Mine Until Morning (14 page)

The Wrong Kind of Man

“Was I that bad?” she muttered to herself once she was in her own bedroom. The answer was probably yes. She remembered a lot of the same fights, not to mention when she told her mother she was pregnant. Barely out of high school, she’d had dreams of college. That was all they were now—dreams. But she had Heidi, and Heidi was the absolute most important thing in the world. Cleo didn’t want Heidi to make her same mistakes. She wanted her to have good grades in high school so she could get a scholarship. The meager amount Cleo managed to save in the college fund probably wouldn’t last more than two quarters.

Cleo closed her eyes, put her hand over her mouth. She was so tired, and the worry was murder on her. But dammit, she’d made her bed more than sixteen years ago, and, as tough as it was right now, she would not let Heidi down. She would work two jobs, do whatever it took to make sure Heidi had the life she deserved. They’d just hit a rough patch, that was all. She would make things better.

WALKER RANDALL FLIPPED HIS WRIST TO GLANCE AT HIS WATCH. His date was half an hour late. At seven thirty on Friday night, Bella’s was full and buzzing with conversation. Flower boxes of bright fuchsias separated the two halves of the restaurant’s large dining room. The floors were hardwood, the ceiling raftered, and a fire blazed in the hearth. In the fall and winter, Walker requested a table with the fireplace as a backdrop. He liked the warmth and the cheery crackle. Being a regular at Bella’s, he always got what he requested. This was a first. He’d never had a Courtesans’ date do a no-show on him. Isabel prided herself on making the perfect match, with everyone going away satisfied. Perhaps Estelle, his date, had gotten cold feet. Walker signaled the busboy for more water. He didn’t want to drink too much champagne before Estelle actually arrived.

It was Cleo who returned with the pitcher. She was a large part of the attraction of Bella’s. The continental cuisine was superb and the drive up through Woodside along Kings Mountain Road relaxing though winding, but Cleo was the icing on top of his cake. He felt very proprietary about her, in fact. He always made sure he was given one of her tables.

“Have you been stood up, Walker?” With a barely there teasing smile, she tipped her chin down, gazing at him through long, lush lashes. 90

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Her startlingly blue eyes reminded him of a mountain lake, though tonight he noticed a slight shadow in them and dark circles beneath. Tired? Worried? Both?

He didn’t like his Cleo being sad, but at least she could still manage a smile for him. She’d pulled her long black hair into its usual neat bun at the back of her neck. Her black pants hugged her behind, and she had one too many buttons undone on her white blouse. Perhaps it was an oversight, but it afforded Walker a view of her magnificent cleavage. Cleo was deliciously curvy.

“I’ve called her twice,” he admitted. “Perhaps she got lost on the way up.”

The mountain road was tricky. He’d offered to pick Estelle up. She’d wanted to make her own way.

Estelle typified most of his clients, women who wanted to prove how independent and capable they were. Beneath the bravado, their self-confidence needed shoring up. That was Walker’s specialty. He loved women, loved pleasuring them and empowering them. Every woman needed to believe she was a goddess.

But Cleo Carpenter actually was. It would be so much better, though, if he could banish that shadow from her eyes. A fight with her daughter? She didn’t dump her problems on him, but sometimes a detail or two slipped through in their brief conversations. If Cleo was wearing a shadow, it usually had something to do with Heidi.

“Wishful thinking,” she mocked sweetly, waggling her fingers as she moved on to another table.

He knew she referred to his date being directionally challenged, but Walker had certainly done his fair share of wishful thinking where Cleo was concerned. He’d never asked her out, though. He was extremely content with his life as it was. Most women, Cleo included, wouldn’t understand what he did for a living. Three years ago he’d been a stockbroker, and well on his way to a hardening of the arteries, both medically and figuratively. So instead of cashing in his life’s chips, he’d converted his stock portfolio to gold and struck a deal with Isabel of Courtesans. She set up his dates, and he made the women happy. He didn’t take money—or the expensive gifts—from women because he needed or wanted it. He took it because they needed to give it. Money was power, and when they paid him, they reveled in their own supremacy. The amount didn’t matter. The transaction was more about how much a woman needed to pay to get the most bang for her buck, so to speak. In other words, 91

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what was the price that made her feel the most powerful?

