Hotter After Midnight

by Cynthia Eden

  As usual, curiosity was stronger than caution. He picked up the envelope. Chloe was handwritten on the front. The envelope was soft, the flap tucked in but not sealed. A man with strong moral fiber and a healthy conscience would walk right next door and push the envelope through the correct mail slot.

  He pulled out the tucked flap and peeked inside, where he found a wad of cash. And a note.

  “Chloe, thanks so much. Didn’t want this on my credit card for obvious reasons. Everything worked out great. I’d use you again. Allan.”

  He counted the money. Stood there chewing his upper lip with an unpleasant feeling that both he and his London acquaintance Gerald had been snowed. Then he shoved the money back and walked outside into the cool of the morning. Lights were on in a few of his neighbors’ windows and Horace Black across the street and two down, was backing his new truck down the driveway.

  Up and down the street signs of life, but in his new neighbor’s house nothing. She’d been here for two weeks and while she seemed like a good tenant, she came and went at strange hours. He had a bad feeling he now knew why.

  He strode next door and knocked on her front door, perhaps a little more aggressively than necessary.

  He’d been conned and he didn’t like being conned.

  Probably he should go back to his house and drink some coffee, give himself a chance to cool down and little miss ‘I’ll use your services again,’ time to wake up. But he didn’t feel like doing the sensible thing.

  He gave it a minute, then banged again, holding the bell with his finger at the same time.

  After an age and a half, the front door opened. Chloe Flynt stood there, her black hair soft and tousled in the sexiest case of bed head he’d ever seen. Her eyes were the most amazing purple-blue, and they gazed at him in the vaguely unfocussed way of someone who’s not totally awake yet. He had no idea what—if anything—she was wearing since everything from the neck down was behind the door.

  “You should have asked who it was before opening the door,” he snarled.

  “I looked out the bedroom window,” she said on a yawn. “I could see you.” Almost as though his sharp advice to be cautious had the opposite effect, she straightened and opened the door fully.

  He’d checked her out, the way a single man in his prime always checks women out. He’d sensed a very nice body was packaged in the trendy clothes she wore. But he’d had no idea.

  She wasn’t a tall woman, but she was exquisite. She wore teeny-tiny girl boxer shorts with the Union Jack stamped all over them and a little white T-shirt with Rule Britannia printed across the chest. Her legs were shapely, her breasts small and perfect. Even the tiny strip of skin between the end of her shirt and the beginning of the shorts fascinated him. So white, so smooth.

  His gaze returned to her eyes and he found them fully awake now and regarding him with a certain amused speculation. Damn it, she’d knocked him on his ass and she knew it.

  “Don’t tell me, your bra has the queen on one cup and Prince Charles on the other.”

  She glanced down at her outfit as though she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “A going away present from a friend.”

  The sun was against his back, already warm. To his right he heard a bee sounding like it was snoring in the Texas lilac bush he’d planted last year.

  “Did you come over to check that my pajamas are patriotic?” she asked.

  He realized he was staring and felt stupid, which annoyed him even more. “I came to deliver some mail that came to me by mistake.”

  He held out the envelope.

  “Thank you.” She put out her hand but he didn’t relinquish the envelope.

  “What’s going on, Chloe?”

  Her eyebrows rose in an incredibly snooty fashion, as though she might call her palace guards to come and have him shot. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Somebody stuffs a thousand bucks in cash in my mail slot in the middle of the night, it makes me curious.”

  “A thousand dollars?” she exclaimed, sounding delighted. “He must have added a tip. How sweet.”

  For an instant he was distracted by the thought of what her services were and what she’d done to deserve such a big tip.

  “Shit,” he muttered, then stepped forward so fast his neighbor squeaked when he bumped her with his body, pushing her inside the house and shutting the door fast behind them.

  “How dare you. Leave this house instantly,” she demanded, small and fiery.

  He ducked away from the window and made a dash for the kitchen.

  “Are you a lunatic?” that crisp English voice trilled.

  “Quiet. She’ll hear you.” He was in the kitchen, jamming his butt onto a kitchen chair that put him out of window range of his own house next door.

  “Who will hear me? Matthew, what on earth—”

  “Brittany.”

  She followed him into the kitchen and looked down at him. “And who is Brittany?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  She looked at him like he was a few cattle short of a herd but she didn’t say a word for which he was ridiculously grateful. Explaining Brittany was complicated. Getting more so every day. She was perfect for him in every way. Sweet, cute, sexy, nice and the kind of woman who would make a wonderful mom. So why was he, a grown man who should be getting on with his life, hiding in the kitchen of a neighbor who was probably a criminal.

  Don’t miss WHEN HE WAS BAD, a sexy

  paranormal anthology from

  Shelly Laurenston and Cynthia Eden,

  coming next month from Brava.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of

  Shelly’s story, “Miss Congeniality.”

