else about him was there to learn? “Should we wait for him? Or do you want to show me around?”

  Luther inclined his head, gestured with one hand toward the end of the hall. “Let’s head on down to the O.K. Corral. Least that’s what Randy calls my office. When he’s not calling it a barn, anyway.”

  Walking at Luther’s side, Claire struggled to reconcile what she’d expected with what she’d found. Admittedly, an old cowboy was the last thing she’d expected Randy’s uncle to be. But then the last three days had brought little in the way of normal expectations.

  “There you are,” Luther was saying as Claire walked through his office door. “Straighten up here now so I can introduce you to Ms. Braden.”

  “Claire,” she said without thinking, her brain engaged elsewhere—specifically by the sight of Randy’s backside covered in fashionable gray wool.

  Leaning forward to study the Wall Street Journal, he stood with his back to the door, his hands braced wide on Luther’s desk, a platinum watchband circling one wrist. Nine o’clock in the morning, and he’d already lost his suit coat and cuffed back his white shirtsleeves.

  But oh, did he look good from behind, broad in the shoulders, lean in the hips. She couldn’t help it. She thought about him naked, about the way he covered her body, sliding into her as far as he could.

  He straightened and turned and walked toward her; her heart thumped so loudly she couldn’t hear a word he said. He was beautiful, gorgeous—his eyes, his mouth, the way he moved. She was falling for him, and she didn’t know what to do.

  Luther kept her from having to do anything more than hold out her hand. “Claire Braden, my nephew, Randy Schneider. Randy, Claire’s here to put your world to rights.”

  PUT HIS WORLD to rights.

  Luther had no idea, Randy mused, watching Claire settle her portfolio in one arm, take up her pen in the other hand and ready herself to take notes. “I’ve seen her work. I have no doubt she’ll do just that.”

  A blush washed over Claire’s cheeks. She avoided his gaze and glanced around the office, moving to the pedestal in the corner that held an original Frederic Remington bronze. “I appreciate the opportunity. And my first impression would be, Luther, that you love the American West. The detail in Remington’s sculptures has always amazed me.”

  “I spent the biggest part of my life breaking irascible horses.” Behind Claire’s back, Luther gave Randy a silent thumbs-up. “Leastways when the offices were still in Texas, and I could sneak away for long weekends spent at the ranch.”

  Claire nodded. “You haven’t always been in New Orleans then?”

  “No, ma’am.” Luther made his way behind his desk and sank into his leather chair sized for a mammoth.

  He gestured for Randy and Claire to take the visitor chairs. Claire declined. She chose, instead, to circle the office and take notes.

  Luther went on. “We came over a few years back when Lionel’s wife took sick and wanted to spend the rest of her time close to family out near Lake Pontchartrain.”

  “Lionel Burns is one of Luther’s partners,” Randy explained, arms crossed, a shoulder braced against the doorjamb. “His office is the next door down.”

  Luther leaned back in his chair, propped one boot heel on the corner of his desk. “Randy accuses Lionel of working out of a fish camp.”

  “Fish camp?” Pen scratching across paper, Claire turned toward Randy, lifting a brow and fighting a corresponding lift of her lips.

  Such a tiny movement of her mouth and it tied his gut in knots. “Lionel’s aesthetic appreciation runs toward what he calls a maritime theme.”

  “I see.” More notes, another squashed smile. “And the third partner?”

  Luther’s chair squeaked as he leaned farther back. “That would be Lester Grant. He’s out in the Gulf on a rig most of the time.”

  “When he’s here, he stores his hardhats and jumpsuits and bathymetric charts in his office,” Randy added, pausing while Claire’s pen flew.

  “Go on ahead, Randy, and show Claire around the place. Give her a better idea of what we have for her to work with.” Luther waved his hand toward the door and chuckled. “She might decide to walk out and never come back.”

  “I doubt that will happen but, yes. I would like a tour.” She crossed her arms over her binder and held it to her chest, waiting patiently while Randy processed the idea that she might actually leave.

  He couldn’t see it happening. She was a professional…one he’d manipulated in order to get his way. The thought brought a frisson of alarm as he said, “Then let’s go.”

  He walked her through the remaining rooms on the floor, explaining Lionel’s background in the merchant marines, Lester’s in oil, and how the two had originally hooked up with Luther in Korea during that military conflict.

  Once their tours of duty were over, the three had hitched their way around the world, meeting a Parisian “flatbacker” who’d convinced them there was a fortune to be made were they to import French lingerie into the States.

  “Let me get this straight,” Claire said, settling into a chair at the conference room table once finished with the full tour. “Your uncle and his partners got their start working with a prostitute they met in Paris?”

  Randy pulled his own chair around to face hers before crossing his legs. “Hard to believe but, yeah. A cowboy, a sailor and an oil man who made the bulk of their money in panties and bras.”

  She toyed with her pen and studied her notes. Several seconds passed before she closed the binder. Several more ticked by before she looked up. “When you left this morning, I called you every name in the book.”

  Of that, he had no doubt. The only thing he’d wondered about was how long she’d wait before broaching the subject. “You h
ad every reason.”

  “I thought this was a ruse.” She turned the pen end over end, bouncing it on the binder. “That you brought me here because you wanted to get to know me, not because of any concern for the foundation’s image.”

  “Actually, my concern was less about image and more about working conditions. You’ve seen my office.”

  She mulled over his admission, coming back with, “I’m an image consultant, Randy. Not a decorator.”

  “I know.” And even knowing she wouldn’t like it, he wasn’t going to deny the truth. “But you’re right. I brought you here because I wanted to get to know you.”

  She shook her head, sighed, tossed the pen to the table. “I’m surprised my making the first move didn’t shoot your plans all to hell.”

  He laced his hands in his lap. “I committed to the consultation. Whether you and I worked out personally wasn’t going to have any bearing on our doing business.”

  “So, what am I doing here now? Now that we’ve worked out.” She lifted her chin; for a moment he thought it was trembling. “Is this payment for services rendered?”

  He uncrossed his legs and sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “This is business, Claire. Nothing more. You’ve seen our space, our needs. I expect you to draw up a proposal and present it. Just as you would with any client.”

  “But you’re not just any client.” She pushed up from her chair and walked to the far end of the room where, arms crossed, she stood staring out of the window.

  He understood that she needed space. It just wasn’t what he wanted to give her.

  He got out of his seat and followed, standing at her shoulder, near enough to catch the soft scent of her perfume, far enough away not to scare her.

  “You can deal directly with the partners. I’ll take myself out of the equation.” He’d seen her work; whether or not it was a priority, he had no doubt she could give the foundation an image befitting its purpose.

  He was much more intent on what she could give him. He just hadn’t yet come to terms with what that was. The scope of what she’d brought to his life.