In the Midnight Hour (2 page)

He loved women, and they loved him.

And so he wasn’t the least surprised by his immediate and rather lusty response when this particular woman crawled into his bed. Women had shared his bed for years, and his passion feverish and intense, had never failed him.

But he was shocked that she didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Especially when he’d been anticipating her stretched out next to him since the moment she’d first walked into the room tonight. Every night for the past week since Fate had brought them together and this sweet woman had come to his rescue in that dusty old antique shop.

He was definitely in the mood to show her a little gratitude. Perhaps a lot, he amended after a quick glance down at that very prominent, very appreciative part of him.

From his usual casual repose on the bed, he’d watched her pull off her baggy T-shirt, slide off her shoes, and peel off her pants. She’d exchanged them for an even larger T-shirt that swallowed up her curves and her big, beautiful breasts, making her look rather young and vulnerable.

She was far from it, of course. By his estimation, she couldn’t be a day younger than twenty-five, and no doubt very experienced in the arts of love. It wasn’t just her delectable body that clued him in. It was the way she moved, so graceful and sexy, putting away her things, fixing herself some supper, making the most mundane chore exciting. As if she knew he watched.

Undoubtedly she did, he told himself when she’d set about pulling her long, flame-colored hair into a ponytail. The motion had lifted her large breasts, pushed them against the cotton of her shirt, and Val had nearly groaned aloud.

But he’d held his tongue, opting to save his energy for a much more pleasurable activity once she joined him.

And tonight would be the night. The past week she’d fallen asleep at her desk where she retired every night, a stack of books in front of her. She studied vigorously for several hours before sleep caught up to her. Then she would rest her head on her folded arms and close her eyes.

He’d watched her well into the night, until the clock struck midnight and he was able to go to her. He’d been so tempted to touch her. So many times he’d reached out, but, alas, he’d forced himself away, opting to tuck a blanket around her to chase away the night’s chill.

He wasn’t sure why. He could have done all he wanted with her. A woman of her sensuality would have come alive in his arms, and he ached so badly. He’d spent the past century and a half cooped up in one rotting house after another, with no one to warm his bed, to warm him. Ah, he’d come close a few weeks ago in a storage shed on the outskirts of town. Of course, it had been during the day and he’d been little more than a figment of the woman’s imagination, a whisper in her ear, an invisible touch along her pale skin. But he’d been there, and she’d felt him.

A fat lot of good it had done. The woman, a lawyer’s assistant who’d been cataloguing estate items, had turned out to be engaged. Upon learning such a crucial piece of information, Val had stopped the dalliance immediately. No matter how desperate, he had his principles. Which was why, with this beautiful,
available
woman at his fingertips, he’d merely bid her sleep well the past week.

No more. Tonight she would come to him, call to him, and his deprivation would end.

For all his fantasies, his bold dreams of the evening ahead, nothing quite prepared him for what transpired next.

She settled herself in the center of
his
huge bed, on
his
white sheets, and didn’t so much as spare him a glance.

Not that she could see him, mind you. He’d long ago come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t exactly the man he used to be. He was more now, or less, depending on how one surveyed the situation. He chose the former, of course, and so it irritated the hell out of him that she didn’t pay him any mind. She might not be able to see him, but she could
feel
him, by God!

Things quickly went from bad to worse when she turned away to reach for something on the nightstand.

Being a lover of the female species and extensively experienced in giving and receiving sexual favors, Val, through his numerous liaisons, had grown to appreciate the different tastes and desires of a woman when it came to his bed.

But this …

Irritated, he watched as she retrieved a pizza and a can of soda. She flung back the lid, popped the soda tab, and reached for a large slice soggy with cheese and sauce. After a huge bite and an endless moment with her eyes closed, her mouth moving slowly, sensuously as she chewed, she finally swallowed.

And so did Val. Hard.

Then with a smile, she took a sip of soda and reached for the remote control.

The television clicked on, sending a dance of colorful shadows through the dim bedroom. And so began the newest phase in the one hundred and fifty years of Valentine Tremaine’s death—or new and improved life, as Val chose to see it.

But he was starting to have his doubts, especially since he found himself for the first time in bed with a woman who had no interest in him whatsoever.

“
Valentine
.” He whispered the name into her ear, catching a succulent whiff of strawberries and cream. “
Say it
, chérie.”

She slapped at the air as if warding off a bothersome fly. He started to speak louder, but caught himself. He wasn’t of the mind to frighten, but to seduce.

Unfortunately, she didn’t seem the least bit interested. She simply sat there, eating and drinking and watching the news. While Val ached and burned and watched her.

And where he’d always considered himself a patient man, he soon discovered he was a very, very impatient spirit.

Ronnie shoved the last of the pizza slice into her mouth. Ignoring a rush of megasized guilt, she reached for another. So she’d jog to class the rest of the week. The month, even. A year of exercise would be worth the next few minutes of fast food ecstasy—

The solid
whack
of cardboard hitting cardboard thundered through her head. The lid slammed shut just inches shy of her fingers. Her gaze riveted on the closed box. Uneasiness zigzagged down her spine and her heart stopped for one long, silent moment.

The clock ticked away, the sound magnified in the sudden hush as she stared at the pizza box as if it had metamorphosed into a living, breathing thing.

And Brad Pitt’s beating down the door for a date!

Her lips curved into a shaky smile and she managed to take a jagged breath. A gust of air, she told herself, her gaze darting to the French doors.
Closed
doors, because she’d turned on the air conditioner. Her attention shot to the vent in a nearby wall. The pink ribbon tied to one slat hung limply. The air conditioner had cycled off minutes ago.

