Midnight Fantasies

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Indecision gripped him like a steel band. He shifted his weight and something crunched under his boot. Michael moved his foot and looked down.

  A smashed foam peanut.

  CHAPTER TEN

  REBECCA SPRAYED HARRY’S striped pajamas with wrinkle remover, then smoothed her hand down his arm. “So, Harry old boy, when exactly does your good luck kick in? Do you have a switch or something, because I’m getting a little desperate here.”

  He grinned back and she sighed. Judging from the number of costumes she’d rented for the party tonight, it was going to be a roaring success. And Sonia would look spectacular in the outfit she’d made, better than she would have looked in it. The woman had hinted that she and Michael were going to reconcile, but Rebecca hadn’t commented—and she’d silenced Quincy with a glare.

  She was happy for Michael, because he’d told her one night with their heads on a pillow how he’d had high hopes for his marriage, that he’d taken his vows seriously. She hoped to marry a man like him someday.

  “There,” she said, giving Harry a finishing pat. “If I’m going to keep you around, you must at least look presentable.” She shook her head over the striped pajamas. “And I’ll see what I can do about some new duds.”

  She sighed and walked around the showroom, turning off lights and admiring the quirky space that she’d made her own. The costume business wasn’t for everyone, but she truly loved it. She fingered the purple velvet cape of the vampire outfit in the window, remembering the night that Michael had walked in on her—the beginning of the end of something special.

  Rebecca angled her head.

  Why not? The last time she’d put it on, she’d been interrupted. But she hadn’t forgotten how sexy it had made her feel, and right now, she could use an ego boost.

  Rebecca undressed the mannequin, then moved into the red dressing room to don the decadent outfit. The mirrors and soft cushions sent a heaviness to her midsection—how many times had she and Michael made love here? She’d lost count.

  Regret was a bitter taste in her mouth. Maybe if she hadn’t been so forward, a relationship could have developed more slowly as they worked together. Maybe for him the novelty had worn off and now he was embarrassed. Maybe he was one of those guys who thought there were two kinds of women—women you sleep with, and women you have a relationship with.

  No, deep down she knew Michael was different, that his sensitivity ran as deep as his passion. He must love Sonia profoundly if he was considering getting back with her, and that kind of love she could only admire.

  She undressed, then redressed in the costume slowly, and pretended she was readying herself for Michael. She certainly had enough memories to last a while—the way his fingers slid over her skin, the way he breathed her name during his release, the way he slept sprawled in the nude.

  And she’d come to appreciate her own body more—the sensitivity of her breasts and neck, and her ability to pull the most exquisite orgasm from his body.

  In her life, Michael Pierce would be the one who got away. Then she scoffed at herself—she’d never really had him to begin with. But it had been delicious while it lasted.

  Just as she settled the cape around her shoulders, a knock on the door sounded. She frowned—probably Quincy coming to try to drag her to the party. Or Mrs. Conrad, who couldn’t comprehend the word Closed when she needed something.

  She fastened the cape’s front closures and headed toward the front door, then stopped when she saw Michael on the other side. Her stomach pitched and quick tears sprang to her eyes. Had he come to tell her about Sonia?

  She pressed her lips together as she unlocked the door. A cold breeze blew in when she opened the door, lifting the hem of the cape.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.” He scanned her from head to toe. “You’re wearing my favorite outfit.”

  Rebecca bit the end of her tongue and said nothing. “I…I missed you at the party.”

  “How’s the party going?”

  “We’re a big hit, thanks to you.”

  She returned his smile. “I’m glad.” And she was.

  “Can I come in?”

  Rebecca nodded and stepped back. He was wearing the Zorro costume, sans the mask. She closed her eyes briefly and steeled herself. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” he said, coming to stand in front of her. “I was at the party surrounded by friends and customers—”

  “And your wife,” she cut in softly.

  “My ex-wife.” He exhaled noisily. “I was standing there, and I should have been thrilled that my business is back on track, and that everyone was having a great time, but all I could think about was you.”

