All Night Long

by Candace Schuler

  "You go ahead," Susannah invited graciously.

  "Ladies first," Matt insisted gallantly.

  "I was only going to ask how your campaign is going."

  Matt shrugged. "According to the Examiner, I'm ahead in the polls. According to the Chronicle, I'm behind. Which means it's way too early to be making any predictions. Especially when you realize that over half the people polled have absolutely no idea who I am in the first place. District judge isn't one of those positions most people know, or care, anything about," he explained with a shrug.

  "What does your campaign manager think about your chances?"

  "Harry says if I get out there and campaign hard for the next five months, I'm a shoo-in come November. Provided I don't make any really stupid mistakes in the meantime, that is."

  "You don't sound as if you agree with him."

  "Oh, I agree with him. I think I stand an excellent chance of winning my father's old seat on the bench. I just don't like the idea very much, that's all."

  "You don't like the idea of what?" Susannah's expressive eyebrows rose. "Winning your father's old seat?"

  Matt gave her a look that said she should know better than that. "Campaigning," he said dryly.

  Susannah shook her head. "And you call yourself a politician," she chided playfully.

  "I call myself a lawyer," he corrected. "And I can't be a lawyer and campaign the way Harry expects me to at the same time."

  "Then why are you running for district judge? You had to know what it would involve before you agreed to it."

  "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

  "Are you saying you didn't know?"

  "Oh, I knew," he admitted. "On some basic level, anyway. I just didn't expect the process to be so..." He fell discreetly silent as the waiter returned to set their wine and appetizer on the table. "All-encompassing," he finished when the waiter was out of earshot again.

  "All-encompassing how?"

  "Campaigning tends to take over your life," Matt said. "And it can easily become a full-time job, if you let it. I can't afford to let it. I've got a court calendar that's backed up from here to last Christmas. The Delaney murder trial is scheduled for August and one of my key witnesses has suddenly changed her mind about what she saw. The conviction in the Mendoza drug case is up for appeal." He shook his head. "Despite what Harry says, I can't be running around to every pancake breakfast and Rotary Club luncheon to shake hands and make speeches. I have more impor—" He broke off suddenly and stared at her across the width of the small table. She was leaning slightly forward, chin balanced on her fist, head tilted, listening raptly to every word he said. "So this is how you get your clients to spill their guts," he said, more than a bit discomforted to realize he'd been spilling his. He wasn't usually so forthcoming. "Very sneaky."

  Susannah ignored the teasing comment. "It sounds to me as if you're not completely committed to the campaign," she said, her expression serious and thoughtful. "Are you sure you want to be a judge?"

  Matt stared at her for a second, nonplussed. No one had ever asked him that question before, not directly. He hadn't even asked it of himself. "Of course I want to be a judge," he said lightly. "I've wanted it my whole life."

  Just not yet.

  He hastily pushed the traitorous, unwelcome thought aside and reached for his wineglass. Holding it aloft, he waited until Susannah echoed his gesture and lifted hers, too. "To romance," he said, deliberately changing the subject.

  "Romance?" Susannah murmured, disconcerted by the abrupt change of topic.

  "My mother's," he clarified, smiling innocently at her over the rim of his glass. His savoir faire, he was happy to note, was firmly back in place. The nerves were gone. And thoughts of whether he did or didn't want to run for district judge were best left for another time. "The one she's going to have as soon as you find her a suitable date."

  "Oh. Yes, of course," Susannah agreed. It was the reason they were having dinner together. "To romance." She took a small, quick sip of her wine and put it down. "I think you'll be pleased to know that, after meeting her tonight, I think I have the perfect man."

  "Oh?" He lifted a thin slice of bruschetta—grilled garlic bread coated with a mixture of chopped tomatoes, onions, garlic, capers and herbs—and placed it on a small plate in front of Susannah before taking one for himself. "Who?"

  "I don't think you'd know him. He hasn't been in California long." She picked up her bruschetta between two fingers. "Ever hear of Carlisle Elliott?"

  Matt shook his head.

