Sexy Silent Nights

Yet another sexy silent night, 2:00 a.m., three weeks later…

JONAH STONE STOOD AT the window of his apartment, looking out at his own private view of the Golden Gate Bridge. For almost a month now, he’d stood at the same place, delaying the time before he would inevitably have to climb up the stairs to his loft and go to bed. Once he did, he’d dream of her again.

Cilla Michaels.

The dreams that had been haunting him since the one night they’d spent together at that airport hotel in Denver were growing more vivid. In each of them, she’d be with him, right there in his bed. The sensations were always so intense. He’d smell that elusive scent of hers, feel her heart beat beneath his lips, taste the salty dampness of her skin under her breasts, the sweetness at her throat, her inner thighs, hear the way his name sounded when she gasped it into the silent night.

Steeped in her, he’d rise above her and look into those incredibly green eyes as he entered her. Again and again, he’d thrust into her until he lost all of himself.

Then he’d wake to find himself alone in the bed. And he’d try to convince himself that was the way he wanted it.

One night. That’s what he’d promised himself and her. That’s what she’d agreed to. The memory of that night should have faded by now. That’s what memories did. But everything about that night was still vividly etched in his mind.

Turning, Jonah glanced at the conference table where he’d left his cell phone. Next to it sat a small green box with a red ribbon. Cilla ran G.W. Securities’ new office in San Francisco. So he could use the threatening note that had been tucked inside the box as a professional excuse to call her. Was that why he’d delayed calling his friend Gabe Wilder about it? So that he could call Cilla instead? He’d been tempted to do so more nights now than he could count. More than once he’d punched part of her number into his cell before he’d been able to stop himself.

The little green box with the red bow had been delivered to him that evening just when the cocktail hour at Pleasures had been its busiest. Since his apartment took up the third floor of the building, he frequently filled in for his manager, Virgil, on Monday nights.

He continued to study the box, debating. He’d been in the bar when his steady customer and current business partner, Carl Rockwell, had brought the small gift to him. Before he could thank him, Carl had explained that a man dressed up as Santa had given it to him just outside and asked him to deliver it.

Jonah had felt something the moment he’d taken the box, a tightening in his gut. The hairs on the back of his neck had stirred, too. He’d even turned to look through the windows that lined the wall of the bar to see if whoever had sent the gift might still be watching. There was no sign of a Santa.

Then he’d put the gift behind the bar and out of his mind as a new wave of customers streamed into the club. He hadn’t opened it until a short time ago when he’d returned to his apartment. Moving to the table, he took the lid off the box and picked up the folded note he’d found inside.

’Tis the season for remembering Christmases past. Pleasures and fortune are fleeting. You destroyed an innocent life in pursuit of yours. You’ll pay for that soon. Six nights and counting…

Rereading it had his gut instinct kicking in again. Perhaps it was the wording. And there was something else that kept tugging at the corners of his mind. Some memory that was eluding him. Maybe it was the reference to Christmases past. At twenty-nine he had a lot of them to remember and several that he’d tried hard to forget. Especially that long-ago one when his father had promised to return, but hadn’t.

He’d also made his share of enemies. Some of them probably dated back to his early days in foster care. He hadn’t always “played well with other children.” As a businessman, he was demanding. He hired and fired people. Over the past six years he’d opened three successful supper clubs in the United States and he was in the process of opening another one in San Diego and a possible fifth in Rome.

Pleasures had been his first supper club and the result of a dream that had taken shape during his years in business school. His goal had been to create a place where people could escape into a different world and find temporary respite from the harsher realities of life. And he’d known that he wanted to open the club in San Francisco as a kind of thank-you to the saint the city had been named after, a saint who’d played an important part in his life.

The success of Pleasures had allowed him to open Interludes, a sports-themed bar in San Francisco, and more recently Passions, another supper club in Denver.

He didn’t like it at all that the word pleasures was used in the note. But perhaps he was overreacting. It was December 19, a peak time for his businesses, and he wasn’t getting much sleep, thanks to Cilla Michaels.

So he wasn’t going to alarm Gabe yet. And calling Cilla, who was running Gabe’s newly opened office in San Francisco, would be a mistake on so many levels.

He strode back to the window. Not that he could put all the blame on her. He’d known from the first instant he’d seen her at that party in the Fortune Mansion that she was different. That she’d be different for him. Gut instinct again.

His eyes had been drawn to her the moment she’d entered the room. No surprise there. Any man would have given her a second look. Her face had grabbed his attention first with its delicate features and stubborn chin. But he certainly hadn’t missed the slender, almost lanky body and those long legs that the charcoal-gray slacks showcased. But it hadn’t been just her looks that had pulled at him. She seemed to radiate an energy that tugged at him on a gut level.

Then there were those green eyes. The first time he’d looked into them, he’d felt as if he’d taken a punch right in the solar plexus. And when he’d clasped her hand in his, for a moment, he hadn’t wanted to let it go.