  Her heart bobbed.

  He cupped her jaw and caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Rebecca, I don’t know where this is going, or if you even want it to go anywhere, but I’m crazy about you, and I want you in my life.”

  She swallowed hard, afraid to hope. “Not just in your bed?”

  “No.” Then he pulled her close and stroked her hair.

  She inhaled the minty scent on his neck and clung to him, joyous disbelief coursing through her.

  “But,” he added, “you do realize, don’t you, that we spend a third of our lives in bed?”

  She laughed and tipped her head back. “You were so distant to me the other day.”

  He made a rueful noise. “I could tell I was getting in too deep, and it scared me.”

  “So what made you change your mind?”

  Michael pursed his mouth. “It’s hard to explain, but my mother told me once to look for signs when I make a decision, and I’ll know if I’m making the right one.”

  “And?”

  “And tonight I got my sign.”

  She frowned. “What was it?”

  He released her long enough to retrieve something out of his pocket, then held out a smashed foam peanut.

  Rebecca gasped and took the peanut, dumbfounded at the implication. Lana would never believe this story—or maybe she would. Closing her fingers over the flattened little piece of nothing, she whispered, “Thanks, Harry.”

  Michael lifted an eyebrow. “Who’s Harry?”

  “It’s a long story,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “But it has a happy ending.”

  SHOW AND TELL

  Kimberly Raye

  CHAPTER ONE

  “DESCRIBE YOUR ULTIMATE fantasy.”

  Laney Merriweather nibbled the tip of her pencil as a dozen possibilities raced through her mind. Everything from a candlelit dinner for two to a satin-covered bed full of red rose petals. Like most women, she’d entertained each scenario at one time or another in her private thoughts. They were okay, but ultimate? That implied special. Different. Her most secret longing.

  Her gaze went to the woman who’d read the latest instruction in the ten-question test to win a basket of free body essentials—everything from chocolate body paint to strawberry massage oil. A smile tilted Laney’s lips. Decked out in a neon purple lace teddy with a matching garter and fishnet stockings, Karen Donahue was a walking advertisement for her newest moneymaking venture—Wildchild Lingerie. Wildchild was a cross between Tupperware and Victoria’s Secret where women booked parties in their homes, primarily on Tuesday nights when the local VFW had its weekly meeting and poker extravaganza. While the men got together and played cards, the women gathered to shop and scarf down pigs in a blanket. Or, in this case, peanuts and pretzels since Eden Hallsey—tonight’s hostess—lived above The Pink Cadillac, the only bar in Cadillac, Texas, and the location for this particular party.

  Karen had arrived an hour ago, suitcase in hand, and put on quite a show, featuring a collection of racy lingerie, scrumptious body lotions and oils and even a few naughty “toys,” such as feather body massagers and a sexy board game called Around the Bedroom in Eighty Ways.

  Laney’s gaze lingered on the Wildchild demonstrator. It wasn’t so much that Karen had a fairly attractive body for a forty
-year-old mother of three that stirred Laney’s admiration. It was the fact that she sat on the edge of the bartop, calling out intimate questions without so much as a hint of self-consciousness. She might well have been wearing jeans and a Western shirt, calling out N24’s and B9’s down at the bingo hall, rather than sitting half-naked in front of a barful of women. She was “out there,” open and honest with her likes and dislikes, and she wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it.

  Laney glanced down at her own white button-up blouse, expensive but painfully low-key, her boring gray slacks and her low-heeled pumps. A sigh vibrated up her throat. To have even half of Karen’s freedom. Now that was Laney’s ultimate fantasy.

  Laney penned her answer, grabbed a handful of peanuts and waited for the next question.

  “Okay, girls. Now I want you to describe the ultimate man to go with that fantasy.” The instructions met with a round of hooting and hollering. “And don’t forget, the hottest description wins an extra door prize.” She held up a pair of fuzzy red handcuffs and winked. “To keep that man right where you want him.”

