Veil of Night: A Novel

by Linda Howard

  He looked her up and down again; his gaze lingered on her toes for a moment. “Good God, I could eat you up.”

  Butterflies fluttered in Jaclyn’s stomach. It had been years since she’d been nervous or anxious enough to suffer from butterflies, years since she’d simply let go and felt. “So what’s stopping you?”

  “Nothing, thank God,” he said roughly, catching her wrists and sliding his palms up her forearms, then cupped her elbows and pulled her forward until her progress was stopped only by his muscled body, the thin fabric of her pajamas doing nothing to cushion the impact or protect her from his heat. As naturally as if they had been together forever, his hands moved from her elbows to her back, down to her bottom, gripping and urging her hips forward until she was nestled against the hard length of his erection.

  She drew a deep, shaking breath, savoring the feel of him, then tipped her face back and went up on her toes, meeting him as he lowered his head. As first kisses went, this one was like lightning, bright and hot and explosive. Maybe it was because they both knew where this was heading, knew there was no holding back. The kiss was deep and hungry, tongues tangling, one big hand in her hair, her fingers clasping the back of his strong neck. He bent his knees, wrapped one arm around her butt and the other around her back, and lifted her so her feet came off the ground and her head was more level with his. Automatically her legs parted, coiled around him, and he made a rough sound deep in his throat as his penis pushed hard against the softness between her legs.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” he asked, the words so low and rough-edged they were almost a growl. His hand slid down her spine, thrust inside the loose waistband of her cotton pajama pants, stroked over her butt.

  “Back there,” she said, freeing one hand to indicate where “back there” was. He turned and began striding in that direction even as his rough fingers delved lower, probing, and she gasped the last word. Oh, God. What was he—Oh, God! Her legs tightened around him and she instinctively lifted herself a little, though whether she was trying to escape or giving him easier access, she couldn’t have said. Her breasts rubbed against his shirt, turning her nipples into aching points. What he was doing set off explosions all along her nerve pathways, making her squirm and arch and whimper, and they weren’t even on the bed yet.

  He maneuvered her through the doorway into the bedroom and put one knee on the bed, then took her down to the mattress with her still locked around him, his heavy weight crushing her. She’d left on a lamp, preparatory to going to bed; the mellow light washed over them as she pulled at his shirt; he peeled her tank off over her head, then went for her pants. While he stripped them down her legs his mouth closed hungrily over one nipple, sucking strongly, his tongue rasping around and around the puckered point until she almost couldn’t bear it. She made a raw, wordless sound and her back arched, her hands leaving his garments to clasp each side of his head. The hot smell of his skin surrounded her as surely as his touch did, dragging her down beneath the rising tide of sheer need.

  He fought his way out of his clothes and they were both, finally, naked. She felt as if she’d been waiting forever, as if the feel of his hot bare skin against her was something she’d been craving to the edge of madness. Panting, she clung to him, her hips lifting, searching for the inward thrust that would bring them together.

  “Fuck!”

  With that one explosive word, Eric moved away from her, damn him, and just as she was about to grab his ass and pull him back, she realized that he was reaching for his pants, delving in his pocket and pulling out a few condoms. He tossed a couple of them on the bedside table and tore open the one in his hand. Thank God, she thought weakly, horrified that the basic safety measure hadn’t even occurred to her. At least one of them had a few working brain cells left; she wished she’d been the one, but she was grateful nevertheless. Even though she was on the Pill, a condom was a requirement.

  He pulled her into position under him, spread her legs, braced himself on one arm, and with his other hand guided his penis to her. At last, at last. She was wet, ready, so close to the edge she thought she might come without him even making it inside her, if he didn’t hurry. With one quick short push he had the head in, and she gasped as she discovered maybe she wasn’t quite as ready as she’d thought.

