All Night Long

by Candace Schuler

  Which, Susannah reflected, she, might very well be. The woman Matt had described should have been pleased as punch with any one of the first three candidates. That she hadn't been pointed to a serious flaw in her son's powers of observation or, at the very least, a blind spot where his mother was concerned.

  "I think you should tell her what you're up to, Matt," she advised. "You never know. If she's as lonely for companionship as you think, she might actually like the idea."

  "No." Matt was adamant on that point. "She wouldn't. She's very old-school, very proper and dignified. In my mother's world, things are done a certain way or they aren't done at all."

  "All right," Susannah conceded, knowing her own mother would feel exactly the same way. Plebeian was one of the least scathing adjectives Audrey Stanhope Bennington Harper had used when Susannah announced she was going to turn her grandmother's legacy into a dating service. "When and where do I meet her?" She'd find some tactful way to elicit the necessary information.

  "Are you free tonight?"

  "Tonight? Well, let's see..." She hesitated, some primal feminine instinct warning her not to reveal just how empty her evenings were. She rifled through her calendar, making sure he could hear the rustle of the pages. "Yes, tonight's open," she said, making it sound as if it were a rare occurrence. The truth was, except for The Personal Touch's regular get-acquainted parties and the occasional night out with ex-colleagues from her old job at Social Services, almost every night was open.

  "Good. I'll pick you up at six-thirty."

  "Pick me up? There's no need to pick me up," Susannah protested. "Just tell me where and I'll—"

  "I'll pick you up," Matt insisted. "My mother's having a few friends over for cocktails before they all head off to some concert at Davies Hall tonight. We'll tell her you're my date."

  Susannah felt her stomach clench. "Date?" She couldn't remember the last time she'd been on an actual date. It had been at least a year. Maybe longer. And never with a man who could make her blush with just a look.

  "You want to meet her one-on-one. Get to know her, don't you?"

  "Well, yes, but—"

  "This is perfect, then. As my date, you'll have ample opportunity to talk to her. Size her up. Whatever it is you need to do. In fact, just to make sure, we'll get there a little early. Give you some extra one-on-one time with her before everyone else arrives."

  "But—"

  "Can you be ready by six o'clock?"

  Susannah knew she should say no. Gut instinct was telling her that spending any time at all with Matthew Ryan—even as his pretend date—was just asking for trouble. Big trouble. It had been a long time since a man's kiss had made her toes curl. Like since never. "Yes, six o'clock is fine," she said.

  "Good. See you then. Ah..." He hesitated. "My mother dresses up for these things," he said delicately, not wanting to offend her. "Nothing formal. No long dresses or anything like that. Just..." What did women call those kinds of clothes? "...cocktaily kinds of dresses. Fancy but not too fancy." And nothing like that offbeat outfit she'd been wearing in her office. "Do you know the kind I mean?"

  "I know," she said, wondering if she should feel insulted. She decided to let it pass. The poor man was the product of an environment where perfectly creased navy serge suits and spit-polished wing tips were considered to be on the cutting edge of fashion. "I have the perfect dress." She'd bought it for those times when she couldn't get out of some function her mother had invited her to. "I promise, you won't be embarrassed to be seen with me," she said dryly, unable to resist the dig.

  "You misunderstand me," Matt said smoothly, as sincere as a politician making campaign promises—or a man trying to lull a woman into unsuspecting complacency. "I was just trying to explain that my mother has some old-fashioned ideas about things like dress and deportment. So much so that she even dresses for dinner at home alone. I never meant to imply anything about your taste. I'm sure nothing you'd wear could embarrass anyone," he added gallantly, hoping it was true.

  "I wouldn't bet on it," Susannah mumbled. She'd embarrassed her mother more times than she could count. Sometimes deliberately.

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Nothing," Susannah said. "I'll see you at six."

