Текст книги "After This Night"
Автор книги: Lauren Blakely
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After this Night
Seductive Nights – 2
Lauren Blakely
This book is dedicated to Gale, who listens to my stories, and helps shape them. You are indispensable to me, and I am so glad our paths crossed.
ABOUT
AFTER THIS NIGHT
“Let me control your pleasure.”
Their world was passion, pleasure and secrets.
Far too many secrets. But Clay Nichols can't get Julia Bell out of his mind. He's so drawn to her, and to the nights they shared, that he can't focus on work or business. Only her. And she's pissing him off with her hot and cold act. She has her reasons though–she's trying to stay one step ahead of the trouble that's been chasing her for months now, thanks to the criminal world her ex dragged her into. If only she can get out of this mess, then maybe she can invite the man who ignites her back in her life, so she can have him–heart, mind and body.
He won't take less than all of her, and the full truth too. When he runs into her again at her sister's wedding, they have a second chance but she'll have to let him all the way in. And they'll learn just how much more there is to the intense sexual chemistry they share, and whether love can carry them well past the danger of her past and into a new future, after this night...
The sequel to the sensual, emotionally-charged erotic romance, Night After Night, from the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author Lauren Blakely...
CHAPTER ONE
The dress was so perfect it brought a tear to her eye.
“He’s going to have the breath knocked out of him when he sees you walking down the aisle,” Julia managed to say while wiping her hand across her cheek.
Her sister, McKenna, twirled once in front of the three-way mirror at Cara’s Bridal Boutique deep in the heart of Noe Valley, admiring the tea-length dress she’d picked for her wedding in a few weeks. The dress was pure McKenna, down to the flouncy taffeta petticoat underneath the satin skirt.
“It’s so playful and pretty at the same time,” Julia said.
“Speaking of pretty, do you like your dress still?”
“Of course,” she said with a wide-eyed smile, gesturing to the sleek black maid-of-honor dress she wore that McKenna had picked for her.
“It’s totally you. I wanted you to have a dress you could wear again. Maybe to a date? A fancy night out?”
The words fell on her ears with a hollow clang. Because she could no longer wish for a night out with the man she wanted terribly.
Clay had left her that morning on the streets of San Francisco, ending their brief love affair and driving away in his town car. She couldn’t fault him for taking off. She couldn’t give him what he wanted—an end to her secrecy. That’s what Clay needed more than anything. More than her body, more than their chemistry, more even than their endless nights together. She couldn’t tell him the truth about why she’d lied to the guy with the gun who’d been waiting on her doorstep that morning when they had returned after breakfast. What could she say? He’s the mob heavy who’s been assigned to me to make sure I pay off a debt that isn’t even mine? If she told Clay, he’d be a target too, because that’s how these men operated: they circled you, ensnaring you on all sides until the people you loved fell into their crosshairs, too.
That’s why she’d claimed Clay was just some guy she’d met in a bar, rather than a high-profile entertainment lawyer with an even higher-profile list of clients. She wanted to protect his identity and keep him out of the line of fire.
“And I will wear it again. Again and again. I promise,” she said, tugging McKenna in for a warm embrace, even though she had no idea when or where she’d wear this number.
After they stepped out of their dresses, McKenna paid the final deposit on both, plunking down her credit card on the counter without a second thought. Julia felt a sliver of envy for the ease with which her sister could navigate matters of money. Shrewd businesswoman that she was, McKenna had turned her fashion blog into a fashion empire. If she’d owed a big, fat debt, it could be paid off instantly from her flush savings account. If she asked, McKenna would pay Julia’s debt too, handing over the dough in a heartbeat. But she wasn’t going to attach her sister to this problem because that’s how it became hers in the first place—when it was passed on to her, like a disease.
“Chris said the meeting with Clay went great today,” McKenna remarked as they strolled out of the shop and onto the busy street, crowded with mid-afternoon foot traffic: moms pushing strollers into coffee shops and young hipsters heading back to work after lunch at cafes with all-organic menus.
“That’s great about the meeting,” Julia said, as casually as she could.
“Did he tell you about it?”
“Chris? Why would I be talking to him?”
McKenna shoved her playfully. “Um, no. The hot guy you went to New York for. The hot guy I know you’re into. Are you going to see Clay while he’s in town?”