The last thing he wanted or needed right now was to pursue a relationship with a woman who could have that effect on him. A woman like that could change your life.

During the past year, he’d seen his two best friends, Gabe Wilder and Nash Fortune, meet the women they’d decided to spend the rest of their lives with. Nash had already married his former high school sweetheart, Bianca Quinn, and Gabe was planning to marry FBI agent Nicola Guthrie on Valentine’s Day.

He was happy for his friends, but Jonah liked his life just the way it was. Simple and uncomplicated. The right woman could change that. But on that night nearly a month ago in Denver, had he listened to what his mind was telling him? Had he heeded his gut instinct?

No.

Instead, he’d reverted to the reckless style of his youth when his name had been renowned in the family-court system. He’d followed Cilla Michaels when she’d left the party. He’d even watched her in the airport like a stalker until her flight was canceled. Then he’d followed her to the airport hotel and booked a room. Finally, he’d walked into the lounge, sat down at her table, and propositioned her for a one-night stand.

In the business world, Jonah Stone was never impulsive. He studied his options, planned various strategies. And he was even more careful in his private life and relationships. He’d been nine when his father had decided to desert his family, nine and a half when his mother had stepped in front of a bus rather than go on without the love of her life. He’d vowed never to be that vulnerable to anyone. Happy ever after didn’t happen. The most one could hope for was a happy right now.

Instinct told him that Cilla Michaels could have the power to make him hope for the impossible. He turned back to the table and let his gaze rest on the green box with its festive red ribbon. His instinct was telling him something about that box, too, and he might not be overreacting.

Once again, he debated calling Cilla and hiring G.W. Securities. He had no doubt that his friend Gabe would recommend she handle the case. She was here in San Francisco. Gabe was in Denver. And at the party, Gabe had spent some time singing Cilla’s praises to him. She’d been involved in a high-profile personal security case in L.A. and she’d saved a client from a crazed stalker. In Gabe’s opinion, she had a rare combination of intelligence and excellent instincts.

But if he called her, he’d also have her in his bed again.

He pressed his hands against his eyes and rubbed. He didn’t have to decide tonight. In the morning, he was flying to Denver to attend the annual Christmas party at the Denver Boys and Girls Club, a place he’d been running for years with Gabe and Nash. They’d opened the club when the St. Francis Center for Boys, the place where they’d all first met, had closed down. He’d discuss the box and the note with Gabe.

Jonah moved toward the spiral staircase to his loft. And there was always the chance that tonight would be the night that Cilla Michaels finally faded from his dreams.

CILLA JOLTED AWAKE AND TRIED to focus. Relief came when she realized she’d fallen asleep on the couch and not in her bed. During the past three weeks, she’d rationed the hours she allowed herself to spend in her bed.

Because the damn thing was cursed.

Each time she fell asleep in it she dreamed of Jonah Stone touching her, tormenting her, taking her.

And each time she woke up to find herself alone, she yearned for him. So avoiding her bed had become almost as important as avoiding Jonah.

Which was why she’d ended up dozing off on her couch during a Christmas movie marathon on the Hallmark Channel. The credits for Miracle on 34th Street were rolling down the screen. A quick glance at the time on her digital TV box confirmed that she’d dozed off for nearly twenty minutes.

That pissed her off.

Not only had she missed her favorite part of the movie, the part where Kris Kringle proves he really is Santa Claus, but she’d also missed the cheese and crackers. The plate sitting on the cushion beside her was now empty.

She glared at her cat. Flash, a plumply proportioned calico, lay stretched serenely along the arm of the sofa, a good distance from the scene of the crime.

Pets were not allowed at The Manderly Apartments, a rule that was explicitly spelled out in the lease and articulated equally clearly by the apartment manager, Mrs. Ortiz, a woman who reminded Cilla eerily of Mrs. Danvers in the old Rebecca movie.

But Flash hadn’t given Cilla much choice. When she’d moved in a few months ago, the calico had migrated from its former home on the fire escape to the living room via an open window. And stayed.

It had to be for either the food or the conversation since the cat wouldn’t allow her to stroke, cuddle or even pick her up most of the time.

“You’re supposed to share,” Cilla pointed out.

Flash’s bland expression clearly said, “You snooze, you lose.”

Her phone rang and the caller ID lady chimed, “Call from Wilder, Gabe.”

Cilla sprang from the sofa and raced for her desk. Gabe headed up G.W. Securities’ home base in Denver. Two months ago he’d given her a new beginning by hiring her to manage his branch office in San Francisco when she’d moved on from a personal security agency in L.A. Gabe wouldn’t be calling her at home on her night off if it wasn’t important.

Maybe he even had a job for her. Business had been good lately. G.W. Securities offered a variety of services to corporate as well as private clients. Lots of people wanted to give security systems for Christmas, and she enjoyed the challenge of working on their design. But there were times when she missed the action that came with providing personal security.

Mentally crossing her fingers, she grabbed the receiver on the third ring. “Gabe.”