  Before Laney knew what she was doing, she started to write. This answer was a no-brainer, since she’d fantasized about the same man for as long as she could remember. It didn’t matter what sort of scenario she set up in her head—from a rough and tough cowboy to Tarzan himself—the man who played the lead always had the same dark hair, the same greener than green eyes, the same charming, slide-off-those-undies-and-let-me-take-a-peek smile.

  A flush of heat crept up her face as she wrote and she took a swallow of punch. Just thinking about him always generated the same effect. Heat. Lots of heat.

  “The tough part is over,” Karen finally announced after a few more questions regarding setup for the fantasy and the appropriate clothing—if any. Her eyes gleamed as she rubbed her hands together. “Let’s hear the juicy details.”

  Karen went around the bar, asking for volunteers to share their fantasies. Laney bit her tongue and suppressed a strange sense of longing as she wadded up her piece of paper and tossed it into the nearest ashtray. She’d learned a long time ago not to waste her time wanting what she couldn’t have. She had her hands full as it was, walking the straight and narrow path as the only child of ultraconservative, small town judge Marshall Merriweather.

  Turning her attention back to Karen, she blinked her eyes against the sudden stabbing pain of an oncoming migraine and tried to concentrate on the titillating answers being called out.

  “I didn’t hear any naughty answers from you.” The comment came a half hour later from a tall, voluptuous blonde who wore a black tank top and shorts and a bar apron with The Pink Cadillac emblazoned in neon pink lettering.

  The game had just ended and all the party attendees had disbursed, some crowding around Karen and filling in their order forms, while others scarfed down the snacks laid out across the bar top.

  “‘Naughty’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”

  “Well, it should be. ‘Naughty’ makes the world go ’round, honey.” Eden fingered the pile of lingerie Karen had deposited in front of Laney a few moments ago for her browsing pleasure. “Although I have to admit that some of this stuff gives new meaning to the word.”

  “Careful, otherwise the entire town’s liable to realize that you aren’t half the bad girl you make out to be. This bar is just a front.”

  Eden Hallsey had been the owner and operator of The Pink Cadillac for ten years, since her parents—the previous owners—had retired to New Mexico and left their only daughter to carry on the family legacy. Eden continued to serve up the best drinks in town and, thanks to her appearance and her bad girl attitude, gave the local church ladies plenty to wag their tongues about.

  Laney’s gaze shot to Martha Pennburg, one of the women in question, who sat in the far corner and did her best to look appalled by the risqué items spread on the table before her. Laney had no doubt Martha had come out of pure nosiness. First thing tomorrow, she’d be on the phone to her friends, discussing tonight’s “disgraceful exhibition” at length.

  Laney also knew she would be included in the gossip, but she could withstand a little heat if it meant seeing Eden. Laney was so busy in Austin that she rarely had time to get home for anything other than major holidays, and those were spent attending the expected round of parties and other functions with her father. A few years ago, she’d done the party circuit with both her parents, but her mother—God rest her soul—had passed on a few years ago. Now it was just Laney and her dad.

  Since arriving home two days ago, she’d had her hands full setting up interviews to find her ailing father a capable assistant to relieve his caseload. Eden had been busy, as well, with preparations for the Cadillac Car Cruise scheduled for this coming Sunday. The Car Cruise was an annual event where classic car owners from all the nearby counties gathered on Sunday afternoon to have an old-fashioned, fifties-style drive down the main strip through town. As the only bar owner in town, Eden was responsible for providing the beer for the kickoff barbecue on Friday night, not to mention the campaign for Saturday Night’s Miss Cadillac pageant. She’d been up to her armpits stocking supplies and Laney had barely talked to her on the phone, much less seen her in person. Tonight had been the first chance for a face-to-face meeting. Laney had chucked convention, closed up her father’s office a few hours early and headed for the party.