She shrugged and looked away, and those twin gestures were enough for her sister to stop in her tracks and park her hands on her hips. “Whoa. What’s going on?”
And with that, it was as if a tight knot started to unravel in her. She might not be able to tell her sister about her money troubles, but she could at least let her know about her man woes.
“I did see him last night. I don’t think it’s going to work out between us,” she said, and she didn’t bother to strip the frustration from her voice, or the residual sadness. A sob threatened to lodge in her throat and turn into a fit of dumb waterworks. But giving in to the tears was like kicking a brick wall. It didn’t do any good, and you were left mostly with a stubbed toe.
“Oh no. Why do you say that?”
“He’s too far away in New York. And I’m just busy here. And he’s all about work.”
“That stinks,” McKenna said, and she stomped her foot on the sidewalk. The gesture was so child-like that Julia couldn’t help but laugh. “But at least you weren’t too far in?” she said, her eyes full of hopefulness. She wrapped an arm around her sister.
Julia was tempted to reassure her. To tell her it was nothing, just a night here, a weekend there. But it wasn’t. He was more, so much more.
“Actually, I really liked him a lot, so it’s a bit of a bummer.”
“Then we need to go drown our sorrows in French fries and cake. Let me take you out,” McKenna offered.
Julia said yes, and though the French fries were fantastic, they weren’t enough, not even close, to forget about the man she couldn’t have. The problem was she didn’t have any room in her life for him, and if she let him linger any more in her heart, she’d surely lose the game tonight.
Tonight was for winning.
CHAPTER TWO
The venture capitalist with the laughing tell was back, and he spent most of the game staring at Julia. But Hunter must have gotten a tip to strike that laugh from his repertoire because the first time he chuckled Julia went all in, and lost a cool grand. He’d really had three kings. No bluffing.
He’d likely snagged himself a poker tutor, some former pro player who now trained eager wannabe card sharks in the ways of the game, or a grizzled old veteran needing to earn a dime or two after he’d retired. She’d seen it before among the hotshots. A pivot here, a change-up there–all signs that they were being coached on the side. And that they thought they were hot shit.
He wasn’t. No one was.
“I’m in,” he said, shoving a black chip into the pot, eyes on her the whole time. Like she was his prey.
So wrong.
She was the predator. They were all her enemies, every last one of them, and just because she’d lost a hand didn’t mean she was going to lose the game. She rubbed her index finger against a black chip, checked out her cards again, then scanned Hunter’s face. Pale skin, pock marks from acne probably garnered only a few years ago when he was in high school, and a nice, straight nose. His blue eyes were locked on her, and that was another clue he’d hired a tutor. He’d probably been told to stare her down, the tutor thinking that would knock her off her game.
Didn’t work. Not in general, and certainly not tonight, when she had jetpacks of anger fueling her. She was pissed at Dillon, pissed at Stevie, pissed at Charlie, pissed at Hunter, and most of all, pissed at Clay for not believing her. If only he could see her now, he’d feel like a goddamn heel for casting all that doubt on her. He’d acted like she was a lying drug user, like his ex. Ha. Couldn’t be farther from the truth. She wished she could record this game with a secret hidden camera and show him. “There. See? I’m this scumbag’s ringer ‘til my debt is done. Happy now?”
Screw him and his lack of faith. Screw Hunter and his lack of a tell. Screw his tutor. Screw them all. She was ballsier than Hunter, and she’d play to her strengths. Guts.
She had two tens, and she was betting on them.
“I’ll see your $500 and I’ll raise you $1000,” she said, pressing her long red fingernail against one chip, sliding it in, then methodically doing the same with the next two chips.
He showed no response for a few seconds, as if he were trying to hold in his reaction. Then his eyebrow twitched, and she wanted to pump a fist. New tell, perhaps?
The rest of the crew had folded. The guy who owned a sporting goods shop leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering between Julia and Hunter. He was a regular, and a plant. He won some, lost some, and generally was in attendance to balance out a game. There was also a young guy with chiseled cheekbones and wavy hair who drove one of Charlie’s limos. All here to pad the table.