  * * *

  Matt stared at the phone for a long moment after he'd hung it up, wondering if he was out of his mind for thinking what he was thinking, planning what he was planning. The truth was, having Susannah meet his mother was only an excuse to see her again. One he'd been looking for since he'd walked out of her office two weeks ago with an ungodly ache between his thighs and the sweet taste of her burning on his lips.

  He'd told himself that she wasn't the cool, sophisticated, demure type he usually preferred. He'd reminded himself that he didn't have the time right now for a relationship, even if she had been his usual type. He'd even tried imagining the fit his campaign manager would throw if he knew Matt was fantasizing about becoming involved with a bleeding-heart liberal who ran a dating service and employed an ex-hooker as a receptionist. Poor old Harry would have that coronary he was always threatening everybody with.

  But none of his mental gymnastics had worked worth a damn.

  For the past two weeks, despite the long list of reasons he gave himself for not thinking about her, Matt had found himself thinking about her anyway, even when he was supposed to be thinking about something else. It was an unprecedented first in his heretofore single-minded dedication to his career, a crack in his legendary ability to concentrate despite any and all distractions.

  He'd found himself idly thumbing through a folder of legal briefs he should have been reading, wondering instead what would have happened if he'd let that kiss go on just a few moments longer. He'd listened to a colleague recount a brilliant closing argument and fantasized about how Susannah's breast would have felt in his hand. He'd pretended to be paying attention as Harry discussed the strategy for an upcoming political fundraiser and daydreamed about what might have happened if he'd pushed that too-big jacket off of her slender shoulders and opened the little pearl buttons on that lacy blouse. If he'd unzipped that long flowing skirt and let it drop to the floor. If he'd stripped her down to nothing but those elegant high-buttoned boots and a rosy blush.

  Would she have objected? Pushed him away and slapped his face? Or would she have clutched at his bare flesh as fervently as she'd clutched at his lapels? Would she have melted against him, opening her body for his possession the way she'd opened her lips to his tongue? And would he be remembering how good it had felt to be sheathed inside her heat and softness instead of wondering how it might feel?

  The need to know was rapidly becoming an obsession.

  And he couldn't afford obsessions. No political candidate could.

  And, yet, here he sat, obsessing.

  Wondering.

  Fantasizing.

  And to hell with what it could do to his campaign.

  No, I don't mean that, he thought with a quick spurt of guilt. The campaign was important. His father had been a San Francisco district judge, holding the position for three terms before he was appointed to fill a seat on the California Supreme Court. Matt had always known he was destined to follow in his father's illustrious footsteps. It was what he'd been born to do, what he'd been groomed for, and why he'd initially chosen to study law.

  If the chance to fulfill his destiny had come a bit sooner than he'd expected, well, that was politics. As Harry always said, you had to strike while the iron was hot. Two back-to-back convictions of local drug kingpins, plus the get-tough-on-crime mood of the voters, had made the iron very hot. He had to make his bid for district judge now, while he was San Francisco's favorite son. If he put it off or messed it up, the chance might not come again for a long time. Or ever.

  Which was why he couldn't let himself be distracted by a woman who wasn't even his type in the first place. No, he decided, he'd see her again, take her out, then take her to bed as soon as she'd let him. At best, he'd be completely
tired of his ridiculous obsession with her. At worst, once he knew what she felt like and tasted like, once the mystery was gone, he'd be able to get her out of his mind long enough to concentrate on the campaign.

  * * *

  "I'm going to knock off a little early," Susannah said as she stepped out of her office into the reception area.

  Helen looked up from her seat at the receptionist's desk, quick concern clouding her brow. "Aren't you feeling well?"

  "I'm feeling fine," Susannah assured her. I'm having hot flashes and heart palpitations and I've probably lost my mind but I'm fine. "I have to meet a client for an outside interview, and I want to freshen up and change clothes before I go." She glanced down the hallway toward the tiny under-the-stairs bathroom and then through the carved pocket doors that opened into the formal front parlor. "Has Judy left already?" The receptionist's Friday night computer class didn't start until six o'clock and she usually left right from the office. It was barely five o'clock.

