Red-Hot Nights: Daring in the Dark

www.millsandboon.co.uk

After a varied career path that included barbecue joint waitress, corporate numbers cruncher and bug business maven, JENNIFER LABRECQUE has found her true calling writing contemporary romance. Named 2001 Notable New Author of the Year and 2002 winner of the prestigious Maggie Award for Excellence, she is also a two-time RITA^>® Award finalist. Jennifer lives in suburban Atlanta with a chihuahua who runs the whole show.

To Rita Herron, Susan Kimoto and Rhonda Nelson for all the times ya’ll have talked me off the ledge and through the story.

Thanks to John Wehr and his photojournalling of the 2003 NYC blackout at www.johnwehr.com/blackout.

HER HEAD DROPPED TO HIS shoulder, but still she watched the mirror. She knew not to look away. Every time she stopped looking, he stopped touching … and his touch drove her crazy. And yes, watching in the mirror made it so much more intense, so much hotter. His fathomless eyes met hers in the reflection. Her, on his lap, her back against his chest, her legs spread. He reached between her thighs and his long fingers parted her, opening her to his touch and his pleasure. His fingers were dark against her bare, pink flesh, sliding into her yawning, hungry portal … oh, yes … felt so good … please don’t stop … watching … wanting … oh, almost there….

The shrill ring of the bedside phone shattered the moment, pulling her out of the dream. Her body tight, her thighs wet, Tawny groped for the phone. “Hello.”

“Were you napping?” Elliott said, his normally cheery voice sounding just a bit forced. Of course, she could just be transferring the tension that lingered from being poised on the brink of orgasm in her dream. Or it could be Elliott criticizing her, which seemed to happen more and more frequently. It was almost like spending time with her parents.

“Hmm.” As an event planner for a group of Mid-town attorneys, her hours weren’t nine to five, Monday through Friday. “Last night was the cocktail party for that German client, remember? Then the partners had a lovely working breakfast at six-thirty this morning. Just what I wanted to do, crawl out of bed at four-thirty on a Saturday. Anyway, there’s no sin in an afternoon nap.” Intense sexual arousal and guilt lent her voice a husky note. “Did you work very late last night?” Elliott invested incredible hours in his art gallery, but it was paying off with a growing reputation and clientele.

“Late enough.” He sounded uncharacteristically terse.

Maybe it really was just her. She was wound so tight and ached so badly she wanted to cry. Or come. She should laugh, confess to her husband-to-be that she’d just been having the most awesome dream sex and that she still desperately needed to come and ask him to help her out.

Once upon a time she would’ve thought laid-back, easygoing Elliott would get off on a round of afternoon phone sex and talking her into an orgasm. But she wasn’t so sure anymore. Lately he’d been neither laid-back nor easygoing. And what if somewhere along the way she revealed he wasn’t the man spreading her thighs and leading her to ecstasy in her dreams? And what if the man she’d agreed to marry “till death they did part” couldn’t pick up where the dream left off and get her to that magical place?

He continued and the opportunity was gone. “I thought I’d come over after the gallery closes this evening.”

“That’s fine as long as you bring dinner and we stay in.” If he called this late in the day, she sure wasn’t cooking. Elliott was more into clubbing and being seen than she was. A quiet night at home suited her.

“Staying in works. I wanted to talk to you.”

Tawny propped up on her pillow. She and Elliott talked often, but when someone announced they wanted to talk … “What?”

“It’s too complicated to go into over the phone.”

“That’s a lousy thing to do. Bring it up and leave me hanging.”

“Sorry. But let’s leave it till tonight.” It wasn’t her imagination. He definitely sounded strained.

“Okay …” Sex. It must be about sex. Of course at this point her brain was one-tracking.

“Thai sound okay?”

“Sure. You know what I like.” Elliott couldn’t possibly miss her flirtatious innuendo. Maybe he’d initiate a little phone sex without her asking.

Elliott cleared his throat, as if her teasing left him uncomfortable. “Um, yeah, I’ll pickup chicken curry.”

Nix the phone sex. “Chicken curry sounds good.”

He cleared his throat again. He was either nervous or coming down with something. “I thought I’d bring Simon along.”

Her hand tightened on the phone even as her internal temperature slid up the sizzle scale. “Simon?” She licked her suddenly dry lips and rolled over onto her belly. “Why would he want to come to my apartment? He’s avoided me like the plague ever since the photo shoot. He obviously dislikes me.”

“He’s a busy guy. I don’t think he dislikes you. Simon’s just …”

“Dark. Brooding. Cynical. Intense. I think that about covers it.” And sexy in a shiver-down-her-spine, her-head-needed-to-be-examined kind of way. But that didn’t seem the most prudent observation to make about her fiancé’s best friend.