All Through the Night

by Mixed authors

“We haven’t begun.”

  “Oh, what just happened says we’ve begun, Regan. I think we’re miles beyond begun. I think we’re exactly where we left off seven years ago.”

  “Right—with you leaving, and me picking up the pieces.”

  “You’re scared.”

  “Nothing scares me,” Regan said. “Not even you.”

  But that was a lie. The torrent of need he’d aroused scared her to death, and the only way to cope was to run. Catch me if you can…

  … And he had…

  “Regan?”

  “Umm?” She looked up from a contract she was scanning, but her eyes weren’t focused, and Tony didn’t like that one bit. She hadn’t been back an hour, and she was thinking about Bobby instead of business, damn it, why else would there be that unfocused look in her eyes?

  Shit. Taking Bobby on as a client was the worst mistake he’d made in all his years in business.

  Still in love with him. He knew it in his bones…

  It just drove him to the wall, imagining them together again. Imagining Regan, soft, open, wanting. Wanting Bobby. It just jacked him off that Regan was still in love with the bastard, knowing Tony wanted her too.

  There hadn’t been a day in all the years he’d known her, that he didn’t make it clear one way or another that he wanted to get in and get off with her.

  That look in her eyes… soft, heated… suppressing her feelings, her needs—knowing he could fill them, and never ever offering him the opportunity. He could have taken her on the desk, against the wall, on the chair—how long did a man have to endure before the woman he wanted even noticed his hard-on?

  She never did. Or she pretended not to. After all these years, he couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew was that she was the most carnal woman he’d ever met, that she was utterly unaware of it, and she was tearing herself up when he was right there for her, all the time.

  “Regan…”

  She stared at him. There it was again: the pitch of his voice, the way he said her name, the bulge between his legs.

  “Yeah, listen.” She rattled the paper to get his attention off of her. “Cargill’s office faxed me: they’re interested in setting up his offices here. So clever of you to invite him to my party. That’s why he thought of it.”

  Tony knew when he was licked. And it was not the way he would have preferred to be licked either. “Did you set up a meeting?”

  “I’m about to.”

  “Good. This is the beginning. Especially”—and now he was torturing himself—“especially if Bobby bites.”

  Her eyes flashed.

  He knew it—something had happened this afternoon. Damn, damn, damn.

  “Bobby doesn’t bite; Bobby gnaws,” Regan said. “Bobby nips. Bobby sucks. We can’t wait for Bobby to make a decision about anything. I’ll just tell Cargill he’s impressed by the numbers and is seriously considering space under the el.”

  “Nice strategy.”

  She picked up the phone. Was that a strategy? She couldn’t devise a strategy to save her life right now. God, speaking to

  Cargill was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment. She hated Tony for bringing her back to reality. His reality. His need that she never could see a way to handle. It was easier keeping him at arm’s length, because he would never have been satisfied with crumbs.

  He would have been worse than Bobby, come to that, even more possessive and more demanding. And Bobby’s return had only made it worse. The fact she was sitting and fantasizing about Bobby, and that kiss, was proof enough her whole carefully constructed life was going to hell.

  Tony knew her too well.

  She spoke to Cargill’s secretary. They could meet tomorrow morning—at the Inn, if she’d prefer. That was fine. That was the way you did business in the Heights.

  And business was business. And fantasy was…

  Fantasy was the stuff that made you crazy.

  “Going out,” she called out to Tony.

  “Hey, wait—I’ll go with you. We’ll get a drink.” And he didn’t give her a chance to say no.

  It was the only way he knew to make sure she wasn’t going to be with Bobby.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

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  She had calmed down, finally. And all it had taken was an hour with Tony over a glass of wine at Gus’s. Tony knew just when to pull back and be a friend. He always had. And now that she could look at the situation with an objective eye, she decided she had overreacted to everything, including what had happened this afternoon.

  She could handle Bobby.

  She shouldn’t have bought those damned sandals, she thought with a trace of humor. All this had started because she’d let out that one little piece of herself that she normally hid away. It was true: there was nothing like a pair of Mascolos to drive everyone nuts, including the person wearing them.

  Even Angie had gone off the deep end over them.

  And then—that kiss. She should never have given in to that heat between them. Never should have let him within ten feet of her. Never should have agreed to be his sales rep altogether.

  It just wasn’t good business.

  And she shouldn’t have to change her life just because of that kiss and that sensual grope.

  Oh, yeah? Define your life.

  Good job, good friends, good money, good times.

  An occasional fucking.

  More secrets.

  It was laughable. Angie thought she was a wanton; Tony thought she was a nun. Not hardly. And to preserve everyone’s illusions, she went out of town to spend a rare night with a date, where neither of her best friends could find out about it.

  Catch me if you can…

  She felt heat swamping her body. She should have known better than to challenge Bobby like that.

  Catch me… Drive him crazy, drive him away.

  Drive into me… it had been so long—

  No. Yes.

  Why not?

  The intercom buzzed. Angie, probably, when she wasn’t up for girl gossip tonight. She pressed the callback button. “Ang?”

  The phone rang. “Regan?”