  "I sent her over to The Tea Cozy to get something to eat before she goes to class," Helen said. "She spent her lunch hour right here at this desk, studying for some test, and she was planning on skipping her dinner, too, until I threatened to go over there and bring her back something to eat." Helen shook her head, as if the workings of the younger woman's mind were a complete mystery to her. "One of these days that girl's going to end up fainting from hunger, right here in this office. Probably right in front of a client, too. A fine impression that would make, I told her," she grumbled, gruff as a mother hen. "Clients get upset when people faint in front of them. It's not good for business."

  Susannah hid a smile. "I'm sure she'll be more careful in the future."

  Helen's expression clearly said she'd believe that when she saw it. "If she's eating a good dinner like I told her to, she's probably still there. Did you want to talk to her about something? I could call over and check. Or run over and get her."

  "No, thank you, Helen. I was just wondering out loud." Susannah wandered to the window as she spoke, reaching over to tweak one of the lace panels into more perfect alignment against the window frame. Her hand froze in midmotion. "Isn't that Eddie Devine?" she said, leaning forward to peer out the window.

  "Who?"

  "Eddie Devine. He's standing outside The Tea Cozy."

  Helen came to the window to stand beside Susannah. "Who's Eddie Devine?" she asked.

  "Oh, that's right. You don't know him." Susannah hesitated, unwilling to reveal too much of Judy's past. It was, after all, up to Judy to decide how much she did—or didn't—want people to know about her life. "Judy used to work for him," Susannah said obliquely, hoping to let it go at that.

  Helen slanted a glance at her. "You mean he was her pimp?"

  "She told you about it, then?"

  "Some of it." Helen looked back out the window, her lips pursed up as if she'd just sucked on a lemon. "He looks just like one of those slick hoodlums you see on TV. All decked out in a tacky silk shirt and gold chains." She sniffed disdainfully. "I bet he uses mousse on his hair." A man who used mousse was pond scum in Helen's book. Her husband had started using it just before he left her for a younger woman. "What do you suppose he's doing, hanging around here?"

  "Nothing good," Susannah said. Her soft brown eyes narrowed menacingly. "Maybe I should go out there and tell him to get lost before Judy comes out of The Tea Cozy. I'm sure it would upset her to see him."

  Helen put her hand on Susannah's arm. "Too late," she said, and nodded toward the street. "There she is."

  They stood behind the lace curtains, watching as Judy came out of the pastel-colored Victorian building that housed the trendy tea shop across the street from The Personal Touch. She was distracted as she descended the front steps, not really watching where she was going. Her head was bent, her fingers busy fiddling with the strap of the black leather tote bag dangling from her shoulder. She almost bumped into Eddie as she stepped off the bottom step onto the sidewalk. She looked up in surprise. Her face went white under her carefully applied makeup.

  Susannah watched her shrink back, cringing as her former pimp reached out to touch her. He said something, asked something. Judy shook her head and tried to sidle around him. He moved closer, blocking her way, obviously trying to intimidate her with his presence, talking all the while. She shook her head again, more forcefully, and glanced across the street toward The Personal Touch as if seeking refuge…or taking courage.

  Eddie grabbed her arm, forcibly reclaiming her attention.

  She stiffened.

  "No," she said, her lips clearly forming the word. "No."

  And then she pulled her arm out of his hand and brushed past him, her head held high, her back stiff as she hurried toward the BART station at the far end of the street.

  "Oh, good for you, Judy," Susannah said, as proud as if a child of hers had faced down the playground bully. "Good for you."

  She continued watching as Judy disappeared into the crowd milling around the entrance to the subway station, ready to run outside and intervene if Eddie started to follow her. He appeared to think about it for a moment, scowling at Judy's retreating figure with a look of frustration and anger twisting his features. Then he swore and stalked over to the black Trans Am parked illegally at the curb. He revved the engine, leaving rubber on the road as he peeled away.

  "Nasty character." Helen spat the words out as if they tasted bad.

