Heart of the Night

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I’m happy.”

  His eyes chided her.

  “Okay,” she conceded, “so I’ve been going through a rough spell. But it’ll pass.”

  “Only if you make it pass, Susan. Burying the misery in a bottle will only make things worse. You have to find out what’s wrong with your life and take steps to correct it. Do you miss Dirk that much?”

  “I don’t miss Dirk at all. I haven’t missed him since he left.”

  “Then you’re lonely.”

  “I’m not lonely. I have plenty of friends waiting to do things whenever I want. I could have gone out last night if I hadn’t made the mistake of deciding to wait for you to come.” She got to her feet. “That was a big mistake.” She started back toward Sam’s door.

  He caught up with her in a second, easily matching her strides. “Why did you wait? I asked you out, and you turned me down. Forget the fact that I was called in to work. Did you think I had so little pride that I’d take the risk of getting shot down twice on the same day?”

  “I thought you wanted me,” she said with her chin tipped up. “I guess I was wrong.”

  “I do want you.”

  “Strange way you have of showing it.”

  Sam stopped in his tracks, grabbed handfuls of his hair and gave a loud growl of frustration. In the next instant, he captured Susan’s hand, surging ahead with her in tow. She tried to pull back, but she might as well have been handcuffed to him. He didn’t let up until he’d climbed the steps to the small deck off the kitchen and gone inside. Then he backed her into a corner, no more than a foot from the door. With the weight of his body immobilizing hers, he held her face in his hands and kissed her with every bit of the hunger she’d accused him of lacking.

  “Once too often,” he growled into her mouth. “You’ve goaded me once too often.”

  She tried to talk back, but he wouldn’t allow it. His mouth dominated hers, rendering any sound she tried to make little more than a moan.

  Controlling her head with his kiss, he gave free reign to his hands. They slid down her neck, rolled around and over her breasts, and continued downward. With every touch, she burned hotter. She tried to stop him, tried to divert him, to regain a drop of the control she had so totally lost, but he was relentless in his quest. Before she could begin to adjust, his hands were in her sweatpants.

  She wrenched her mouth free for a breath. “Sam!”

  “Too late!” He caught her chin in one hand and recaptured her mouth at the same time that his fingers found the spot between her legs that was already wet with wanting him.

  She moaned again when he stroked her more deeply. It was happening too fast. She had the dreadful fear of his possession being over before she’d been able to enjoy it.

  “Wait,” she gasped. “Give me a minute.”

  “Too late,” he repeated, and in the echo of his words came the rasp of his zipper.

  She tried to capture his wrists, but he was too strong and he moved erratically as he worked himself free of his pants and pushed hers past her knees. When those same knees threatened to give way, she clutched his shoulders. In the next breath, his hands were on the backs of her thighs, spreading her legs and lifting her.

  “Sam,” she whispered frantically. “Sam.” Her back hit the wall with the force of his thrust, and then he was inside, filling her to the limit, and she struggled to catch her breath.

  Sam swore softly. His eyes were closed, his face buried in her hair. “Susan,” he whispered roughly, “Holy Mother…” He withdrew, then surged back, withdrew and surged back.

  With a choked cry, Susan erupted into a powerful climax. She was still in its hold when, stroking her twice more, he came himself. His whole body stiffened. His breath was suspended in his lungs. He let it out slowly in a series of quiet gasps.

  For a long time, neither of them moved. Neither spoke. They simply breathed and recovered and tried to figure out ways to repeat what they’d just been through.

  Susan had never had as satisfying a climax. She wondered whether it was the novelty of Sam, or the fact that he was so different from the other men she’d known, or that he had taken her with a bit of force and a lot of conviction. One thing she had to say for him, he didn’t waffle.

  Forehead against his shoulder, she smiled.

  He felt it. “What?”

  “Savannah thought you were the type to want privacy and the comfort of a bed.” She shot an amused glance toward the door, mere inches from her arm. “Guess she was wrong.” Still smiling, she drew back her head and caught his gaze. “So much for a slow hand.”

