Yours for the Night (29 page)

On the way down, she’d taken Gabriel’s hand between her legs and ridden his fingers to another shuddering climax, her arms and the cape wrapped around his shoulders.

She couldn’t get enough of him. The idea set her trembling against his sleeping body.

The dark surrounding them, the hum of the air conditioner, his sweaty sexy male scent tantalizing her nostrils—she wanted more, she wanted it all. She’d never bargained for this.

After the glow of new love had worn off her marriage, Edward had stopped the compliments and the late-night talks snuggled in bed. But she’d become dependent on those things, and struggled to get them back, thinking of a million ways that never worked. The hysterectomy had been the end. She’d been too stupid to see it, and Edward had been too lazy to do anything about it. Until he hit fifty and dumped her. Maybe it was his need for a child. Maybe it was his desire for a young wife with whom he could relive his youth. Whatever the reason, it was his midlife crisis and hadn’t had a thing to do with her. Nothing she did would have changed the outcome. She recognized it so clearly now. Perhaps her feelings for Gabriel had ripped the blindfold from her eyes. She loved how Gabriel made her feel, the brush of his hand on her skin, how he’d dressed her for his pleasure, the way he fucked her for their audience. He didn’t care that she was middle-aged. He’d raised her out of the despair she felt if she thought too long about Edward, Francine, the baby. When she was with Gabriel, Edward ceased to exist. No other man had done that. Not the sheik with his thirty-thousand-dollar gift. Not Trevor with ten thousand dollars or diamonds and emeralds. No amount of money, no present, 182

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made her forget. It only gave her power when she imagined showing Edward her worth to other men.

Gabriel made her powerful without the symbol.

But she was new and different to him. Just as she’d been new and different for Edward in the beginning. She couldn’t depend on Gabriel to go on making her feel that way. And when he was gone, she’d feel lower than she had since the day Edward dumped her. As low as the evening she’d faced Francine’s pregnant belly and borne witness to the woman’s motherly glow. As Gabriel’s breathing evened out and his body relaxed, still she didn’t sleep. She was thinking. Thinking was never a good thing. You discovered truths you didn’t want to see. Just as she could have done nothing to make Edward stay, when Gabriel got tired, she had no arsenal of foolproof feminine wiles to keep him.

She could wait for the newness to wear off. Or she could end this before she got to the point where she couldn’t live without him. When she’d met Isabel, she swore she’d never be emotionally dependent on a man again, yet here she was close to falling into that trap.

Dominique slipped from beneath his arm. Gabriel didn’t stir. Sex had zonked him out. Good sex. Fantastic sex. Out-of-this-world sex. No, it wasn’t just sex. It was something more.

She was in so much trouble. She’d survived Edward, but she couldn’t do it again.

It was three in the morning, but the front desk was manned. If you’re willing to pay, you can get anything. Within twenty minutes, she was behind the wheel of a rental car heading out to the freeway. The desk clerk had been kind enough to print out directions navigating her through LA. She’d be home by noon, before Gabriel even stepped on the plane.

“SONUVABITCH,” HE MUTTERED, DOMINIQUE’S NOTE IN HIS HAND, dawn still an hour away, the inky blackness of night broken only by the stars hovering over the golf course.

At least she’d left him a freaking note so he wouldn’t think she’d been abducted by aliens or kidnapped by a serial killer. Not that the note said much besides thanks for a great time, wanted to get home early, have a nice life. What the fuck? He didn’t know where she lived; he had only the number for 183

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Isabel and Courtesans.

He called as soon as the sun came up. It was Sunday; no one answered. The voice-mail voice sounded like a sweet young thing, and he left a message. When he got off the plane in San Francisco, he had a reply.

“This is Isabel of Courtesans. I’m sorry to inform you that Dominique’s number has been changed with no forwarding. If you’d like to inquire further, please feel free to call again.”

Feel free to call again and get the same fucking answer. Goddammit. He wasn’t a man who liked to overanalyze his actions, but last night had been fucking perfect. He’d made it perfect for her. So why had she left in the middle of the night?

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11

ANOTHER WEEKEND, ANOTHER PARTY. DOMINIQUE WAS BORED OUT of her skull. The laughter was too high pitched in the hotel ballroom, too much perfume drifted in the air, and the crush of bodies stifled her. For the first month, she’d been afraid she’d run into Gabriel at one of these events. But she hadn’t. Nor had she stumbled across Edward or his luscious Francine. She would have preferred that over facing Gabriel.

If she saw him, she might bleed.

It had been two months since Palm Springs, but she’d recognized her mistake after only a week. It was too late to get out unscathed. Her need for him had already taken root, and like a bulb lying dormant through the winter, she’d woken one morning and found her feelings had blossomed with the warmer weather.

She’d been on several dates, but not one single man had passed muster. There was always something wrong.

“Darling, I’ve got your champagne cocktail.” Timothy Alten III handed her the fresh bubbly.

He was British, and she didn’t like the way he called her darling. She appreciated that he was tall—the same height as Gabriel—but she didn’t like that he was so skinny. She wanted muscles and strength. Like Gabriel. She admired the gray shots in his dark hair—it reminded her of Gabriel—but the strands were stuck to his head with too much gel. She couldn’t run her fingers through his hair—like she’d done with Gabriel—without the ick factor. Other than that, Timothy Alten III was fine.

But . . . “This music is giving me an enormous headache, darling.” She couldn’t resist the slight emphasis on the word. “I’m going to the powder room for a bit.”

Her inner voice screamed, Get me out of here!