Over in the kitchen, Stevie the Skunk sifted through a plate of fresh-baked cookies, scarfing down another one. She had no idea who’d baked cookies for a rigged card game, but maybe it was his mama or his wife. Or maybe it was his colleague. There was a new guy with him, a baby-faced fellow named Max with gray eyes and a barrel-like body. Perhaps he was a trainee of Skunk’s, Julia had mused when she’d met him before the game. No gun on his ankle yet, though. Maybe he hid it elsewhere.
Hunter surprised her by grabbing two chips and dropping them in the pile. “Time to show the cards. Lucky sevens,” he said with a lopsided grin, all confidence and bravado now. She wondered if his tutor would pat him on the back for that move, and say good boy. She wondered if she cared what his tutor thought. She decided she didn’t. All she wanted was that money, so badly she was damn near salivating for it. All those black beauties in the pile would bring her a touch closer to freedom from Charlie’s thumb, and his knife, and his goon who followed her around with a gun.
She laid down her hand, revealing her pair of tens. Hunter nodded once, all steely-eyed and cool at first. But when Julia pulled the chips over to her corner of the table, he pointed a finger at her. She raised her eyes, mildly curious.
Hunter didn’t speak at first. She could see the cogs in his head turning, like he was adding, multiplying and dividing.
“You don’t play like the rest of them,” he said in an even voice.
“You don’t say,” she replied, emotionless.
“You play like a shark. I see it in your eyes. I know that look. I’m a venture capitalist. I have that look every day when I take a risk. You’re the same.”
“Just call me a VC then,” she said as she stacked her chips, keeping her hands steady even though her heart was thumping.
“You’re not just a player,” he said, with narrowed eyes.
“Call me a player. Call me not a player. I don’t care. Why don’t you just deal the next hand?” she said, keeping her cool as best she could.
Skunk looked up from the cookies when he heard the chatter. This was more talking than usual for this kind of a game.
“No,” he said, shaking his head as he rose. “I’m not gonna deal. You’re a fucking ringer, aren’t you?”
Stevie the Skunk took the reins. He ambled over to the table and pressed his big hands on the wood. “What’s going on? We all playing nice?”
“No. She’s a ringer and this game is rigged. I knew something was up the first time, and I know it for sure now,” he said, pointing his finger accusingly at the big man. Max marched closer but kept his distance, watching the scene.
Julia’s blood raced along the speedways in her body, panic galloping through her veins. She had a sinking feeling about what was coming next, and she was right. Skunk reached for his gun with a speed she’d never imagined the lumbering man possessed. “Get the fuck out,” he said coolly to Hunter. “And you’re not welcome at the restaurant, either.”
“I was right,” Hunter said, practically hopping in righteousness.
Julia clamped her lips shut so she wouldn’t shout, “What did you think it was? What the hell else could this game possibly be?”
“Charlie told me it was an executive game, but it’s not,” he insisted and he must have been the ballsiest VC in the Valley because he wasn’t leaving.
Stevie waved the gun. “Was there something unclear about what I said? Because it sounded clear to me. But if you’re having trouble hearing, I’m happy to head on down to the local precinct tonight and make sure my friends on the force know that you put your fucking hands all over this woman here,” he said, gripping Julia’s shoulder with his free paw, in a gesture that felt both strangely protective and thoroughly invasive. “And I’ve got witnesses who’ll vouch for me, right?”
The chiseled-cheekbone guy nodded along with the sporting goods fella.
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she was oddly grateful for Skunk, and disgusted at the same time. He’d protected her, but he’d really protected Charlie’s investment. And he’d done it in the same way Charlie had subverted her for his uses—by betting on her being a woman. By betting on men underestimating her at cards, and now by suggesting she was a helpless little lady who’d been manhandled.
Hunter grabbed his few remaining chips. “I’m cashing out.”
“No you’re not. You’re getting out. That’s your penalty for disrupting the game. Out,” Skunk said in a low and powerful tone, pointing to the door.
Hunter held up his hands, huffed out through his nostrils. “You won’t be seeing the last of me.”
He left, the sound of his footsteps echoing as he clomped down the stairs.
* * *
Charlie glared at her. “What did you say to him?”
“I didn’t say a thing.”
“What did you say that made him figure it out?” Charlie pressed, dropping his chopsticks next to his plate of pork dumplings at the Chinese restaurant underneath the apartment where the game was held. The restaurant was empty. It had closed an hour ago.
