One-Night Man

by Jeanie London

  Josh was a gambling man, all right. Fire leaped into those deep green eyes and he flashed her a grin that belonged on the cover of one of her novels. "Black Jack. One hand takes it."

  "Strip poker." Lennon tossed the unopened deck at him, and to his credit, he caught it in midair. "I plan to take that so-called costume off you one piece at a time."

  10

  "I'M AFRAID WE DON'T HAVE another vacant room in the hotel, and I'll need Ms. McDarby's permission before I can release the last room in the art gallery's block," the desk clerk said nervously. "No one's picking up in her suite, but I've left a voice mail message. As soon as she gets back to me--"

  "Send Vernon out to speak with me, young lady." Regina Penn-Eastman issued a curt nod, effectively dismissing the desk clerk, who paled considerably at the familiarity with which Regina mentioned her general manager.This was the Ch"teau Royal, an exclusive hotel she'd done business with frequently through the years, whenever she'd been required to entertain in the French Quarter. If they could manage to find a room for her grandson to attend this art orgy, they could certainly find one for her.

  "Mother, if they don't have room, what can the manager possibly do?" Davinia cast her a beseeching look Regina knew very well meant her daughter-in-law hoped to avoid a confrontation.

  Davinia always hoped to avoid a confrontation, though, and Regina waved her aside impatiently. She would not move from this front desk, except to head up to the suite this hotel had better quickly provide for her.

  "Why don't you have the manager just track Josh down? He's bound to be around here somewhere," Joshua suggested, giving his wife's hand a reassuring squeeze. "Then we can discuss this civilly. Unless, of course, you've forgotten to mention accepting an invitation to this event."

  Regina met her son's gaze. He'd taken after the Penn side of the family with his light brown eyes and hair. A handsome man even in his mid-sixties, he was tall like his father had been, and balding slightly like Regina's father had once been.

  Her grandson was the one who'd inherited her late husband's dark good looks. In fact, the last time she'd seen her grandson--at his grandfather's funeral two years ago--he'd matured so much that for a moment Regina had thought she was looking at her husband from fifty years before.

  But her husband would never have been so rude or distant. She and her husband may not have shared a bed since conceiving their son, but they'd been friends--two people who'd faced life and their choices with respect for each other.

  "You know very well I haven't received an invitation to this event. Nor would I be standing here crashing it if not for your son, who has apparently lost his mind. But I will not leave this hotel until I track him down and find out what he's doing here--besides making the family look ridiculous."

  Joshua winced. Davinia twisted her hands. Their lack of control in their only son's life had been a source of distress for many years.

  Regina had never been able to help mend that particular rift, though the good Lord knew she'd tried everything she could think of. But her grandson had chosen to keep his distance. When she'd heard through the societal grapevine that he was attending Quinevere McDarby's memorial gathering of eclectic weirdos, she was sure there'd been a mistake.

  Her grandson didn't attend public family events if he could help it, and most of the time he could. Regina knew he wouldn't have surfaced without a reason. His appearance at this memorial art gallery opening was a completely unexpected move that made it appear as if the Eastmans actually endorsed this collection of expensive sex toys.

  Just the thought stopped the proper flow of air to her brain, making Regina feel faint. She'd thought about calling her grandson and demanding that he come home and explain himself, but, quite simply, she feared he'd ignore her. And she couldn't bear to be ignored. No matter what her grandson thought of her efforts to steer him in the right direction during his formative years, Regina had always had his best interests at heart.

  No, she wouldn't give him a chance to avoid her. She'd find out herself and in the process publicly disabuse any and all of the notion that the Eastman family proper sanctioned Quinevere McDarby's shrine.

  "Mrs. Eastman." Vernon Carstairs, the impeccably groomed general manager of the Ch"teau Royal, swept into the front lobby from a door leading to the executive offices. "Jocelyn just informed me you were here. Please, please come into my office where we can talk privately."

