Red Letter Nights

by Alison Kent; Karen Anders; Jeanie London

  He jogged up the stairs to his loft, jerking his T-shirt overhead on the way, toeing off his Italian leather loafers and shucking off his khakis once inside the upstairs bathroom. It was late. He needed to be asleep. Tomorrow would be another long day crunching numbers.

  Peeling down his boxers, he climbed into the shower stall, turned on the water and reached for the soap. For some strange reason, however, instead of his mind drifting to work or to Claire, he found himself thinking back to his high school years in Austin, Texas.

  He’d played trumpet in an ensemble with his four best friends, and not a one of them had a clue where he’d come from. The only girl in the group, Heidi Malone, had also been the only one living in a situation that would have needed a hand up to be called lower class.

  His situation, before the Schneiders’ intervention, would have required a shovel.

  Even now, standing beneath the steaming spray in his shower stall with antique brass fixtures and marble walls colored like café au lait, he had trouble believing that he’d once lived on the streets.

  That he’d shoplifted to clothe himself.

  That he’d rummaged in restaurant Dumpsters to eat.

  He’d been a scrapper; he’d have died of exposure otherwise, and was surprised he hadn’t died by a gunshot or a knife blade or a big meaty fist.

  He pushed aside the past and returned to the present, to the shower steaming the stress from his muscles and bones. Now he made sure he never lacked for anything. Clothes, food, the roof over his head, the wheels parked in his garage.

  He didn’t need the money his uncle Luther paid him to manage the finances for the foundation that administered educational grants and scholarship funds.

  He took it because life had taught him to do so.

  Taught him to indulge when he wanted because he could afford it.

  Taught him to remember the days when even sleep had been too expensive because what he’d gathered during the day could be stolen from him just as quickly.

  Again, he shook off the memories, shook the water from his hair and his eyes, sputtering as he did. And then he thought back to the evening he’d just spent next door, and to having Claire in his lap.

  He pictured her eyes; when he’d said they were rich, he’d been honest. He couldn’t think of another word to describe the depth of what he’d seen.

  Intelligence, awareness. She’d known full well what he’d expected when responding to the card she’d slipped through his door.

  The fact that he’d come home after little more than kissing her, after touching her just enough to want to feel her skin without the barrier of ribbed cotton, had surprised both of them—as had her agreement to answer his question, his agreement to answer hers.

  He’d asked her if the first man she’d had sex with had broken her heart. The flash of pain in her eyes had been the only answer he’d needed.

  But now he couldn’t wait to hear if she’d cover up what he’d seen with an abundance of words, or if her response would be as honest as what her eyes had told him.

  What she ended up saying when he saw her tomorrow would play a big part in where he took this seduction, how he would work to win her over, persuade her that he could give her more than a good time in bed.

  It was her question to him, however, that was giving him hell, making it impossible to get it up and find the release he needed. Stroking himself wasn’t doing a thing.

  Because what Claire wanted to know was what his pricey sports car and designer suits were hiding.

  And how the hell could he tell her that when doing so would be admitting a truth he’d spent years pretending didn’t exist?

  3

  IF NOT FOR FEAR of suffering heatstroke, Claire would’ve spent the next day working at home.

  She had a small office on the second floor of a revitalized Jackson Square warehouse where she saw clients—at least the clients who didn’t prefer she come to them.

  Eventually, she always did.

  But there was something about holding the first meeting with a prospective account on her own turf that gave her a different perspective than seeing them in their element—much as having Randy come to her place took away the crutch of the familiar for him.

  Not that he’d needed any crutch at all, she mused. He’d had no trouble finding his way to her balcony, making himself at home, flipping her rules of engagement into ones that suited him better. Tonight, she’d be on her toes. She had to be or else he’d be taking over her holiday fling.

  For now, she had to get back to work. She had her initial consultation with the Flatbacker Foundation scheduled for Thursday at their offices, so was spending the morning researching the firm on the Internet.

  The three founding partners were in their seventies and had set up the organization over fifty years before. The list of recipients who’d benefited from their generosity with grants and scholarships was impressive.

  Finding the conservative institution located in one of downtown New Orleans’ newest buildings surprised her. She’d expected a location as rich with history as the firm, and was admittedly curious about their choice of location.

  The only thing she’d been told by the executive assistant booking the appointment was the new CFO felt the firm’s image didn’t reflect their mission statement. She was in the middle of reading that very thing when her phone rang.

  She didn’t even look away from her screen at the caller display. She simply answered. “First Impressions.”

  “I checked my mail yesterday, and nothing from you. I had a card from Windy and one from Alex. What happened?”

  Claire laughed at the righteous indignation in Tess Autrey’s voice. “I’m a bad, bad friend?”

  “I’ll say. Next time you decide to jump ship for another state, remind me to impress upon you the emotional damage you’ll be inflicting upon those you leave behind.”

  Tess. Ever the psychologist. “It’s a freakin’ Christmas card, Autrey. Get over it.”

  “Ooh, and the snark goes on. Sounds like someone got up on the wrong side of bed.”