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Surreptitiously, Walker popped his Bluetooth in his ear and answered quietly so as to cause the least disturbance to the other diners around him. “Hello.”

“I can’t do this.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t wish to, Estelle. But I have the champagne iced, and we can enjoy a quiet dinner. No strings attached, nothing required. My treat, no obligations.”

While ultimately, he was the one who received payment, Walker usually took care of the incidental bills such as drinks, dinner, cab fare, et cetera. While he provided women empowerment, he also provided pampering. Though some ladies did prefer the power play of paying for everything. When that was the case, of course, he obliged them. Whatever the lady wanted.

“No, no, I can’t do that, either.” Estelle’s voice wobbled.

“Did something happen?”

She sniffed. “I can’t talk about it.”

He didn’t know her circumstances, whether she was married, partnered, or single. He’d noted a certain hesitancy on her part, but this felt like far more than mere cold feet. “Where are you? I can come there and make sure you get safely home.”

“I’m at home.”

Well. That could be bad. “Shall I ask Isabel to give you a call?” Perhaps she needed a woman’s shoulder.

Isabel was particular. She didn’t match women who were not fairly comfortable with what they were doing.

“No, no, I’ll call her.” Estelle sniffled.

“Good. But if you need me, you have my number. Please call anytime.”

Estelle didn’t even say good-bye. He immediately called Isabel, got her voice mail. Unusual, too; if Isabel was unavailable, she had a receptionist. He wondered if Estelle had immediately dialed in. He left a message, gave Isabelle fair warning about the alteration in plans and Estelle’s flighty manner. Damn. He had tickets to Fright Fest, an outdoor showing of three cult classic flicks over at the local community college. It was an unusual date venue, to be sure, but it was Halloween, and he’d planned something different, exciting even. Estelle was supposedly partial to the unexpected. 92

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Well, hell, he’d go on his own. But first, he’d enjoy a glass of champagne and a fine meal.

As if she were a genie he’d summoned, Cleo suddenly stood before his table, a hand on one hip. “So?”

He realized she’d been watching him. It gave him a bit of a kick start. “I’ll be eating alone.”

“Poor Walker,” she sympathized, shaking her head sadly.

“I had a special event planned, too.” He had the glimmer of an idea. Something that might very well make Cleo smile for real, no shadows lurking behind it. But really, he shouldn’t. There could be complications. She tipped her head, raised one brow. “But you still want to order dinner, right?”

He wanted more than dinner. The glimmer was growing brighter. He wanted it. To hell with complications. “Do you like classic movies?”

Her eyes slid left to right, as if she thought she’d actually see the ball flying at her from out of left field. “I guess.”

“I have tickets to an outdoor movie marathon and no one to go with now.”

She swallowed. “I’m working.”

“They don’t start the first movie until eleven.”

He detected a pulse beating at her throat. She blinked before she spoke. “It’s probably not a good idea.”

No, it wasn’t. But the idea had planted itself firmly, and Walker wasn’t about to uproot it. It was just a movie—well, three movies that would play well into the early-morning hours. He had blankets and wine and cheese. Now all he needed was Cleo. “Say yes,” he said softly. Cleo tapped her pen on her pad. “I don’t get off till ten.”

“Ten’s fine.”

“I’ll have to go home and change.” She pointed vaguely behind her as if her house were that way . . . somewhere.

“Where do you live?”

“Palo Alto,” she said slowly.

“We can still make it in time from there.”

She huffed out a breath.

Walker let women make their own decisions. He asked instead of ordered. He cajoled instead of demanded. With her, he nudged hard. “Say yes, Cleo.”