  The doorbell rang and Irene didn’t move. She wasn’t expecting anyone so she wouldn’t answer the door. She dealt with enough people during the day, she’d be damned if her nights were filled with the idiots as well.

  The doorbell went off again, followed by knocking. Irene didn’t even flinch. In a few more minutes she would shut everything out but the work in front of her. A skill she’d developed over the years. Sometimes Jackie would literally have to shake her or punch her in the head to get her attention.

  But Irene hadn’t slipped into that “zone” yet and she could easily hear someone sniffing at her door. She looked up from her paperwork as Van Holtz snarled from the other side, “I know you’re in there, Conridge. I can smell you.”

  Eeew.

  “Go away,” she called back. “I’m busy.”

  The knocking turned to outright banging. “Open this goddamn door!”

  Annoyed but resigned the man wouldn’t leave, Irene put her paperwork on the couch and walked across the room. She pulled open the door and ignored the strange feeling in the pit of her stomach at seeing the man standing there in a dark gray sweater, jeans, and sneakers. She knew few men who made casual wear look anything but.

  “What?”

  She watched as his eyes moved over her, from the droopy sweat socks on her feet, past the worn cotton shorts and the paint-splattered T-shirt that spoke of a horrid experience trying to paint the hallway the previous year, straight up to her hastily created ponytail. He swallowed and muttered, “Goddamnit,” before pushing his way into her house.

  “We need to talk,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Why?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “I said why do we need to talk? As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing that needs to be said.”

  “I need to kiss you.”

  Now Irene frowned. “Why?”

  “Must you always ask why?”

  “When people come to me with things that don’t make sense…yes.”

  “Just let me kiss you and then I’ll leave.”

  “Do you know how many germs are in the human mouth? I’d be better off kissing an open sewer grate.”

  Why did she have to make this so difficult? He hated being here. Hated having to come here at all. Yet he had something to prove and goddam
nit, he’d prove it or die trying.

  But how dare she look so goddamn cute! He’d never known this Irene Conridge existed. He’d only seen her in those boxy business suits or a gown that he’d bet money she never picked out for herself. On occasion he’d even seen her in jeans but, even then, she’d always looked pulled together and professional.

  Now she looked goddamn adorable, and he almost hated her for it.

  “Twenty seconds of your time and I’m out of here for good. Twenty seconds and I won’t bother you ever again.”

  “Why?”

  Christ, again with the why.

  “I need to prove to the universe that my marking you means absolutely nothing.”

  “Oh, well isn’t that nice,” she said with obvious sarcasm. “It’s nice to know you’re checking to make sure kissing me is as revolting as necessary.”

  “I’m not…didn’t…” He growled. “Can we just do this please?”

  “Twenty seconds and you’ll go away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forever?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Fine. Just get it over with quickly. I have a lot of work to do. And the fact that you’re breathing my air annoys me beyond reason.”

  Wanting this over as badly as she did, Van marched up to her, slipped his arm around her waist and yanked her close against him. They stared at each other for a long moment and then he kissed her. Just like he did Athana earlier. Only Athana had been warm and willing in his arms. Not brittle and cold like a block of ice. Irene didn’t even open her mouth.

  Nope. Nothing, he thought with overwhelming relief. This had all been a horrible mistake. He could—and would—walk away from the honorable and brilliant Irene Conridge, PhD, and never look back. Van almost smiled.

  Until she moved slightly in his arms and her head tilted barely a centimeter to the left. Like a raging wind, lust swept through him. Overwhelming, all-consuming. He’d never felt anything like it. Suddenly he needed to taste her more than he needed to take his next breath. He dragged his tongue against her lips, coaxing her to open to him. To his eternal surprise she did and he plunged deep inside. Her body jerked, her hand reaching up and clutching his shoulder. Probably moments from pushing him away. But he wouldn’t let her. Not if she felt even a modicum of what he was feeling. So he held her tighter, kissed her deeper, let her feel his steel-hard erection held back by his jeans against her stomach.

  The hand clutching his shoulder loosened a bit and then slid into his hair. Her other hand grabbed the back of his neck. And suddenly the cold, brittle block of ice in his arms turned into a raging inferno of lust. Her tongue tangled with his and she groaned into his mouth.

  Before Van realized it, he was walking her back toward her stairs. He didn’t stop kissing her, he wouldn’t. The last thing he wanted was for her to change her mind. He managed to get her to the upstairs hallway before she pulled her mouth away.

  “What are you doing?” she panted out.

  “Taking you to your bed.”

  “Forget it.” And Van, if he were a crying man, would be sobbing. Until uptight Irene Conridge added, “The wall. Use the wall.”

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  Copyright © 2008 by Cindy Roussos

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  ISBN: 0-7582-3246-2