  Claire had gotten up alone, that was the problem. “I’m a grouch. It’s like umpty billion degrees here, and my air conditioner isn’t working. You’ll have to find your Christmas spirit elsewhere.”

  “I think that would make you a grinch, not a grouch.”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve got cards going out in today’s mail.” She’d written the notes to her friends last night after Randy had left her hot and bothered and unable to sleep. “They’re right here on my desk, see?”

  “No phone-o-vision on this end, sorry. Hang a sec.” In the background, Tess verified an appointment with her assistant before coming back on the line. “Just checking in between patients. Anything new going on with you?”

  Claire’s thoughts were still on her sexy neighbor. “You mean anything new since two days ago when we talked?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the holidays, and you’re not here to rescue me from being at my mother’s beck and call.”

  Dr. Georgina Autrey was a world-renowned feminist à la Gloria Steinem, and mother and daughter had never seen eye to eye on anything. Meaning Tess never got a traditional Christmas except when she spent the holiday with Claire.

  Except this year Claire hadn’t decorated or baked or even managed to send out her cards.

  Well, cards to anyone but Randy.

  “Be glad I’m not there. At least with the distance between us, you can’t see what a lousy elf I’ve been this year.”

  “Yes. I can. All I have to do is check my mailbox.”

  “It’s coming.” She pointed at the stack of mail on her desk. “I swear, it’s coming.”

  “So what’s his name?”

  Claire almost choked. “Whose name? Tess, we just talked two days ago.”

  “The day we were all buying and mailing our cards. You didn’t. It must be a man.”

  “It wasn’t. It was work.”

  “But there is a man.”
r />   “Sort of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s just my neighbor.”

  “From the balcony next door? The Michelangelo’s David Adonis guy?”

  He was that gorgeous, yes, but he was also so very human. She leaned back in her chair. “His name’s Randy. He asked me if the first guy I slept with broke my heart.”

  Tess sucked in a breath. “Ouch. What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing yet. I’m supposed to answer his question tonight.”

  “Sounds hot and kinky.” Tess didn’t even try to hide her sarcasm. “Not to mention horribly romantic.”

  Claire laughed. It was none of the above, but explaining the deal she and Randy had made, the terms of their involvement, would take more time than Tess had.

  As if they were on the same wavelength, Tess came back with, “I’ve got to go, sweetie. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t pouring eggnog into your Wheaties to get through the season.”

  Oh, fine. Now Claire was getting all weepy and damp. “You’re a good friend, Autrey. No matter how many bad things I say about you.”

  “I know,” Tess said and rang off, leaving Claire to daydream wistfully about the girlfriends she’d left in Houston when she’d made her upwardly mobile move—though with the imbalance between her out-box and in, she wondered if the move had truly been anything but eastwardly.

  She spent the rest of the day finishing as many small tasks as she could, clearing space on her plate for the functional space analysis she’d be working on as part of the Flatbacker project should they sign on.

  By the time she’d finished returning phone queries, updating her financial spreadsheets, filing and responding to business e-mails, it was almost seven.

  She hadn’t even taken a break for lunch, making do with a package of peanut butter crackers from the bottom of her purse and a pear from a gift basket sent by a former client.

  It was time to go home, to eat something that didn’t require using her oven and further heating up her house, to catch up on the hours of sleep she’d lost last night.

  Ugh, but she was way too young to be this tired.

  Which was why when she walked through her front door twenty minutes later, her hair drooping from the humidity, thoughts of Randy impossible to shake, she was sure she was dreaming.

  The town house was cool. And it smelled wonderful, as if she’d walked into Ristorante Carmelo for dinner.

  Since there was only one logical explanation, she didn’t bother wondering or worrying or giving in to the initial rush of adrenaline-fueled fright.

  All she did was kick off her shoes, toss her purse, her attaché, her panty hose and her suit jacket to the sofa, and follow her nose.

  The smell of butter, garlic and parmesan cheese had her drooling. But the true sensory meltdown came the minute she turned the corner into the kitchen and got a good look at her cook. Wow.

  Just wow.

  Drooling fool that she was, those were the only words that came to mind. Randy stood in front of the sink, draining bow-tie pasta into a colander, steam rising like a devil’s halo around his face.

  He wore suit pants, navy, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves cuffed over his forearms. His tie hung askew over his unbuttoned collar.

  Once the steam cleared, he saw her and smiled. “Is alfredo okay? Neither one of us had ingredients for marinara.”

  “You look like you do and you cook.” She clucked her tongue, shook her head, leaned one shoulder against the wall at the kitchen entrance. “How lucky can a girl get?”

  “You think this is good,” he said, nodding to the pasta he dumped from colander to serving bowl, “wait till I get you in bed.”

  Honestly? She thought she’d die from that particular wait.

  But telling him that was not the way to keep him in line—something she’d decided she was going to have to do for this affair to work. He was just this close to being too sure of himself—and of her.

  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “I’m assuming I have you to thank for the cool air as well as for dinner?”

  He moved back to the stove, stirred the simmering alfredo. “I like it cool when I cook.”