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Finally, after forever, she whispered, “Yes,” then held her pen poised. “Now, what do you want for dinner?”

He ordered the duck in alalaberry-bordeaux sauce. Cleo would be his midnight treat.

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2

WALKER RANDALL WAS A GREAT TIPPER. HE’D BEEN A REGULAR AT Bella’s for three years, almost since Cleo had started working there. He treated her with respect, whether he was with a woman or dining on his own. Perhaps ten years older than her, forty-five or so, his bald head and buff body were a turn-on, especially with that cheeky smile of his. It was sexy and sweet all rolled into one. Coupled with milk-chocolate eyes, he was a hit with the ladies. And he was a nice guy.

She’d always had a bit of a wistful feeling about him, a what-if , maybe even an idle fantasy or two, because Walker was definitely attractive. Okay, let’s be completely honest here. Walker was hot as hell, and she’d given herself many a devastating orgasm in the privacy of her room while imagining him taking her in various positions. Her favorite was Walker with his bald head between her legs. It made her purr thinking about touching all that bare skin while he licked her. But, still being honest, she couldn’t compete with the women he dated. And he had a lot of dates. Some real hotties. Sometimes they paid. Sometimes he did. She liked it a whole lot better when Walker took care of the tab because women were terrible tippers. There were times she recognized the women from a previous date, or two or three, but for the most part, Walker played the field. He’d just never played in her field.

Until he asked her to the movies.

Call her needy, but for tonight, after that altercation with Heidi, she didn’t care how late it was or how her feet ached or how tired she was; she needed a little TLC, and TLC was what Walker dished out in spades. You could see it on the faces of the women he wined and dined. Bliss. Cleo wanted her share. She was glad for the sweater she’d worn as she climbed out of her car. The day had been in the seventies—not so unusual in the Bay Area even for the end of October—but the night was chilly. Leaving the restaurant, she’d rushed home to change into a wool skirt and her fur-lined boots, then hightailed it over to the community college where they were holding this Fright Fest. Walker had offered to drive her, but she didn’t want him to know where she lived. In case things got messy somewhere down the road.

The lot was full, people heading up the walkways, couples, groups, college95

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age and older, some with lawn chairs and picnic baskets, blankets, flashlights. Laughter rose into the night.

At the end of the row of parked cars, Walker appeared under a light, the beam shining on his bare head, giving him the look of a guardian or something. Watching out for her. It felt extraordinarily good. Like that old show from the eighties, Beauty and the Beast, where Vincent was always there when Catherine needed him. Okay, she was a sucker for a good romance when she was a kid. Yeah, then she grew up.

“Hey, you.” He smiled that sweet, sexy smile as she came abreast of him. A quilt was tucked under his arm and a basket dangled from his fingers. Wearing black jeans and a cable-knit sweater, he looked thick and powerful and oh so sexy.

“Hi,” she said, almost shyly.

He held out his hand. Cleo stared. She didn’t go in for hand-holding, too much like a boyfriend/girlfriend thing. She’d stopped bringing boyfriends home for Heidi to get attached to because she sucked at picking the right men. Case in point, Heidi’s father left before she’d even been born. There’d been Greg when Heidi was seven. He’d cheated on Cleo, but in many ways, he’d cheated on Heidi, too. Then she’d met Phil. She’d thought he was permanent, but in the end, he wanted a family of his own. He didn’t like the word step in stepdaughter. If she’d known that in the beginning, she’d never have let Heidi meet him, and though she hadn’t said why he left—Cleo didn’t even tell Ma—Heidi took his defection hard. She’d been only eleven, and she didn’t understand why Phil was suddenly gone. She’d blamed Cleo. To avoid the issue altogether, Cleo didn’t have boyfriends anymore. Sometimes she had friends who took care of needs, but even that had been ages ago. Damn if loneliness, physical and mental, wasn’t starting to wear on her.