“I’ll be right here when you get back.” Timothy smiled. He was sweet, pleasant, polite, and rich. The problem was her. She was Total Numero Uno Bitch.

She put her fingers to her temples, massaging as she passed through the double ballroom doors. This had to stop. She shouldn’t treat her clients this way. 185

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She couldn’t keep comparing them to Gabriel. None of them stacked up.

“Dominique?”

She snapped her head up, two bodies suddenly looming in front of her. In the teeming lobby, she’d almost run headlong right into them. Then she stared.

“Trevor?”

He smiled. It wasn’t malicious, it was . . . nice. She almost didn’t recognize him with that smile. “I can’t believe you forgot me so quickly,” he said. “I could never forget you.”

Oh God. That night. The night before that night with Gabriel. See how everything reminded her of Gabriel? Pathetic.

But, God, her eyes burned with how much she missed him.

“You look good, Trevor.” And he did. He was dressed as nattily as before, but he’d grown a goatee, and there was something about that smile of his. It was completely genuine.

“I want you to meet Raymond.”

She glanced at Raymond, held out her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Raymond.”

Raymond stood a head taller than Trevor, and the lack of lines on his smooth face said he was perhaps five years younger. His tailored suit accentuated a lean, hard body. His black hair was artfully mussed, and his lips curved in a sly, sexy Brad Pitt smile.

Raymond didn’t let go of her hand. Instead he engulfed it both of his.

“Trevor’s told me all about you, so I’m glad to finally get to meet the icon.”

She glanced at Trevor. He beamed through his goatee. What was going on?

“I didn’t know I’d become anyone’s icon.” Maybe it was the fact that she was darn near old enough to be this boy’s mother.

Then Raymond smiled at Trevor, and electricity arced between them. They didn’t touch, but Trevor’s gaze, the way it flitted over Raymond’s face, lighting on his eyes, then his lips . . .

Good God. They were a couple.

“You made me see what I was missing,” Trevor said.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You helped me accept the part of myself I’d been denying.”

Her breath wouldn’t seem to work its way out of her lungs. Raymond pressed her hand. “And I’m the one who benefited. We never 186

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would have found each other.”

“I didn’t do that.” She felt small, mean. Trevor had done it on his own after she’d tried to force him. He’d faced himself. He’d accepted himself. It had nothing to do with her. She’d been Lu crezia Borgia. True, she’d fed him a fantasy she believed he’d entertained, but so many of the reasons she’d done it had been about her own needs, not Trevor’s.

Trevor linked pinkies with her, turning the three of them into a triangle.

“You’re so modest. That’s what courtesans do; they fulfill your greatest fantasy and change your life.” He kissed her cheek. “Sweetheart, it was worth every dollar,” he whispered against her ear. “I should have paid more.” He grabbed Raymond, laced fingers with him, then held up their clasped hands. “See? I’m not afraid. I want everyone to know how happy I am.”

Dominique swallowed, her eyes blurring with moisture.

“Don’t cry, honey,” Raymond said. “This is a good thing.”

She sniffled, willed the tears away. They weren’t for these two; they were for her own idiocy. “It’s just that I’m so happy for you both.” And she was dying inside.

Trevor had had the courage to jump for what he wanted. To change. To accept. He’d been afraid, but he’d conquered.

While she’d run away in the dark of the night, a coward. “I’m so glad what we did wasn’t a mistake.” Not like her mistake, where what she needed was standing right in front of her and she’d been too afraid to grab it. All the powermongering she’d been getting off on since Edward left had not rejuvenated her. The tenderness Gabriel showed had accomplished that. Yet she’d walked away from him and forever doomed herself to punishing men for what Edward had done. Forever punishing herself. Gabriel was right: money and revenge didn’t buy happiness.

Trevor shook his head slowly. “It was the best mistake I ever made.”

Raymond squeezed her hand again. “But don’t let us keep you. You were on your way somewhere.”

She was on her way to hide in the ladies’ room. She’d done a lot of hiding in ladies’ rooms. And a lot of running.

On impulse, she kissed first Raymond’s cheek, then Trevor’s. “Thank you.”

“What for?” Trevor asked, eyebrow raised.

“For opening my eyes the way I opened yours.”

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“Sure, sugar.”

She left them wearing the cutest bewildered expressions. If Trevor McDowell could set himself free from his fears, then she could do no less.

IT WAS ALMOST ELEVEN AS DOMINIQUE PULLED HER CAR INTO Gabriel’s circular drive. Light fell through the curtained front windows of the long bungalow, and two Chinese-style lanterns illuminated the stone stoop. He was home. Her heart stuttered, then raced.

She’d driven her own car up to the city tonight because she didn’t want to wait on a driver. Even before she left home, she’d been subconsciously planning her escape from Timothy Alten. All the way down here from the city, she’d rehearsed what she would say to Gabriel, yet now the glib words flew out of her head. A rush of nervousness cooled her blood all the way to her fingers and toes. You can do this. You want to do this. You need to do this. She had to move past being a divorcee, and she wanted to step forward with Gabriel. But then she wondered if he’d even been asking for that. He’d only ever said he wanted sex without paying.

If she sat in his driveway much longer with the engine running, he’d hear and wonder what the hell was going on. Shutting off the car, she grabbed her purse and climbed out. Her high heels tapped the concrete all the way to his door. She pulled in a breath and held it as she pushed the bell, a simple ding-dong inside. Waiting, waiting, she was aware of her quickened heartbeat and a low buzz of nervousness in her arms and hands.