  She imagined he'd just love to tuck her away in his office, where the other guests wouldn't overhear his explanation of why he was refusing her service. Well, she wasn't about to start negotiations by making concessions.

  "Thank you, but that's unnecessary. I'm sure we can sort this out quickly. I'm eager to get to my suite." She smiled, an imposing smile if Vernon's stiff back was any indication.

  "What seems to be the trouble?"

  "My family and I want to check into the hotel," she said, her son and his wife flanking her in a show of support that immediately had the desired effect.

  Vernon silently faced them, his usually stoic expression unable to hide his panic that the party confronting him had no intention of being reasonable. "My dear, dear, Mrs. Eastman," he murmured. "As much as we adore you and your family staying with us at the Ch"teau Royal, I'm afraid we do have a problem. It's Mardi Gras and I have no vacancies."

  "None at all, Vernon?" Regina asked curiously. "That's odd. I recall James mentioning that management always reserves several suites for VIP guests during special events."

  James Burgess was the distinguished owner of this property, and a personal friend, a spectacularly wealthy hotelier whose empire spanned three continents.

  Vernon frowned. "That's quite true, but Mr. Burgess sent us several guests for the Mardi Gras festivities, and of course, I installed them in the reserved suites."

  "I suppose that just leaves the available suite with the art gallery block, then," Joshua said.

  Regina could tell by the way panic warred with annoyance in Vernon's beady eyes that he wished they didn't have this information about another guest's reservation. Lest he think his employees had been indiscreet, she said, "I learned through an acquaintance that the suite was being held, Vernon."

  True enough. Annalise DesJardin, a highly respectable, if somewhat eccentric woman, had been eager to call Regina with the news that her grandson had made an appearance at the McDarby gala. Too eager, actually. While Annalise devoted her attention and money to good causes, she spent too much time concerned with her neighbors' business.

  "Surely you understand that I'm unable to release that suite without the gallery coordinator's permission," Vernon said. "I couldn't possibly."

  "Then why don't you call her?"

  As a man who'd catered to New Orleans's high society for decades, Vernon Carstairs knew all about the history between the Eastmans and the McDarbys. He ran a nervous hand through his neatly combed hair.

  "Couldn't we just stay with our son?" Davinia asked. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

  Regina seriously doubted her grandson wouldn't mind returning to his room to find his parents and grandmother installed in it, but Davinia, the bleeding heart, just couldn't handle the pressure. She buckled under Vernon's obvious discomfort, when Regina was only getting warmed up.

  "There you go, Vernon. An option. Why don't you look into it," Joshua said with a strained smile.

  He didn't have to ask twice. Returning through the executive office door, Vernon quickly reappeared behind the front desk, where he brushed aside a desk clerk without a word of explanation and pounded so fiercely on the computer keyboard that Regina could hear his tapping fingers across the distance.

  All at once Vernon's face positively blanched, and she watched, fascinated as he reached for a desk clerk, grabbing his uniformed arm so sharply that the young man winced.

  Thus began a tense exchange that left Vernon paling further, to a shade of sickly white that made her son whisper, "Not good news, I'd say. What do you think?"

  "Definite
ly not," she agreed. "Wonder what your son's playing at this weekend?"

  Now it was Davinia's turn to grow pale.

  Regina turned to her and smiled reassuringly. "We'll sort this all out, never fear."

  Davinia managed to nod, but Regina guessed that was exactly what she was afraid of. A trim attractive woman who'd kept herself up through the years, she was a good wife to Joshua, even if she'd been a bit too softhearted and emotional as a mother. Still, Regina couldn't fault her for doting on her only son. After all, Regina still doted on hers.

  She only wished that Davinia's efforts had yielded a similarly positive result. But her grandson had thwarted all their best attempts to guide him, and given that Regina currently stood in this hotel trying to crash a party she had absolutely no desire to attend, she'd say he was still up to his old tricks.

  Vernon finally rallied the courage to leave the front desk, but Regina could tell by his waxen expression that it had been an effort of sheer will.

  "Doesn't look good," Joshua said.