Carefully, she lifted the lid the tiniest bit and peered beneath. Just three-quarters of a pizza pie. She giggled. Like She’d expected to find anything else. Opening the box, she started to retrieve another slice.

The cardboard whacked closed again, as if a solid hand forced the lid back into place.

“This can’t be happening.” She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep, calming breath. Okay, so it
had
happened, but there was an explanation for it. There was always an explanation.
Think calm, cool, rational. Think
instead of feel, her motto for the past eight years.

She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and tried the box again.

The lid lifted easily and laughter trembled from her lips. Somehow, someway a draft had worked its way into the room and closed the box. Her imagination—her sleep-deprived, exhausted imagination—had done the rest. Fancy not being able to lift a measley cardboard lid. She was simply tired and overworked.

But tonight would remedy all of that. She’d left the library early, after having fallen asleep during a fifteen-minute break that lasted a full hour. Delta, the night librarian, had taken pity on her and sent her home with strict instructions to rest.

“You keep working yourself to death, you’re going to get old before your time, sugar.”

“I’m already old.” Or at least older. At twenty-six, she had at least four years on most of the other seniors at USL. While an accounting degree only took four years, Ronnie didn’t have the luxury of going full-time. She’d had to work full-time during the summers and part-time throughout college to meet school and living expenses.

“You’re one step out of the womb, sugar,” Delta had told her. “Take a look at me.” The woman had frowned, emphasizing her sun-browned face carved with dozens of laugh lines. “Sixty-four years’ worth of wrinkles—and all from catching catnaps in the library lounge when I should have been in my own bed sound asleep.”

That had been enough to send Ronnie straight home.

Her first class was at eight in the morning, and although she still had to jot down a few extra notes on her term paper topic for Professor Guidry’s human sexuality class, she could drag herself up an hour early to do it. She refused to think of anything tonight but a little R&R.

Determined to ignore the nagging guilt that prompted her toward her book satchel, she stabbed the remote control button and found a music video channel. Humming with the song, she retrieved another slice of pizza. No stress-induced hallucination was going to rob her of the pleasure of a double cheese and pepperoni.

She hadn’t had a really good pizza pie since she’d left her hometown of Covenant and her friend Jenny, the daughter of the town’s one and only pizza parlor owner. Friends since kindergarten, Ronnie and Jenny had gone through school and puberty together, despite Ronnie’s father, who’d never approved of the friendship. Jenny had been a wild child, the product of a divorce, and a bad influence, according to Mayor Parrish.

Oddly enough, Jenny was the one married and settled in Covenant with a husband and two toddlers, while Ronnie was here, a hundred and fifty miles away in Lafayette, still single, sitting in a messy efficiency she didn’t have the time or the energy to clean, nursing a pizza smack dab in the middle of a bed that belonged in one of those Enhance Your Love Life catalogues advertised in the back of
Cosmo
or
Vogue
.

If only her folks could see her now.

She nibbled on her pizza slice. Her mother would turn every shade of red. Her father would probably have a heart attack. He’d definitely issue a statement claiming Ronnie’s behavior was due to an accidental drop on the head as a child rather than her upbringing.

Not that Ronnie had to worry about either. They wouldn’t see her, because traditional Mayor Parrish and his lovely wife wouldn’t visit their nontraditional daughter. Ronnie had traded marriage and a family for late-night study sessions and student loans, her role as dutiful daughter for that of political liability.

And, of course, she’d made the choice publicly. In front of a church full of people gathered to watch her marry the man of her father’s dreams, Raymond Cormier, the town’s chief of police and one of her father’s staunch supporters.

She took another bite of pizza and flipped through a couple of television channels, finally settling on an old black-and-white movie.

On-screen, Shirley Temple hugged her long-lost father. A sense of loneliness washed through Ronnie.

Despite her differing views and their bitter parting, she missed her parents. There was a lot to be said for living at home. She’d had three solid meals a day, no bills hanging over her head, and two people who loved her, even if they were painfully conservative. At least she hadn’t been alone.

Then again, there was also a heck of a lot to be said for independence, regardless of all its responsibilities and worries. She ate and slept when she wanted. Wore sweatshirts, jeans, and sneakers instead of the awful, “feminine” dresses her Aunt Mabel had made for her. Did whatever she felt like doing.

Smiling, she placed the half-eaten slice of pizza back in the box and stretched out on the bed. Her T-shirt rode her hips. Soft cotton cushioned the backs of her bare legs. Yes, independence had its good points. This was
her
apartment,
her
bed—in all its bold, outrageous glory—and she was going to sleep like a rock tonight.

Her gaze went to the pizza box and the same sense of unease she’d felt earlier came crawling back through her. Just a draft, she told herself.

She heard the soft buzzing sound again, like a faint whispering. Whispering? More like a fly or a gnat. She slapped at the air, then gathered up the pizza box and refrigerated the leftover slices. Out of sight, out of mind, she told herself. She checked the double deadbolts on her apartment door, flicked off the lights, and climbed into bed, ready to relax and watch a little TV. But she couldn’t seem to get comfortable. The pillow wasn’t right. The sheet twisted this way, her leg felt uncomfortable that way, and every time her gaze strayed to the spot just to her left where the pizza box had been sitting, a shiver worked its way through her.

Even watching the latest video from a group of bare-chested hunks didn’t take her mind off the pizza box episode.

Correction—it wasn’t an episode. Just one of those things easily explained if she’d been a physicist or rocket scientist instead of an accounting major.

Finally, unable to relax, much less sleep, she flicked off the television, turned on the nightstand lamp, and retrieved her book bag. She would write out her paper topic right now. Homework never failed to put her to sleep. In a half hour she’d have her topic ready to hand in, and she’d be sound asleep. One hour max.