  Beneath a damp forehead, Sam’s eyes sparkled. “You want a slow hand? I’ll give you a slow hand.” Cupping her bottom he held her to him and began to shuffle through the kitchen toward the stairs.

  “You’re going to trip, Sam.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Your pants are around your knees.”

  “So are yours.”

  “Mine are lower, and I’m not the one trying to walk.”

  “I can make it.”

  “On the stairs?”

  “Sure.”

  He tripped on the very first one, swore, and finally managed to set her upright on the third step. Hopping from one foot to the other, he got rid of his sneakers, jeans and briefs, then tore off his pea jacket and whipped his shirt over his head without bothering with the buttons.

  Stunned by the sight of him naked, Susan couldn’t say a word when he started in on her own sneakers and pants. He tossed her fur aside as haphazardly as he had his coat, and she didn’t make a sound. She nearly protested when he tugged her sweatshirt over her head, but only because for that short period of time he was out of her sight. With her sweatshirt gone, he unhooked her bra and peeled it back. Then, lowering his head, he began to hungrily devour her breasts.

  They made love for the second time on the stairs. While it wasn’t as fast as the first time had been, it was nowhere near the slow savoring Susan had wanted. That came the third time, on the king-sized bed that was the sole piece of furniture in Sam’s bedroom. And by the time they were done, Susan was in such a state of divine exhaustion that she couldn’t have raised a glass to her lips if she tried.

  CHAPTER 14

  “That was Randy Travis, I’m Jared Snow, and you’re in cool country, 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. Right now it’s twelve-forty, that’s twenty minutes before one on another Monday night in March. If you’re lookin’ for the best of the best country sounds, you’ve come to the right place. Before the clock chimes the hour, I’ll be kickin’ up a new one from Sawyer Brown, an oldie from Linda Ronstadt, and a duet from Crystal Gayle and Gary Morris that’ll get you in the mood for love. So refill that coffee cup, curl up, and listen in to 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence, and me.” His voice went lower and more sandy. “Put down your pencil, darlin’, and take a break. That’s the word from Jared Snow in the heart of the night.…

  The music rose to swallow his sexy purr, but its memory lingered for a long time within Savannah, and while it did, she put down her pencil, folded up her legs, and wrapped her arms around her knees. Listening to Jared on the radio was a sweet torture, yet she wouldn’t have turned him off for the world. For months he had made her nights a little less dark. Now he made her days brighter, too.

  Though she hadn’t seen him since she’d left him in her bed on Saturday morning, they had talked on the phone many times. He knew she was on a trial, and he seemed to understand the demands that brought. So he called her for two minutes here, two minutes there.

  She couldn’t have told him how much those calls meant to her if she’d tried. She wasn’t sure if she understood it herself. To have become so quickly dependent on him was a little frightening.

  Even more frightening was the frustration she felt at having to settle for phone calls. She wanted to be with him again, lie with him again. Of course, he worked while she slept, and he slept while she worked. It was not the most convenient arrangement.

  With a
deep sigh, she unfolded her legs, took up her pencil, and edited several thoughts she had jotted down earlier. The trial had gotten off to a good start that morning, with the jury impaneled by noon and the opening arguments heard that afternoon.

  She was lucky that she had worked on Sunday and come prepared.

  She wasn’t wild about opening arguments. They were tough for a prosecutor. She could give her all, only to have the defense stand up and dramatically refute it. Whereas in the course of a trial there were various tactics she could use to call time-out if she felt the momentum was against her, she was helpless during opening arguments. She had to sit quietly through to the end, when she could finally launch into her case.

  Closing arguments were easier, since the prosecution went last. Unless the judge chose to give a particularly long-winded set of instructions to the jury, the prosecutor’s words were the freshest in their minds when they began to deliberate. That didn’t mean she always won her case, but it did give her a psychological edge.

