The Longest Night

Beth cast her a sharp look. “Well, what does that matter since you’re not going to get serious anyway?”

Cassandra moved on to blush. Rose Shadows. “It doesn’t. Why don’t you leave my love life alone, hmm? I appreciate the thought, but I’m doing fine.”

“It’s wrong. There, I’ve said it. Morally, what you’re doing is wrong.”

Cassandra took a step back. It was a judgment she would have expected from Mickey, but never Beth, who didn’t like to step on ants and had never swatted a mosquito in her life. “Why? I’m not getting married, so I’m expected to live like I’m stuck in some convent? Honey, my ticker is working just fine.”

“I don’t think it’s wrong, you just make it so…cold-blooded. Sex shouldn’t be that way.”

“Men handle it just fine. It’s all about the release. Nothing more. It’s great exercise, clears up the complexion and relieves stress. Tell me how something that does all that and manages to make me feel good, could be bad for me?”

“I’m not saying it’s bad for you,” Beth started, then stopped. “Okay, I am, but why don’t you try having a normal relationship for once?”

Cassandra snapped the blush case closed. “I wasn’t built the way the rest of you were.” It was true. She had the body of a stripper and men just didn’t get “normal” female thoughts about her. She got the howlers, the whistlers, the grabbers and the droolers.

Beth met her eyes in the mirror. Her blond eyelashes were next on the list.

“Don’t blame this all on your…” Beth couldn’t bring herself to say it, so instead eyed meaningfully in the direction of Cassandra’s chest. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had thoughts about getting a regular boyfriend. Don’t you ever get lonely?”

No, she never got lonely, because she had perfected the art of being alone. “Let’s move on to your eyelashes.”

“I’m not done.”

Cassandra shot her a hard glance. “I can put a mask on your mouth, too.”

Beth held up a hand. The bride had finally remembered that today was supposed to be all about her. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Cassandra pulled out the wand of mascara, soft brown, waterproof, because the last thing Beth needed to worry about was tears.

Cassandra didn’t have to bother with waterproof. “No tears” was one of her rules, as well.

NOAH BARCLAY rolled in his bed, feeling the warm body right beneath his hands. She was there, her dark hair a thick curtain over her face. God, he loved her hair. He moved inside her, deep, deeper, and her legs tightened around his waist, taking him further inside. Then she smiled up at him and cocked her head. She was taunting him. He leaned down and kissed her, long and thorough, and when he drew back, she surprised him by pulling his head down again. This time she was biting his ear. Pleasure, pain.

He started to laugh. So she wanted to play? He could do that. He began to pound inside her, watching her dark eyes widen first with surprise, then pleasure. Her lashes were so long, thick, a mask she hid behind. He wouldn’t let her hide from him. He brushed back the hair from her face, and still he pounded.

Pounded.

Pounded.

Damn!

Noah sat upright in his bed, the pounding noise still there.

What the hell?

He looked at his clock: 11:07. He’d slept in late this morning, but then, that was what happened when you returned from conducting business two continents from home.

Shaking off the remains of sleep, he pulled on a pair of boxers, noticed the swelling down below, then hastily reached for a pair of jeans, adjusting everything so that the pants would fit.

Back to reality. But, man, he wanted to go back to that dream.

For the past six months the dream had always been variations on a single theme: one beautiful woman, one desperate man and the kind of love-making that could bring a guy to his knees.

Noah gave himself a firm head-slap. Daylight was here, and there was an incessant knocking on his front door.

“What?” he snapped as he swung the door open.

It was Joan—the woman he normally called his sister. Today the label of choice was nuisance.

“You’re not awake?” Joan asked, swaggering into his apartment with that awful perfume.

“Go away,” growled Noah, thinking that if he didn’t get too close to Joan, he could return to bed and finish the dream.

“You can’t keep these sorts of hours, Noah. Look at you, circles under your eyes, and your hair, well, your hair looks terrible. You have a wedding tonight and I have a full list of items that I will need you to report on.”

“I’m not going,” he shot back, now sadly realizing that all hope of the fantasy replaying was gone.

She pulled her face into one long frowning line of disapproval. It was a look that he never fully appreciated until he’d cut through a camel market in his travels abroad. Definite similarities. “You have to go. You promised me.”

“I said I would think about it. I did. No.” He looked around the room. “God, I need coffee. Where’s my coffee?”

“It’s in your kitchen. For heaven’s sake, wake up.”

Noah glared and then wandered into the kitchen, trying to remember where he kept the coffeepot.

“You have to go,” called Joan from the other room.

Noah put the coffee in the filter, rinsed out the pot, put it on the launchpad and then flipped the switch.

Nothing.

Well, what the—water.

He needed water.

He filled up the coffeepot, poured it through the top grid, then snapped the pot back in place. Happily, the gurgling started.

Eventually there was enough for a cup and he held it to his nose, inhaling the caffeine, letting it soak through his blood.

He wandered back into the living room, taking his first hit. Ah, much better. His blood started moving. He stared at Joan. Why was she here? Oh, yeah. The wedding.

“I have to know how many guests there are, the details of her dress, attendants, if you could get the name of the florist that would be wonderful, too,” she intoned.

That was when he knew she’d read one too many bridal magazines.

“Aren’t you over Spencer? You wanted the divorce. Hell, you’re getting married, and Harry is really nice, by the way. Don’t screw this one up.”

“You think this is about Spencer?”