  "He's a widower. Sixty-four. Average height. Average weight. Very healthy and active. And quite attractive, too. He looks a little like Cesar Romero, only shorter. Anyway, he moved out here six months ago after selling his nursery business in Iowa." Susannah took a bite of the single slice of bruschetta she'd already determined was all she was going to allow herself, pausing for a moment to savor the sublime mixture of tastes. "He lives over in Sausalito," she said, after she had swallowed. "On a houseboat."

  "He lives on a houseboat?" Matt's savoir faire deserted him again for a brief moment as he watched Susannah lick a bit of crushed tomato off the side of her finger with the tip of her little pink tongue.

  "Now, don't be a snob, Matt," Susannah advised him, completely misinterpreting the strangled note in his voice. "Your mother certainly isn't. And she's the one who'll be going out with him."

  * * *

  "So your grandmother left you the house and a trust fund. That still doesn't tell me how you got from County Social Services to The Personal Touch," Matt said, handing her an extra fork so she could share his cannoli. Although she'd declined to order a dessert for herself, she'd looked at his as if it was the Holy Grail and the Hope Diamond combined. "From what I know of you so far, I'd have expected you to open a halfway house or a shelter for battered women or something along those lines. Not a dating service."

  Susannah looked at him, surprised that he'd pegged her so accurately in such a short time.

  "I thought about it," she admitted. "I even did some preliminary leg-work in that direction. But the area isn't zoned for that kind of establishment. And, to be honest—" she shrugged, still feeling a little guilty for taking the easy way out "—I was tired of all the misery and suffering I saw every day in my job as a social worker. I wanted to do something that would help people make their lives happier, without making myself unhappy in the process." She smiled ruefully and took a minuscule piece of cannoli onto the tip of her fork. "Dottie, my supervisor at County, always said I got too personally involved with my cases."

  "No kidding?" he said, amused.

  "Yes. Well..." She slipped the tiny portion of dessert between her lips, closing her eyes for a second to savor the taste. "Anyway," she said, opening her eyes again, "it seemed to me that running an old-fashioned dating service would be the perfect thing. And it is. I love what I'm doing now. And I'm good at it. I have a very high success rate," she told him. "It's one of the best in the business."

  "Yet you're still involved in social work."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "Judy Sukura," Matt said. "And that other woman you have working for you, the older one who doesn't like men."

  "Helen Sanford."

  He nodded. "Helen. I'll bet she just didn't answer a want ad for a secretary," he said shrewdly.

  "Well, no," Susannah admitted, and helped herself to another tiny bite of his cannoli. "I was introduced to her through a friend who runs a support group for displaced homemakers. You know, women who suddenly find themselves in the workplace with no skills or experience?"

  "I know," Matt said, watching as she carefully licked the tines of the fork to get the last bit of whipped cream. "I also know there are organizations to deal with the problem. Programs to teach those women the skills they need before they go out into the workplace."

  "Yes, there are programs," Susannah admitted, "but not nearly enough of them." She put her fork down to avoid further temptation. "And Helen actuall
y has plenty of skills, anyway, because she ran her husband's home-based plumbing business for twenty-five years. As so often happens, though, that kind of experience doesn't seem to count in the real world."

  "So this friend who runs the support group conned you into hiring Helen to give her some experience."

  "I wasn't conned into anything," Susannah objected. "With Judy taking on more hours at school, I needed a full-time assistant and—"

  "And Helen was the best person for the job?" he said, his skepticism plain on his face.

  "Yes," Susannah lied.

  "Uh-huh," he commented, a knowing gleam in his eye. "I'll concede that she might have the technical skills you were looking for, but I seriously doubt her personality is exactly what you had in mind. Here—" he said, lifting his cannoli-laden fork to her mouth "—have the last bite."

  Susannah had to open her mouth or end up with whipped cream and sweetened ricotta all over her chin. She opened her mouth, accepting the rich dessert with ill-disguised eagerness.

  Matt watched her lips part to accept his offering, watched them close over the creamy sweet on his fork, watched her eyelids flutter down as she savored the taste. He withdrew the fork slowly, so that she could get every last bit of the whipped cream, deliberately letting the tines slide against her bottom lip in a sensual caress. "Good?" he murmured huskily.