  "Yes," Susannah agreed, finally turning away from the window. "But, fortunately, he's not nearly as nasty or as tough as he thinks he is. He's small potatoes," she said when Helen's expression asked for further explanation. "A two-bit operator who's only good at intimidating frightened young women. And not even very good at that," she added with satisfaction, thinking of the way Judy had stood up to him.

  "Do you think we should call the police or her parole officer or somebody?" Helen asked. "He might be trying to make her go back to work for him."

  "I'm sure that's exactly what he had in mind," Susannah said. "But it looked as if Judy handled it just fine. She told him no and walked away."

  "But what if he comes back?"

  "If he does, we'll deal with it then. As I said, he's not nearly as tough as he'd like everyone to believe he is. So I think it's okay if we leave it alone for now," she said, knowing that doing so was bending the rules a bit.

  Technically, any contact between a parolee and a former criminal associate was supposed to be reported to the supervising parole officer. In general, it was a good rule, made for a good reason. But there were also good reasons to break the rules now and then. Susannah knew in her heart that this was one of those reasons.

  "Judy took a major step today in facing him down by herself," Susannah said, explaining her decision to Helen. "She hasn't done that before. I think it's important she knows the victory is all hers, without outside help. And I don't think we should mention that—" she motioned toward the window, indicating the scene they had witnessed "—unless she brings it up herself. We don't want her to think we've been spying on her. Or that we don't trust her." She reached out and patted the older woman's shoulder. "Okay?"

  Helen cast a last lingering glance at the curtains. "Okay," she agreed.

  * * *

  Susannah's conservative, knee-length, wool-crepe dress was black. Her stockings were black. Her small clutch purse was black. Her leather pumps, decorated with tiny ladylike bows at the vamp, were black. She wore pearl studs in her ears and a single sixteen-inch strand of pearls around her neck—both high school graduation gifts from her mother. A delicate gold watch with a face so tiny you almost needed a magnifying glass to read it encircled her left wrist—a gift from her seldom-seen father on the same occasion. The sweet, flowery perfume she wore had been given to her three years ago by a nice, boring man her mother still insisted would have made Susannah a perfect husband. Her makeup was so subdued as to be practically nonexistent. Her curly red hair had been ruthlessly smoothed back to the nape of her neck, coiled i
nto the semblance of a bun and secured with a handful of hairpins, a liberal coating of hair spray and a flat grosgrain bow, also black.

  Her father would have smiled absently and told her she looked like a perfect little lady. Her mother would have brushed back the tendrils of red hair that always escaped the hairpins and asked her why she didn't try to dress nicely more often. Matthew Ryan would probably think she looked sophisticated and chic.

  Susannah grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. "You look like a Stepford wife on her way to a funeral," she said, disgusted that she had once again given in to expediency and donned the disguise needed to fit in to the conservative, rarified society into which she had been born.

  Except that this was business, she reminded herself. It wasn't a date, no matter what Matt had called it. And in business, dressing to win approval didn't mean you'd caved in to the pressure to conform. No, indeed. Dressing for business meant you were smart enough to know that the way you looked was important. It was called 'dressing for success.' Men did it all the time. Why else would they put up with starched shirts, three-piece suits and neckties, if not in the name of commerce?

  Susannah put a hand to her hair, tucking in an escaped tendril, then turned and got a traditional, double-breasted camel-hair coat—her reward for graduating from college—out of the closet. Even in mid-June, San Francisco nights could dip down into the low fifties. Shrugging into it, she switched off the bedroom light and headed downstairs, determined to be ready and waiting when Matt arrived to pick her up. The less like a date this business meeting was, she thought, the happier she would be.

  * * *

  Matt's mother was aristocratic, elegant and distinguished, with perfectly coiffed blond hair, a regal bearing and simple, classic taste in clothes. Her eyes were blue, like her son's. Her smile was warm and gracious.

  "Mom, this is Susannah Bennington, a friend of mine." Matt performed the introductions as he helped Susannah out of her coat. "Susannah, my mother Millicent Ryan."