Another Side Of Midnight

Big freakin’ mistake.

My real name is Stella, but everyone, except my parents, has called me Steele since I was nine years old. After I bluffed him out of his pocket change playing stud poker, my Uncle Vin used to shake his head and mutter, “That girl’s got nerves of steel.”

I need them in my line of work. In the end we all agreed to part ways: Scarlet with a torn handbag and an ex-lover; Rat with a bloody nose and sore balls; me with a headache and a broken camera lens. I did manage to save the image storage card, though. So, even though it was an affair to forget, my client would get proof and I would get paid.

Good thing since now I was out a three-hundred-dollar Sony Cybershot.

Mission accomplished, I slid into the Toyota and cranked the air conditioner to “arctic.” Then I looked down, cursing when I saw Rat’s blood on the hem of my favorite T-shirt, the powder-blue one that read Spoil Me and We’ll Get Along Just Fine.

Some days I love my job. This was not one of them.

I’D JUST LEFT one bar and was headed for another, this time in my father’s restaurant across from the University of Las Vegas campus. Mezzanotte’s offers authentic Tuscan recipes straight out of my Nonna Angela’s trattoria in Siena. The pappardelle primavera and the bistecca alla fiorentina are to die for. It’s a family business. My father, Paolo, and my brother Raffaele run the kitchen while my mother, Vivian, acts as hostess.

Since I have no life outside of work—much to my mother’s disappointment—I help out at the bar a couple nights a week.

Thursday nights are pretty slow, especially since Papa refuses to do gimmicks like karaoke or wet T-shirt contests. It took a lot of convincing to get him to put a TV above the bar for the sports channels. Tonight there was a decent crowd, though, enough to have me pouring drafts and shaking drinks at a regular pace.

I’m good at tending bar. I flirt a little so the guys keep thinking and keep drinking. I make the cocktails strong enough to earn a reputation without depleting the inventory. And I’m normally a good listener, even when I’m really keeping an eye on the liquor levels for a row of customers.

But not tonight. Oh, I was getting the job done but my mind wasn’t engaged. Tonight I felt… Itchy. Like my skin was too tight and my nerves were exposed. None of my customers needed refills, so I was absentmindedly watching the NFL Pro Bowl game when I heard a voice behind me.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a McEwan’s Ale about?” A hot shiver danced down my spine. The Scottish accent was pure just-out-of-bed Sean Connery. Hearing it, I started thinking about getting into bed. When I turned around, though, I looked straight into the face of the golden god. Stifling my sexual reaction I studied him, trying to figure out what he was doing here.

I don’t believe in coincidence and I never get this lucky when it comes to men in bars.

The guy had broad shoulders and a massive chest beneath a forest green shirt open just enough to reveal a navy T-shirt. His forearms looked as if they’d been sculpted from Carrara marble and his large, blunt-fingered hands… I was getting all kinds of ideas about his hands.

His face had wide planes and interesting angles, with heavy brows that accentuated a coldly compelling blue gaze. The only soft things about him were the slight curl of his dark-blond hair and a deliciously sensual mouth. He was watching me with the barest hint of a smirk.

His eyes hinted that he’d seen the dark side of life and had laughed in its face, that he had secrets and no intention of sharing them. He had the air of a hunter, both patient and persistent. And like any prey, I felt the thrill of danger. All the way down my body.

“Sorry, no McEwan’s. See anything else you might like?” I cocked my head and gave him a playful look.

“Aye, something’s caught my interest.”

I leaned my forearms on the bar, briefly drawing his attention to the lettering over my breasts. “Well, catching is one thing, keeping is another.”

He resolutely kept his gaze on my face. A real gentleman, this guy. “It’s a bit soon to play for keeps.”

But apparently he did want to play. So did I. If the game got out of hand, I had a borrowed car and one hell of a right hook. What I didn’t have was a date for Valentine’s, as Mom had been reminding me all evening.

“You mean it wasn’t love at first sight that made you trail me all the way from downtown?”

His mouth lifted a fraction of an inch and he nodded to admit he’d been busted, but there was no hint of apology. “Why were you taking my photo?”

“I wasn’t. You just got in the frame.” I grinned and gave him the once-over. “You’re kind of distracting.”

“As are you.” His lips curved a little more and I found myself anxiously awaiting his smile. “What was a sweet lass such as yourself doing there anyway, eh?”

“A job. Why were you there?”

“A job.” He returned my deadpan expression in kind then reached across the bar to offer his hand. “Cameron Stone.”

“I’m Steele Mezzanotte.”

“You don’t look like ‘steel.’” He smirked, as most guys do. I’ve got my Papa’s bone structure, my Mom’s curvaceous figure and, so I’m told, an innate sex appeal all my own. No matter how smart or how tough she is, nobody takes a pretty girl seriously.

“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving.”

As his large, calloused hand closed over mine, energy— unexpected and potentially lethal—shot through my palm. It reminded me of when I was five and stuck a knife into a wall socket. Every nerve in my arm vibrated with sensory overload and I caught my breath. A little shaken, I dropped his hand and stepped back. I felt myself blush as I cleared my throat.

“What can I get you instead of the McEwan’s?”

“Surprise me, why don’t you.”

“I just might.” Letting a slow grin spread across my face, I was suddenly feeling very lucky, indeed….

However, I woke up the next morning alone in a hotel suite, unsure of which was worse, my hangover, my heartache or the trouble I had gotten into this time.

CHAPTER TWO

The Waiting Game

THE PORCH LIGHT was on. A sign of invitation, welcoming him for his efforts these past couple months. He smiled in the darkness.

He’d been careful to park around the corner, but still close enough to get a clear view down the street to her house. The sun was stealing over the mountains in the distance. He had to leave soon. Some early-bird neighbor might notice a strange car and it was almost time for her morning run.

A dog barked nearby, startling him. But he continued to watch the house, wondering which room she slept in. Wondering if she slept naked. He pictured her long dark hair fanned across the pillow, her blow job-worthy lips parted slightly as she breathed.

He shifted in the driver’s seat. The thought of her mouth always got him hard.

Letting his mind stretch further, he imagined she did sleep naked, her bare skin slick with sweat, the bed sheets twisted around her long athletic body. One hand would part her thighs while the fingers of his other tangled in her hair…

He wanted to hear her voice, if only a single word. Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed the number from memory. Anticipation had his heart racing, his body tense. He ought to speak this time—

“Huhlo?”

He closed his eyes, savoring the sleep-roughened rumble of her greeting…then disconnected the call. The time wasn’t right.

Soon.

But not yet.

CHAPTER THREE

Through a Glass Darkly

BLINKING AGAINST the late spring daylight, I checked the bedside clock. Christ, did that thing really say five-fifty? I reached for the phone to stop the damned ringing.