  It had been a while for her, so long that she couldn’t immediately think of the last time; maybe that was why the discomfort was so sharp, why for a moment she wavered on the very edge of pushing him away. But need outweighed any other consideration, a need that had her clinging to him even though a whimper of distress almost escaped. She bit it back, and dug her nails into his shoulder muscles as he pushed deeper, his movements slow now, easing him deeper inside. His penis was hot and thick, so thick her flesh quivered around him. She blew out a breath, tried to relax. When he was seated to the hilt he let his weight down on her and framed her head with both hands, his fingers threaded through her hair. “Okay?” His voice was low, the word a breath across her lips.

  “Give me a minute,” she murmured, turning her head to find his lips again. How could something feel so wonderful and so … upsetting at the same time? She felt as if her flesh was under so much stress she might fly apart, but she didn’t want him to stop.

  He gave her the minute she’d asked for, and more. He kissed her, seducing her even though he was already inside her, courting her with his mouth and stroking hands, enticing her until her inner muscles eased and began to clasp his rigid length, until her breath came in rhythmic gasps and her hips began to move. “Now,” she said in a choked tone, clinging to him and closing her mind to everything else except him.

  For tonight, for now, there was nothing else, just the man and the night, and that was all she needed.

  Chapter Four

  JACLYN SLIPPED OUT OF BED AT FIVE O’CLOCK THE NEXT morning and, bemused, stood there listening to the slight snoring sound Eric was making: not really a snore, but more than just breathing. It sounded almost like a soft growl rumbling, barely audible, in his throat: a subconscious warning to any nearby predators maybe?

  She silently picked up her pajamas, guided by the faint glow of the night-light in the bathroom, and tiptoed out of the room—not just to let him sleep, but because she didn’t want to startle him awake. Last night when she’d let him in she’d been so focused on the feel and smell and taste of him, on satisfying that incredibly strong sexual urge, that she hadn’t noticed anything else. After their second bout of lovemaking, though, she’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and spied the big black pistol lying on the bedside table. How could she have missed that when they were fighting to get each other out of their clothes? She felt as if she’d stepped over a rattlesnake without seeing it, or something like that.

  She was uneasy with guns; she didn’t know anything about them, and didn’t want to learn. Never mind that she was a born-and-bred Southerner; she didn’t go hunting, she went to the theater and shopping, which perhaps was a different kind of hunting but so far hadn’t required any weapon other than a credit card.

  Her father wasn’t an outdoorsman, and neither was her ex-husband. In fact, the closest her ex came to the outdoors was when he went to a football game and actually sat in a stadium, drinking beer and feeling manly even though he didn’t particularly care for football, and did it only because it enhanced his image as a lawyerly good old boy. His saving grace, Jaclyn remembered, was that he’d had a sense of humor about it. Steve wasn’t a bad guy, he just wasn’t the guy for her.

  The fact was, she’d never been around guns, had never slept with a man who came to bed armed. What would happen if she shook him awake? Would he grab for the gun? She didn’t want to find out, so she was extra careful not to make any noise as she eased the bedroom door closed.

  Now what?

  That was a question with as many layers as an onion. The first and most obvious answer was to go to the second bathroom. After relieving herself—and noting that sex was evidently like exercise, that unless y
ou did it regularly an energetic bout made you sore—she put on her pajamas, got a drink of water, and combed her fingers through her hair because her brush was in her bedroom.

  Next up: coffee.

  She put on the coffee, and while it was brewing she stood in the kitchen with a hundred things running through her mind. Thinking about Eric made her uneasy, so she focused on work. She had a lot to do today, which meant she had to get an early start. Getting an early start meant she had to dislodge the cop from her bed and send him on his way so she could get ready. Dislodging him meant she had to wake him up. Waking him up meant she might be taking her life in her hands, depending on how jumpy he was, though probably he didn’t go for his gun first thing. After all, if cops regularly shot the women they slept with, it would be all over the news.

  Well, that was a comforting thought. Not.