  She pushed off the doorway and walked farther into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator for salad makings—the least she could do to help.

  What she found was a huge serving bowl of mixed greens already prepared.

  “Is there anything you haven’t thought of?” she asked, closing the door to the fridge.

  He gave her a look that made it quite clear that he always thought of everything.

  That realization and the responding twist tightening her tummy sent her out of the kitchen proper to the seat in the attached eating nook.

  He’d obviously opened the bottle of wine sitting on the table there in anticipation of her arrival, and before she managed to pick it up, he was filling her glass.

  That done, he brought over the single serving bowl of salad tossed with vinaigrette and another covered dish of the alfredo sauce and pasta.

  Then he made a “get up” motion with his hand.

  She did, holding on to her wineglass as she slid out of the seat. He moved to take her spot on the padded bench then patted his lap. “Let’s eat.”

  Oh, my. If the idea of being that close didn’t stir more than her hunger for food. She doubted she’d even be able to eat; then again, she was starving.

  In the end, she had no trouble hiking her straight skirt up her thighs enough to straddle his.

  He was hard beneath her, his belly, his legs, as was the edge of the table in the small of her back when she reached for his drink. She handed it to him before she picked up the bowl of salad and the single fork he’d supplied.

  Balanced with her bottom on his knees, her calves hugging his thighs, she stabbed the salad until the tines were filled and offered him the first bite.

  His eyes never left hers as he chewed, as he swallowed, as he chased the salad with a swallow of wine.

  She sat with the fork hovering over the bowl she held, staring at the motions of his mouth, remembering the texture and pressure of his lips, reliving their kiss, growing wet, wondering if he noticed.

  She didn’t know what to do. Silly, really. She should feed him. Or feed herself, she mused, dropping her gaze to the contents of the bowl and breathing deeply as she ate.

  And then as he set his glass on the table to work open the buttons on her blouse, her breathing stopped completely. She could no longer chew or swallow, and her hands trembled, holding on to the fork and the bowl.

  His fingers were fabulously talented, never fumbling as he slipped the tiny ivory-colored buttons through their holes. He bared the camisole she wore, then took the bowl and fork from her hands to pull her arms free of her sleeves.

  The blouse fell loose behind her. And while her hands were free, he went ahead and pulled off the undergarment, leaving her in only her bra. That done, he reached for the bowl of pasta.

  “My turn,” he said, forking up a bite and offering it to her.

  “Oh, no,” she said before she ate. “It’s mine.”

  Her mouth full, she did all her talking with her hands, finishing what he’d started when he’d loosened his tie, pulling the length of fine silk from his collar and sliding it through her hands, turning her mind to the wicked fun she could have with him were he tied down.

  He fed her another bite, and she pondered further, thinking of binding his wrists to her headboard. Or, better yet, to the arms of the chaise lounge in her sitting room, his ankles to the legs, his knees spread wide as he straddled the seat, hers opened as she straddled him….

  One of his brows lifted, his gaze moving from the tie in her hands to her eyes. “I won’t be able to feed you, you know.”

  Mind reader. “I’m actually quite full,” she managed to say, a miracle when she could barely breathe. This feeding and eating and waiting—all serving as foreplay—had her skin sizzling.

  “Afte
r a couple of bites of salad and two or three of pasta?” He took another while she pulled his shirttails from his waistband and parted the shirt’s front plackets. “Based on last night, I figured you for having hearty appetites.”

  “I do,” she said, accepting the forkful of pasta he offered with a groan of dual appreciation as she threaded her fingers through the thatch of hair in the center of his chest. “Mmm.”

  “Is that for the food or for me?” he asked, glancing from her face to her hands.

  “Both,” she said, telling the truth. She massaged his pectoral muscles with the heels of her palms, slid her fingers up to cup the balls of his shoulders and squeezed. “Let me guess. A home gym.”

  “An employee gym, actually. Once I’m through the front door at home, I’m a vegetable.”

  His admission caused her to chuckle. “Couch potato?”

  “ESPN twenty-four/seven,” he said with a wink.

  “I can see it….” And with the way he was built, she could totally imagine him being a jock. “Though my first guess would’ve been Bloomberg Television.”

  “That runs all day at the office.”

  She laughed again, shook her head, enjoying his quick replies far more than she should. “Men are so predictable.”

  “And women aren’t?”

  She frowned. “How have I been predictable?”

  He stirred the fork through the pasta. “Your invitation promised a lot of hot sweaty action, and I haven’t seen it.”

  “And now you won’t,” she teased. “You fixed the air conditioner.”

  He glanced up sharply. “I can break it again.”

  “Spending money as if it’s nothing.” She held off clucking her tongue.

  “No,” he said and grew solemn. “As if it’s everything.”

  She thought of his clothes and his car, his cash purchase of his town house.

  Then she thought of last night’s wine, this night’s dinner. Those didn’t ring any warning bells the way his having her air conditioner put to rights did. Loudly.

  There was something here she was missing. Something she was certain she needed to know. “You need to give me the bill for the repair work so I can reimburse you.”