  The intercom: “I’m coming up.”

  Bobby. And you didn’t argue with that tone, either.

  Damn. “Ang? Hey, can I call you back?”

  “What’s up?”

  Angie was checking up on her again. The lie came straight and fast. “Just got out of the shower. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Okay.” Angie hung up the phone just as the doorbell rang.

  Thank heaven. Angie would have wanted to know who that was. Angie had sonar when it came to ferreting out things Regan didn’t want to tell her, especially anything about Bobby.

  She flung open the door. And there was Bobby at his bad boy best. The worn jeans, the chambray shirt, the beaten-up leather jacket.

  “Oh, you’re good,” she murmured. “You’re really good.”

  “ We’re good,” Bobby corrected her. “Really, really good.”

  “Really nice to see you too, Bobby. Just why did you barge in here?”

  He wasn’t exactly sure himself. And ascending to the twentieth floor of the newest condo apartment building in the Heights, the one with two residences per floor, hadn’t cemented his resolve either.

  Rather, it had made him feel just a little disoriented.

  This was a far cry from the docks where Regan grew up. Light years from the Regan of seven years ago. And a million miles from anything they’d shared together in their Roman rocket of a marriage.

  Yet she looked exactly the way she had all that time ago. She looked twenty again, in jeans, tee shirt clinging to her full breasts, no makeup, hair in a ponytail.

  And she was even more beautiful like that.

  “You could really invite me in.”

  “Guess I could. But maybe it works like vampires—you can’t come in unless you’re invited.”

  “Not too civilized, Regan.”


  “I’m not feeling too civil right now, Bobby. And I think you’re here for your pound of flesh, so the vampire analogy seems pretty apt to me.”

  “Let me in, Regan.”

  He meant it, on so many levels.

  She threw up her hands. He would suck her dry with words, if nothing else. She motioned him in, and he strode into the entrance hallway with its soft lights and length that led every guest straight toward the bank of floor to ceiling windows in the living room that framed the view across the river.

  The palette was neutral against jewel tones, in the oriental rugs, in the sofas and chairs, in the rich wood of antique furniture played against ivory-colored walls and curtainless windows, and the glow of uplights everywhere.

  She watched him prowl the living room, picking up objects and looking at them, making his way around the room until he came back to where she stood with her hands on her hips in the entry hall.

  He felt a little off balance, as if he couldn’t assimilate that the Regan in jeans and tee was the same woman who inhabited this sophisticated apartment.

  “Want some coffee?”

  “I want you.”

  “No, you don’t. You want sex.”

  He flinched. “Right. You’re every man’s damned wet dream. Or at least those men you know. My purpose hasn’t changed, Regan.”

  “What was that again? No. I don’t want you to say anything. Or do anything.”

  “Yes, you do. We both know you do.”

  “This afternoon didn’t change anything.”

  “No, not a thing. Just showed how obvious it is you’re running away.”

  “Nonsense. What from?”

  “Me.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve just been running my life around your timetable, Bobby, you know, the one where you leave for seven years.”

  “How about, you’ve been running in place for seven years?”

  Regan turned away. This was a conflagration, already out of control. She couldn’t put out this fire, not with words, or deeds, or even a cold shower.

  He had cornered her well and truly. It would be easier to surrender than to fight. “What do you want?” she asked finally.

  “Nothing’s changed. I want you back.”

  She made a sound. What did “back” mean exactly? Oh, she knew; he’d said it already in twenty different ways.

  It was all about sex.

  “Tell me what you want,” Bobby said.

  She stared at him. In her most flagrantly wishful dreams, she had never imagined Bobby standing in her living room, handing the power over to her. Never imagined she would still feel anything for him after all this time. Or that she wouldn’t have all the answers when this longed-for moment finally came, and he was saying things any woman would want to hear.

  … Be careful what you wish for…

  What did she want, really?

  She wanted not to follow the first impulse and dive into bed, not to succumb to her hormones—or his.

  No mercy. She wanted to make it not easy for him.

  “No sex,” she said finally.

  “No… sex… ?”

  “No. None.”

  “Do you think that’s even remotely possible for more than thirty seconds?”

  She didn’t actually; she was already feeling those magnetic waves. And his tight jeans hid nothing. But that was nothing new, either.

  “That’s what I want.”

  “And that’s it?”

  She swallowed. Not one minute of mercy for Bobby after all these years.

  “Courting,” she added, through a dry throat. After all, patience was not Bobby’s strong suit. And that ought to keep him at arm’s length. He wouldn’t agree to that. Wouldn’t have, in the past. Bobby had always wanted everything yesterday, including her.

  Bobby raised his head. “Courting? Like—”

  “Like people used to do back in the Dark Ages.”

  “Which people are those?” Bobby muttered. “Fine.” This was a sweet five minutes of nineteen-fifties sensibility.

  Or was it a way for Regan to deal with him without getting to the main issue? But that would come soon enough. “Fine. We’re still going to be looking at property, so we’ll take it from there.”

  “Take it where?” Regan asked suspicious.