  Any edge she could get would be a help on this case. There were three defendants with, all told, twenty-six counts against them. A large part of her job was going to be making sure that the jury didn’t get confused, and in that respect, she had her work cut out for her.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she put herself to the task. Over the next hour, she reviewed the testimony of each of Tuesday’s witnesses, as she had prepared them in the days and weeks before. When she was satisfied that she’d be able to lead them through direct examination without pause, she tossed down her pencil, turned sideways on the desk chair, draped an arm over its back, and thought of Jared. Instantly, the tension that had held her body in its grip while she worked eased, giving way to a soothing warmth.

  She didn’t know when she would see him again, but she knew she would. Not that she was looking far down the road. A week, a month, two months—as long as their relationship lasted, she would enjoy it. She wouldn’t get caught by great expectations that fell flat.

  “It’s ten before two,” he told her in a low, lazy drawl, “and I’m glad you’re still with me. We’re not missin’ a thing being inside, since there’s no moon in sight. CIC weather calls for cloudy skies lingering through the overnight into morning, then burning off by noon, with temperatures climbing to the upper fifties. Not bad for March. But then, nothing’s ever bad here at 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence, where we’re serving up a little country in the city all day, every day. Right now, I’m kickin’ around with the Oak Ridge Boys. Jared Snow in the heart of the night, stay with me.…”

  Savannah’s eyes were closed, her expression soft, her chin tilted up just a tiny bit, as if she were awaiting a kiss. When Jared’s voice gave way to four-part harmony, her eyes opened with a start.

  Standing abruptly, she packed her briefcase for the morning, hurried into the bedroom, undressed, and climbed into bed. There she lay curled on her side with a pillow hugged close and tried not to think about the ache deep inside her. It was only when Jared came on the air again and assured her that he would be there until six that she managed to relax and fall asleep.

  * * *

  “Don’t touch that dial. You’re tuned to cool country, 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. I’m Jared Snow, and it’s one-oh-four on a starlit Tuesday night. If you caught the PC game, you’re probably celebrating along with the Friars. If you didn’t catch the game, you’d better know we made the finals, ’cause it’s gonna to be all over the papers come morning.” Susan imagined him smiling as he said, “Good goin’, guys.” The smile lingered, but the voice got back to serious seduction. “Here at CIC Providence, I’m kickin’ off five in a row with Anne Murray, who’s singin’ us all a love song. At 95.3 FM, this is Jared Snow in the heart of the night. Listen and love.…”

  Susan sat stock still in the echo of his voice. Too soon Anne Murray took over, but Anne Murray wasn’t half as exciting as Jared Snow. The man had come to take on a new identity since Sunday. His voice was as divine as ever, and he still stood for power and prestige, but when she pictured him now, he had the face and body of Sam Craig.

  Absently, she jiggled the glass she held. In the past months, the clink of ice cubes had come to be a reassuring sound, and since she had only had two drinks all night and wasn’t even high, the reassurance registered.

  Sam was working. He’d been on duty since noon on Monday, which meant that she hadn’t seen him since he’d dropped her back at Newport a short hour before that. How he could work, she didn’t know. They hadn’t slept for more than two hours at a stretch on Sunday night, and between stretches there had been a most delightful and exhausting activity.

  With a feline grin, she took a sip of her drink and slipped a little lower against the bedpillows.

  Sam Craig was a gem. He had done things to her that no man had ever done—and she had done things back that were just as shocking to her. She and Sam fought. They could rile each other at the snap of a finger. But they were red-hot in bed.

  Her grin remained as she recalled her thoughts of the week before. Oh yes, the bulge in Sam’s jeans lived up to its promise, so much so that she wasn’t dumping him so fast. Her relationship with him could never last—he just wasn’t in her class—but while it did, she planned to enjoy it. Men with the raw, animal hunger, not to mention the stamina of a Sam Craig didn’t come along often.

  Poor Savannah, she thought. So innocent. She had no idea what she was missing, and Susan did believe, at last, that Savvy was missing a lot. There had never been anything between Savvy and Sam. She couldn’t possibly have been so blasé about him if there had been. Sam was the type to be remembered with a blush and a sigh.