  And it wasn't.

  "Are you telling me that my grandson isn't staying in this hotel?" Regina inquired skeptically in response to Vernon's explanation. "There must be some sort of mistake."

  "I didn't say he isn't staying here. I can't be sure, because there's no room registered in his name. His credit card is on file, though." Vernon cast a wild glance at the guests forced to sidestep the Eastman party, who were blocking access to the front desk.

  "Whose room is he paying for?" Regina demanded, and for a second, she thought Vernon might actually swoon.

  "Out with it, old fellow," Joshua said, and Regina braced herself for an answer Vernon's reaction strongly suggested she wouldn't want to hear. "Who is it?"

  A breathless silence hung in the air, despite the activity in a lobby filled with people, despite the sounds of phones ringing and computer printers clicking from behind the front desk. By all rights, the manager's faint voice shouldn't have carried over all the other noise. But it did, loud and clear.

  "Lennon McDarby."

  Davinia gasped. Joshua chuckled, and Regina cast him a sidelong glance that quickly wiped the amusement from his face.

  "Install us in the remaining art gallery room this instant, Vernon," Regina commanded.

  "But the room block," he squeaked. "I can't release it without Ms. McDarby's consent."

  "Send someone up to knock on her door," Joshua suggested.

  "She's not answering," Vernon said, holding his ground.

  Okay, time for some serious action, Regina decided.

  "What's the name on your art gallery block?" she demanded, in a voice loud enough to halt the activity around the front desk as people turned to stare.

  Vernon gaped at her, apparently not understanding the question.

  "The name," she insisted. "The name of the event you've reserved all these suites and conference rooms for?"

  She could tell the instant understanding dawned. Vernon's professional facade collapsed and he said in a weak voice, "The opening of the Joshua Eastman Gallery."

  "And what's my family name, Vernon?" she intoned. "My son's name? My daughter-in-law's name?"

  Eastman.

  The man had the grace to blush before motioning them toward the front desk.

  THREE BOOKS AGO, Lennon had written a story where her heroine had done a sexy Regency version of a striptease in an attempt to convince her rakish hero that she wasn't the virginal young debutante he believed her to be. Of course, her heroine had been a virgin--a condition remedied by the conclusion of the scene--but the young lady hadn't needed prior sexual experience to know how to entice her man. She'd just needed to watch his eyes and follow his signals.

  That's exactly what Lennon did now.Arousal flashed on Josh's face as he watched her prop her hose-clad feet--she'd already lost both shoes in a run of losing hands a few deals back--onto the back of the nearby sofa and toss her losing three-of-a-kind hand onto the table. His nostrils flared as he exhaled an audible breath. His chest heaved as he folded his arms across it and settled back to enjoy the show.

  A slight smile played on her lips as she inched the hem of her fitted skirt up her thigh, and Josh's gaze swung to the area like a tourist spotting shelter from the rain.

  This was power.

  Lennon recognized the sensation, having fallen beneath its spell last night. Now she wove her own spell, created her fantasy, and Josh, bless his heart, played his part without direction.

  After losing the last four hands running--five card draw, nothing wild--Josh made for a very attractive sight with his bared chest and feet, his jeans button still open.

  Let him enjoy his moment, while Lennon enjoyed hers. He'd had the upper hand all last night, and again this morning when he'd walked around naked and intruded on her shower. Two could play this game. And though she'd planned to accept his invitation for a fling tonight at the masque, she'd bump up her timetable, since the opportunity had presented itself.

  The poor guy didn't have a clue what he was in for.

  Scooting forward on the chair, she hiked her skirt high enough to reach the waist of her panty hose, giving him a glimpse of her silk-covered backside in profile. His sharp inhalation signaled the exact moment he realized she wasn't wearing panties.

  Lennon's smile deepened.

  She had his attention, all right. She could feel rather than see his gaze follow her hands as she rolled the hose down along her thighs. It was like the glancing heat of a lightning bolt. Leaning back just a bit, she lifted her leg to give him a better view.