  They’d been friends since the first moment Laney had found Eden crying in the girls’ locker room after Jake Marlboro had spread a nasty rumor about her. The entire world had believed the worst of Eden, Laney included. Until she’d seen the pain in the girl’s eyes. As much as Laney had been tempted to turn her back on Eden for her own reputation’s sake, she hadn’t, despite her parents’ disapproval. After all, Laney had been one of the fortunate “haves” in Cadillac, while Eden had been from a poorer than poor family, a “have not” all the way.

  Laney’s parents had finally accepted the friendship, however, dismissing it as an act of charity on Laney’s part. But Laney hadn’t felt sorry for Eden. She’d felt connected to her. She knew firsthand what it was like to pretend to be something she wasn’t.

  While Eden had always done her damnedest to live up to everyone’s expectations—if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em was her motto—Laney had lived up to her family’s. She was every bit a cultured, refined Merriweather, as if she’d been born to it rather than adopted.

  If only.

  “Listen here, I’m bad with a capital B, and don’t you forget it. I just wouldn’t be able to breathe in some of this stuff, that’s all.” Eden fingered a teddy with the tiniest straps Laney had ever seen. “Personally—” she lifted her own ample bosom and shot a wink in Martha Pennburg’s direction “—I need more support for these babies.” The woman flushed a bright red and averted her gaze. Eden gave a satisfied smirk.

  Laney tried to hide her smile. “You really shouldn’t do that. You’re liable to send her blood pressure soaring, and at her age I don’t think that’s a good thing.”

  “She shouldn’t be so nosy and you—” Eden pinned Laney with a stare “—shouldn’t worry what those old busybodies think.”

  But those busybodies were family friends. Her father’s friends. She blinked against another twinge from her building migraine.

  “What do you think?” Laney indicated a red slip of nothing. “My secretary’s getting married in a few weeks and since I know her the best, I got stuck with choosing the bachelorette gift. I voted for a Crock-Pot, but the other women picked slinky lingerie.”

  “They put you in charge of buying naughty nothings?” Eden winked. “Kind of like sending flat-as-a-pancake Mary Moore to pick out a double D bra, don’t you think?”

  “You’re a regular riot.” Laney studied the teddies before picking one in particular. She pulled out her checkbook and dashed off a check. “I like this red myself.”

  “Careful, Melanie Margaret. Otherwise the whole town’s liable to know that beneath that conservativ
e suit lurks the heart of a real wild woman.” The deep voice came from directly behind Laney and sent a wash of familiar heat skimming her nerve endings.

  Please, God, no. The prayer echoed through her head for a long, breathless moment before she accepted what a hopeless cause it was. She’d spent her entire high school career praying the same desperate plea and not once had Dallas Jericho ever miraculously disappeared.

  Her gaze snapped to the wall-length mirror behind the bar and she caught her first glimpse of the man himself. Man being the key word. Gone was the tall, lanky boy she remembered. Dallas stood directly behind her, wearing tight faded jeans, a white T-shirt that emphasized a broad chest and heavily muscled biceps, and a smile rumored to have charmed Pastor Standley’s most pious daughter right out of her undies. The too long, dark hair that had always been his trademark was now gone. A short, cropped cut framed his face and made his features seem stronger, more mature, more masculine.

  One thing hadn’t changed, however. Even as a boy, his entire persona had screamed Hot Stud Alert! and now was no different.

  She gathered her courage and drew in a deep, steadying breath, determined to calm the sudden pounding of her heart. She’d known this moment was coming. Cadillac was a small town and a meeting was inevitable. “For your information, this—” she fingered the lacey lingerie “—is for a friend of mine.”

  He gave her a knowing wink. “That’s what they all say, hot stuff.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “What are you doing here? This party is for ladies only, and my name isn’t hot stuff.”

  He gave her another wink. “Then I’m definitely at the right place, sugar lips.”

  Amen to that. Where the women were, Dallas Jericho was sure to be found. It was a reputation he’d earned at the young age of six when he’d crashed Karey Michaels’s sleepover and refused to leave until he’d had pizza and Sprite and a kiss from Karey’s big sister.