  Susan blushed. And sighed. She looked down at the magazine on her lap. While he worked, she was going to decorate his house. He didn’t know it yet, of course, but he wouldn’t object. He couldn’t object. She was experienced at decorating, and she had impeccable taste. It would give her something to do. It would give her an excuse not to have lunch with Julie Devore on Thursday or play cards at Monica Lang’s on Friday. And it would put to good use the months of Architectural Digest that were gathering dust in the magazine rack in the powder room.

  Taking a slow sip of scotch, she studied the issue that lay open on her lap. Sam’s place should be clean and modern. She wouldn’t crowd it with furniture, or with artwork. Dennis Becker would be the decorator to use for an entree to the best stores in New York. Dennis was a friend. He would help her plan everything out, then she would show Sam the plans. He would be hooked.

  Anne Murray segued into Alabama’s latest. Sliding even lower in bed, Susan balanced the glass on the magazine on her stomach and folded her hands below it.

  Life was looking up.

  * * *

  Megan looked down at her fingernails, then curled her hands into balls so that she couldn’t see what remained of nails that had once been finely shaped and polished. In the course of the last two weeks, she had systematically chipped away at the polish, then bitten away at the nails. They looked like she’d clawed her way out of a tomb of dirt and rock, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She needed an outlet for the anguish she felt inside.

  She needed a manicure. But that was out of the question now. Most everything she had hoped for was out of the question now. Even Will seemed beyond her grasp—not because he wanted it that way, but because she did. She couldn’t face him and expect his respect, not after the way she’d bungled things.

  He was so good. Too good. His sole fault was in falling in love with a loser.

  “That was Ricky Van Shelton with ‘Life Turned Her That Way,’” came the slow, deep voice from the radio nearby. “Jared Snow, here, wrapping up a long Wednesday, opening up a new Thursday with you. It’s two twenty-five in the A.M. I’ll be playing the coolest of cool country sounds until six, so stay tuned to 95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. We’ve got greats like Reba McEntire, Willie Nelson, and Glen Campbell on tap, but first let’s kick in to the sweet harmony of Naomi and Wynonna, the Judds. This is Jared Snow in
the heart of the night. Stay cool.…”

  Stay cool. Stay cool. Megan closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and willed herself into Jared Snow’s peace. She had missed him, missed these moments of escape. She hadn’t wanted to ask for a radio at the hospital, and before that, well, she could have asked until she was blue in the face and it wouldn’t have done a bit of good.

  They were animals, the two of them. Animals.

  Deliberately she unclenched her teeth and forced herself to take another deep breath.

  She was healing. The bruises on her body had turned a sickly yellow, but at least she wasn’t as sore. The hot baths helped. She’d been taking three or four a day since she’d come home. She doubted she’d ever quite feel clean again, but the baths were soothing.

  And Will had had the jacuzzi fixed. He was so good.

  Slowly she opened her eyes to the ledgers that lay open on the desk before her. As good as Will was, he was still a lousy entrepreneur. She didn’t know what to do with the mess of his books now, any more than she had before.

  At least then she had had a solution in sight.

  The prospects of that looked dim now. She had every intention of going along with the original plan, but she would bet her diamond wedding band that she would end up with nothing.

  The bastards.

  Especially him. She couldn’t believe his arrogance. He thought he was so smart, when in fact he was nothing more than a lying, cheating fool. His mistake, she decided, was in underestimating her. Somewhere along the line, he decided that she was a not-so-bright, spineless woman, and in all fairness, perhaps she had given him reason to think that. But he was in for a surprise. She’d show him who had the brains.

  Savannah would be pleased.

  * * *

  Jared sat in Savannah’s office at four-thirty on Thursday, waiting for her to return from court. He shouldn’t have come, he knew. She needed space. But Saturday morning seemed light years away. He had begun to wonder whether he had imagined it. Talking on the phone was too short, too distant. He had to see her.