  Too late, she realized that she should have awakened Eric before she ever got out of bed, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She hadn’t wanted him to see her with bed head, or maybe try to kiss her while she had morning breath, or, God forbid, hear her peeing. None of that ever seemed to bother men, but it sure as hell bothered her. She didn’t know him well enough to let him hear her peeing. Never mind that they’d had sex three times: first the hot, frantic sex, then relaxed sex, and the last time had been sleepy, cuddly sex at two in the morning—she still didn’t know him. She knew a lot of things about him, mainly on the physical level, but she didn’t know him.

  What she did know was that she needed to shower and get ready. She needed to be in the office by seven; she had to move, and move fast. She needed to get the cop out of her bed and out of the house so she could do this, and she didn’t have time for chitchat.

  The coffeemaker finished its burping and spewing, beeping to let her know the coffee was ready. Gratefully she grabbed two cups, then paused and gave them a thoughtful look. Yeah, that would work. She knew just how to get him moving out the door, with a minimum of fuss.

  Eric woke up when Jaclyn eased out of the bedroom. Through slitted eyes he admired the lean, graceful curves of her body just before she slipped out of sight and carefully closed the bedroom door. There wasn’t a lot of her, but what she had was shaped just right, from her small, high breasts with those tight little nipples to the round curve of her ass. And her legs … holy fuck, her legs were a wet dream by themselves, slim and firmly muscled, and satiny smooth. He might never recover from the high of having those legs wrap around him and hug him tight.

  But he should have gone home last night and not stayed in bed with her. Now what? He hated the awkwardness of the morning after. Did she want a morning quickie? He’d be glad to oblige her, except he needed to get home, shower, shave, and change clothes, and get to work, and women tended to get pissed if a man turned them down, no matter how good an excuse he had. Maybe she’d just want to cuddle or—God, he’d rather have a kick to the balls—talk about last night. Why did women always want to talk about the night before, at least if there had been sex involved? Just let it be. They’d had the hots for each other from the minute they’d collided at city hall, he’d asked, and she’d said yes. It wasn’t any more complicated than that.

  He wanted to see her again, yeah, but he didn’t want to dissect everything he’d said and done last night … not that he’d said much. Neither of them had. Between bouts of sex, they’d both slept. When they’d met up in the bar she’d talked easily and with confidence, but after they were in bed talking had been kept to a minimum. It was nice, being with a woman who didn’t think a good time to have an in-depth discussion about anything was while she was having sex. He liked that, liked her … so far.

  But because he wanted to see her again, he figured he couldn’t just get up, get dressed, and leave. He’d have to pave the way, make sure he didn’t do anything to piss her off—such as getting up, getting dressed, and leaving. Which was why he should have done just that last night, with a hug and a kiss and a promise to call her later. For some stupid reason, women didn’t seem to mind a guy leaving at night, but if you stayed until morning all sorts of weird rules kicked in, and damn if he knew what they were.

  He rolled over and looked at the clock, and his eyebrows rose. Just after five. She’d said she was busy this week, and if she had to get up at five o’clock she hadn’t been exaggerating. He had no idea what a wedding planner had to do that took up so much time—how hard could it be?—but she was conscientious about the job, and he liked that. Too many people these days blew off their responsibilities as if only stupid people actually did their jobs to the best of their abilities. Of course, being a cop meant he pretty much dealt with the dregs anyway, but he ran into that privileged, smart-ass, I’m entitled attitude every day in people who hadn’t earned a tenth of the regard they thought they should have.

  He couldn’t hear her moving around anywhere in the house, but he caught the faint aroma of fresh coffee, which was enough to get him out of the bed. A quick visit to the bathroom, then he began pulling on his clothes. He had on his underwear and pants, and was sitting on the bed putting on his socks and shoes, when the door opened and Jaclyn came in, carrying a big mug of coffee in one hand and a … to-go cup in the other.

  “I don’t know how you drink your coffee, so I brought two packs of sugar and two creamers, and a stirrer,” she said, extending the to-go cup to him. Startled, he automatically took it. The sugar, creamer, and stirrer were in a plastic sandwich bag, along with a neatly folded paper napkin. “I’m really rushed, I need to jump in the shower,” she continued. “Could you make sure the door locks behind you as you leave? Thanks, you’re a sweetheart. Call me in a week or so.” She bent down, brushed a quick kiss across his forehead, then disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the snick of the lock as she turned it, and a moment later came the sound of running water.