  "Mmm," she sighed ecstatically as the flavors melted on her tongue.

  Matt shifted on his chair as his body responded to her unthinking provocation. She was such a contradiction, sitting there across from him: the prim black dress, so striking against her pale, creamy skin, the ladylike pearls, gleaming wantonly at her throat and ears, the sedate chignon, just begging to be released from its pins. Behind the relentlessly refined, implacably genteel exterior she'd presented to him tonight was a warm, passionate, vibrant woman—the same woman who'd melted into his kiss like honey on hot biscuits. "You have no idea how much I want you," he said softly.

  Susannah's eyes flew open. "What?" she whispered.

  He met her wide-eyed gaze head-on. "You heard me."

  Something about his unwavering directness inspired the same unflinching honesty in her. "Yes, I heard you," she said. "And it's crazy. I know it's crazy. But I want you, too."

  * * *

  "So," he said as he pulled onto the apron of concrete in front of her narrow garage door. "Are you going to invite me in for coffee?"

  Susannah caught her lower lip between her teeth and stared straight ahead. "I shouldn't."

  "Probably not," Matt agreed. He stretched his arm out, resting it along the back of the seat, and reached out to twine his finger in the curling tendril of hair that lay against her cheek. "But are you going to?" he asked, tugging lightly to make her look at him.

  Susannah turned her head toward him. "It would only be for coffee," she warned him. "I meant what I said about—" she took a quick little breath as he lightly stroked her cheek and down the side of her throat with the back of his finger "—about wanting you. But I haven't decided if I'm going to act on the feeling. I don't think it would be a good idea to rush in when I'm not sure where it will lead."

  "When," he said.

  "What?"

  "You said if you decide to act on the feeling. Be as honest as you were in the restaurant, Susannah. It's only a matter of when."

  "All right, when," she admitted. "I haven't decided when." Her gaze was earnest and sweet and serious in the dim light. "But it won't be tonight, Matt. I don't know you well enough, for one thing. And I'm not entirely sure about this....this feeling, for another." Her hands fluttered up and then back down into her lap. "It kind of snuck up on me when I wasn't expecting it. I have to give this whole situation some serious thought before I decide what I'm going to do."

  "Okay." Matt nodded, manfully hiding his disappointment. "I can understand that. Tonight is out." He stroked her cheek again, gently, delicately, reveling in its warmth and softness. "But I'd still like that coffee."

  * * *

  Matt found the interior of Susannah's house to be as much of a dichotomy as she was. Downstairs in the public rooms he'd already seen, the mood and decor were cozy, elegant, and reassuringly conventional. The colors were soft and soothing, a mix of pale yellows, soft green, and robin's-egg blue. The furnishings were mostly French and English antiques in light, delicate woods. The computer terminal on the desk in the reception area had been rendered unobtrusive, half-hidden behind a large, lacy Boston fern. It didn't take a genius to realize that everything downstairs had been deliberately designed to put her customers at ease, to make them feel as comfortable as if they were part of a more genteel era, when people first glimpsed their future spouses over tea in great-aunt-somebody's front parlor instead of at a bar during Happy Hour.

  Upstairs, in her personal quarters, it was very different. Oh, it was still delightfully cozy. And undisputedly elegant. But nothing about her private space would ever be called conventional. Matt thought whimsically that stepping through the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs was a little bit like stepping into a parallel universe… instantly recognizable but, somehow, just slightly off kilter.

  The high ceilings and distinctively detailed crown moldings matched the ones downstairs. The tall, narrow windows were duplicates of those in the front parlor, right down to the fireplace between the two facing the street. The floors were made of the same beautifully polished hardwood. Everything else was delightfully different.