  “Movies, dinner. Bowling.” Bowling! “Theater. Parties.” Fucking. “Whatever.”

  “No sex.”

  “Your call. But you’re done hiding. And I don’t care what Tony thinks.”

  Oh, God. Tony. Tony wanted that megabucks commission and then he wanted to put Bobby out of commission.

  Bobby watched the emotions chase all over Regan’s face. “I’m not going anywhere, Regan. You can’t scare me off.”

  “Well, you scare the hell out of me,” Regan muttered.

  “And no sex on top of that. Nice ploy. When do we start?”

  “What?”

  “When do we embark on this odyssey of no sex?” Crazy. He was nuts to agree to this, nuts to think he could keep his hands off of her for more than—well, it had been an hour now, and that was only because he was still trying to maneuver through the minefield that was this Regan.

  He thought he was handling her well. Not that he expected her to fall into his arms. Not yet, anyway. He could deal with no sex for about—oh, an hour. But in his fantasies, he handled her until she was so spent, so exhausted, she could only collapse.

  He couldn’t look at her without wanting to plow her. It was a pure, ongoing never-ending ache deep within him. One kiss had been hardly enough to assuage it. A lifetime with her might just begin to satisfy it.

  No sex.

  Whatever she wanted, whatever it took, he’d do.

  She was oh, so prim and proper when, the next day, she arranged for him to see the next property. She wore a creamy silk blouse, open at the throat in an innocently provocative way, tucked into a long skirt of swingy black crepe, a short matching jacket, and strappy sandals; her hair in a topknot, understated makeup. A big mock croc tote bag. Those Jackie O sunglasses.

  That Regan aura, of innocence and knowlege, even as she was scrabbling through the bag looking for information on the listing.

  It was the damned sandals. That touch of eroticism that made men salivate.

  “You could renovate your own building, you know,” Regan pointed out as they drove past the next location on Main Street. Forget about yesterday, forget Angie. This was business. It was.

  “But think of the rents I could get if the Herald relocated. Want to be my building manager?” Want to manage me?

  No sex ... God, he felt twenty-four again.

  The property was a single level full-block storefront that had been a Laundromat.

  “Maybe a little too close to Main Street?” Bobby said, as he prowled the premises. The good thing—the work was done. One floor and basement, location near-prime. And that was reflected in the price.

  “Maybe. Or maybe you want to be that accessible.”

  I am as accessible as a man can be right now.

  “But that probably depends on what your plans are for the Herald.”

  Oh, those plans.

  No sex. That’s what those plans are.

  “Okay. I’ve seen enough.”

  “Okay. ” She switched off the lights and locked the door behind them.

  “How about some pizza,” he said. “In line with courting and bowling and all that.” And watching her bite into that thick doughy crust…

  Lord help him…

  She slanted a flashing look at him. “Sure, I’m game.” Playing games altogether, being seen with Bobby? What was she thinking?

  And when they were seated in the booth and had ordered: “Civility works,” he said.

  “No sex works, you mean.”

  “No, I don’t think no sex works at all,” Bobby said.

  “And yet here we are,” Regan murmured, “having no sex and being civil.”

  “I like being primitive better.”

&nbs
p; “What are you going to do with the Herald?” she asked to distract him.

  “Turn it into a porn publication.”

  “Obviously no sex is too hard for you.”

  “No. No sex makes me too hard for you.”

  “You asked what I wanted you to do—”

  “And I’m doing it. I’m just not liking it.”

  No pity, no mercy. “Well, here’s the pizza,” she said, as the waitress set it down.

  They ate in silence, or rather, he watched her biting and chewing, getting harder and more restless by the moment.

  “Regan…”

  She looked up at him, mid-bite.

  God, that mouth—he never could get over that mouth…

  “No sex is getting us nowhere.”

  “Where do you want to get, Bobby, except back in my bed?”

  “That’ll do, for starters.”

  She was silent for a moment. There was no denying this was a test, testing his endurance, his mettle, his patience.

  Testing herself, and what she wanted after all this time, at a distance where she could feel as if she had some control. But that was an illusion at best. It really came down to sex: he wanted what was between her legs. That was a certainty. Everything else was heartbreak.

  Catch me ...

  She’d thrown down the challenge.

  No sex.

  “Yeah, well—” she temporized. “That would be too easy.”

  “Oh, stop it, Regan. Just—just let me back in.”

  “You were in, all that time ago.” She bit into another slice, hard, and he felt that telltale spurt between his legs.

  “Let me in again.” His voice was husky, urgent, arousing things in her she didn’t want to remember, to feel, things that were heightened by the way he looked at her all the time, and were underpinned by her unrequited feelings about him, and his undeniable sexual magnetism.

  She didn’t know this new Bobby—or what he was capable of, in bed or out of it.

  He grasped her hand suddenly, explosively. “Caught you, Regan.”

  Her throat tightened, her body liquefied. “You can’t come up tonight.”

  “I don’t have to come up—I am up. I’ve been up for days. I could push out walls, I’m so hard for you. Try me, Regan.”

  “You’re not the house specialty, Bobby.”

  “Maybe I am.”