  Huh.

  He sat there on the bed, staring at the to-go cup in his hand. Get up, get your clothes on, and leave. The only way she could have been any plainer was if she’d pushed him out the door.

  He guessed it was safe to say she wasn’t interested in talking about the night before. For a moment he wavered between relieved and … well, fuck! He was a little pissed. Women were supposed to want to talk about it; that showed they were interested, that they were feeling the vibes and the heat. What was he supposed to think now? That Jaclyn had wanted sex but nothing else, and now that she’d been laid she wanted him gone?

  He set the coffee on the bedside table and finished dressing. As he slipped his service weapon into the holster on his belt he wondered if the pistol had spooked her. She wasn’t a cop groupie, so maybe she hadn’t liked it that he’d automatically placed the weapon within reach. He’d developed the habit when he’d been on the Atlanta P.D., and now it was so ingrained he hadn’t even thought about what he was doing.

  She didn’t seem like the skittish type, but he didn’t know her well enough to decide. For whatever reason, she didn’t want him hanging around for breakfast. Okay, he could oblige her. It wasn’t as if they didn’t want the same thing.

  He looked at the closed bathroom door and muttered, “I feel so used.” Then he grinned, shrugged, grabbed the cup of coffee, and headed downstairs.

  Eric let himself out of the town house, making certain the door was locked behind him. A light rain was falling, and the streetlights gleamed on wet pavement. The predawn air was cool, with a damp breeze blowing from the west; maybe the clouds would hang in there and the day wouldn’t be so miserably hot. He hadn’t heard any weather predictions so the rain kind of surprised him, but it was a pleasant surprise. The officers working traffic might not agree—he’d always hated a rainy day when he was on traffic detail—but as far as he was concerned, any break from the heat was good.

  He stood for a moment on her small, covered front porch, looking around to make certain everything seemed normal—no suspicious cars, no suspicious people—before going down the steps and down the short sidewalk to his car. This was a good ar
ea, so a clunker car would be a jarring note. No one was out and about yet, though some of the other town houses had lights on inside, indicating more early risers.

  Once he was in his car, he removed the lid from the cup of coffee, dumped in both packs of sugar and one of the packs of creamer, then used the little plastic stick to stir it all together. He lifted the cup to take his first swallow. Then the coffee hit his taste buds and he spewed the coffee back into the cup, shuddering. Holy hell, what was that shit?

  Something flavored, and not a good flavor, either. What was it with women, messing with coffee? What was wrong with coffee that tasted like coffee? Who needed maple-strawberry-peanut-whatever? Even worse: not only was the flavor weird, but it also tasted weak. The woman had great legs, but she didn’t know how to make decent coffee.

  In a strange way, that made him like her more. If she’d made great coffee, she would have been too perfect. This was better. God knows he wasn’t perfect, so the fact that her coffee sucked put them more on the same level.

  But he seriously needed a cup of coffee, and no way was he swallowing so much as a sip of that poison. There was an open-all-night service station/convenience store just down the road, though, that would have coffee—maybe not the freshest in the world, but he was used to old, bitter coffee; that was why he used both sugar and creamer, to make it drinkable. Too bad sugar and creamer couldn’t do anything to disguise the awful flavor of Jaclyn’s brew; if they actually started seeing each other on a regular basis, he’d have to take over the coffeemaking, because he couldn’t drink that swill even to be polite.

  When he got to the convenience store, a guy dressed like a construction worker was putting gas in a dusty Ford pickup. A ten-year-old black subcompact was parked off to the side; probably the clerk’s ride. As Eric pulled into a parking slot, the construction worker finished fueling and stood for a moment waiting for his credit card payment slip from the pump. He tore it off, carefully folded it, and put it in his wallet, then got in the truck and drove away.