  Most of the walls had been knocked out, creating one large room out of several smaller ones. Those that were left were painted a deep, rich amethyst, the color defined and intensified by the stark white moldings and woodwork. The windows had been draped and swagged in layers of gauzy white fabric that pooled on the gleaming hardwood floor. The original oak mantel had been removed from the fireplace, replaced with a larger, less ornate one made of pink-veined white marble. The three sofas arranged in a U-shape in front of the fireplace were oversized, overstuffed and low to the ground, designed with the sensual, rounded lines reminiscent of the art-deco period. They were upholstered in deep teal blue and piled high with plump pillows in shades of purple, lavender, and rose pink. The only other major piece of furniture in the room was a massive French armoire with pink silk tassels dangling from the door handles. The occasional tables were Art Nouveau reproductions. The wall sconces and lamps were made of frosted glass, shaped like open fans or gracefully drooping lilies, respectively. The fireplace was guarded by a realistically poised and painted pair of seated leopards. One of them wore a wide choker of sparkling rhinestones around its regal neck. The other sported a black satin bow tie and rakishly tilted silk top hat.

  "Have a seat," Susannah invited, gesturing toward the sofas. "The coffee will only take a minute." She moved toward the back of the room, quickly, shrugging out of her camel-hair coat as she went. She tossed it over the padded seat of one of the six high-backed stools surrounding the freestanding, white marble counter that served as her dining table and separated her kitchen area from the rest of the room. "I can make espresso or cappuccino, if you'd rather," she said from behind the counter. "I have a machine."

  "Espresso sounds good." Matt followed her into the kitchen, drawn to her like metal filings to a magnet. He came up behind her as she reached out to open the refrigerator, coming close enough to lean down and sniff the back of her neck. "That's not the same perfume you were wearing the other day."

  Susannah gave a muffled shriek and whirled around, nearly bumping into him in the process. The refrigerator door banged shut. "What?"

  He took the bottle of springwater from her and put it down on the counter next to the espresso machine. "Your perfume. It's not the same one you were wearing the other day."

  "No, it isn't." She edged away from him, trying to be casual about it, and began filling the water receptacle on the machine. "It was a gift."

  "This or the other?"

  "This."

  "I'd get rid of it," he advised, jealous
of whoever had given it to her. "It isn't you."

  "Oh?" she said, turning her head to look at him. He was much too close. She turned her gaze back to the espresso machine.

  "It's much too flowery and sweet," he said in answer to her hasty look. "I like the other better."

  "I'll try to remember that." She flipped the lid down on the water receptacle and sidled down the counter, reaching up to open the cupboard where she kept the coffee.

  Matt's hand closed over hers on the white ceramic knob, as if he had inadvertently raised his hand at the same moment. "Can I help?" he asked innocently.

  Susannah swallowed nervously. She slipped her hand from under his and backed away a step, coming smack up against the refrigerator door. "Why don't you go and put on some music?" she suggested. "My audio system is in the armoire." She lifted a hand, gesturing toward the living area.

  Matt caught it in his. "Are you afraid of me, Susannah?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Nervous, then?"

  "No," she lied.

  He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, slowly, as if testing its softness—and her veracity.

  "Okay, maybe." She gave a noncommittal little shrug, trying to be blasé about the warm tingles of sensation zinging up her arm. "A little," she admitted reluctantly, then gave him a stern look. "But only because you're crowding me."

  Matt laughed softly. Triumphantly. He took a half a step back. "There's no need to be nervous," he assured her, and lifted her hand to his mouth. "Not tonight, anyway," he added, and pressed a warm kiss into her palm.

  It took all of Susannah's considerable willpower to keep from curling her hand into the heat of his kiss.

  His blue eyes gleamed wickedly, as if he knew just how much self-control it was costing her to appear unmoved. "Tonight, I'm on my best behavior."

  Susannah couldn't help but smile at that. "And I'm Mother Teresa," she said dryly. She pulled her hand out of his grasp. "Go put on some music and let me make the espresso."

  He hesitated a moment, just long enough for her to wonder if he was going to be difficult. And then he sighed, theatrically, like a small boy who had been denied a longed-for treat, and went to do as she'd bid him. Susannah was still smiling as she measured coffee into the stainless-steel filter. She'd often heard that good trial lawyers were part actor. Now she believed it.