  Each new move in this performance was designed to entice and arouse, and it did--not just the man sitting across the table in rapt attention, but Lennon herself.

  Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

  She remembered the quote from a college political science class, but as she slid down her hose to the music of Josh's heavy breathing, Lennon decided it applied to sex, as well.

  His gaze swallowed her when she leaned forward in an exaggerated motion, letting her hair swing over her shoulder and cover her face in what she hoped was a sexy move. Peeling away the last of the hose, she paused for dramatic effect, before sending them sailing in an arc toward him.

  They landed on target, draping over his shoulder and arm.

  The low growl that rumbled through the otherwise quiet room told Lennon he appreciated his win. And when he pulled them into his hands and audaciously lifted the crotch to his face, every nerve in Lennon's body prickled.

  She swiveled on the chair. "Your turn to deal." She forced her voice to sound casual, and was gratified to note there was nothing casual whatsoever about Josh's expression.

  His inky-black brows furrowed over smoldering eyes. The hard lines of his jaw were clenched, his lips compressed in a face sharpened with wanting. Dropping her gaze to his bare chest, she found the rise and fall caused by his rapid breathing very satisfying, though she wouldn't have minded X-ray vision to see through the table to his crotch. Just to gauge all the effects of her striptease.

  With studied motions, he grabbed the deck of cards and shuffled. "Cut."

  His voice was a rough growl, one more husky reminder of sex in a moment filled with all sorts of sensual innuendo. From sitting half-naked across from each other to the deck of cards that symbolized the promise of more bare skin to come, Lennon found the pace of her own breathing mounting as she reached across the table and removed half the deck.

  She watched him deal the cards with strong, blunt-tipped fingers that made her remember the feel of them stroking her flesh. More quivers in her tummy, when what she really needed to do was concentrate.

  Dragging her gaze to the table, she picked up her cards and fanned them. She surveyed her hand, resisted the urge to smile, and wagered her skirt. If Josh could beat her straight flush, he deserved to see what was below.

  Cards flipped.

  No skirt for Josh. Not yet, anyway.

  "Mmm. Now to solve the mystery of the black sheep." Lenno
n leaned back in her chair and settled in to enjoy the show. "Is he a briefs man or a boxers man?" she speculated. "Or does he wear nothing at all? Have I won this game already? There can't possibly be much left."

  "Patience, chere," he admonished with a roguish grin while unfolding his lean body and rising to his bare feet.

  He was powerful and oh so male, and standing so close. If Lennon breathed deeply, she could probably smell his unique scent, all Josh with a hint of healthy I-sprinted-through-the-French-Quarter sweat.

  She didn't breathe, though, didn't even think her heart was beating at all as his strong fingers unfastened the zipper at his waist, that expanse of silkily furred chest and all those shifting muscles demanding her complete attention.

  The fabric parted slowly, slowly....

  She hadn't won the game. Not yet, anyway.

  He grinned.

  She inhaled a breath that sounded loud in the quiet suite and made his grin even wider.

  So the man thought he had the upper hand, did he?

  All Lennon could do was fold her arms over her chest and try to look bored as he wriggled his jeans down trim hips, revealing that he was indeed a briefs man. And, oh my, he did look fine with that snug white cotton hugging his rear.

  "It ain't over till it's over, charity case." He shoved the jeans down his thighs, muscles rippling and angling with the motion. "You should know that."

  "Looks to me like it won't be long now," she said boldly, only nothing about her voice sounded bold--bothered maybe, breathless absolutely, but nowhere near bold.

  Okay, so their little power game had shifted sides again. He controlled the moment. But how could he not, when he kicked away his pants to reveal strong, masculine legs with a fine covering of silky black hair? The sight made her remember how it had felt to part her own thighs and ride against that hard length of muscle.

  Her sex pulsed in response, and she shut her eyes to savor the sensation. He definitely had the control here, and judging by the way he bent to retrieve his jeans, gifting her with a prime view of the bulge between his hips, he knew it, too.