“I told you. Nothing.”
“I don’t need all of the VCs knowing our game is rigged. He and his friends come to my restaurant every Friday for lunch. Their employees eat here too,” he said, stabbing the table with a finger. “I had some of his friends from Steiner Hawkins coming to the next game. They just sold a social media startup they backed for $50 million. They are flush with cash. You know what that means?”
Julia shook her head, fear rippling across her chest. “No.”
Charlie pushed back from the table and rose. He stalked closer to Julia, forcing her to back up against the wall. He crowded her, caging her in with his hands on each side of her head.
“Let me explain what it means, Red,” he said, spitting the words on her face. “It means they’re not coming. They’re not playing my game. It means I won’t get their money. And that also means the next time you play, you take a fall.”
“What?” She furrowed her brow in disbelief. “How does that help any of us?”
“It sends the word to the street that my games are fair. You take a fall. And you are in my debt, Red.”
“I won tonight,” she said, trying to insist. “I won $6,000. I’m close. I’m almost there.”
“You didn’t win $6,000,” he said breathing on her. The scent of fried pork coming from his mouth curled her stomach. “You cost me $6,000.”
She wanted to sink to the ground, to crouch down and hug her knees and curl up in a corner. She felt like she’d been smashed with an anvil. Every time she got closer, he moved the finish line.
“It’s not even my debt,” she said, her voice bordering on begging.
“It is your debt. I have seen your pretty little bar, with your pretty little bartenders, and my pretty little money that you put into it. And let me remind you of what happens if you ever think I will forget that you owe me.”
He grabbed her by the hair and yanked. She stifled a scream, and her mind flashed to how different it felt when Clay pulled her hair or boxed her in against the wall. When he did those things it was fair and it was wanted, and it was part of the way they played with each other. There was no game with Charlie. He played to hurt, and he gripped her hair so tight she believed he had the strength to tug it right off her scalp.
He jerked her through the empty restaurant, out the door and into the foggy night, then down the block, stopping in front of a pub. He let go of her hair, and she wanted to cry with relief. “This bar? See this bar? Picture it as yours. It’s Cubic Z, and if we’re not clear by the end of the next month, it’s mine.”
“No!” she said, trembling from head to toe. She had employees; she had a co-owner. She was responsible for them all, for their livelihood, even for the little baby growing in Kim’s belly.
“Yes,” he said with an evil smile as he nodded vigorously. “Yes, it will be mine, and I have not decided if it will be Charlie Z or if I will simply take great pleasure in running it into the ground and then having my way with you.” He stopped talking to coil a strand of her hair around his index finger. “I might be starting some new businesses with some very pretty women who can make money for me the old-fashioned way. Would you like that, Red? To be on your back?”
Every cell in her body screamed as fear plunged its way through her veins. “No,” she said, her voice shaking.
“I didn’t think so. Now get out of my sight.”
He turned her around and shoved her hard on her spine. In her skyscraper heels, she stumbled and the sidewalk loomed ominously close, but she gripped the doorway of the bar in time, and walked away from him. When she reached her building, she stopped at the mailboxes in the lobby and grabbed bills, flyers and coupons. She quickly sorted the letters, tossing credit-card offers and carpet-cleaning deals in the trash. Then she spotted a letter that would make any citizen groan.
From the IRS.
She slid her finger under the flap as she trudged up the stairs, wondering what the government could want from her. She paid her taxes on time every year. She unfolded the letter and scanned it—a letter of inquiry. The IRS was asking if she knew where Dillon Whittaker was living these days since he hadn’t filed his taxes for the year before.
She scoffed as she unlocked her door. If Charlie didn’t know where Dillon was, the IRS sure as hell wasn’t going to find him.
* * *
Later that night, the hot water from the shower rained down on her head and her mind returned to Dillon. When they’d met he seemed like the easygoing photographer, the funny guy with a quick wit, and a sweet word.
But he was so much more. He was insidious in ways she never imagined he could be, because he’d figured out how to leave town with $100,000 scot-free, and no strings attached. Tra la fucking la. She could still recall the moment when her world came crashing down. She and Dillon had already split, and she wasn’t keeping tabs on him so she didn’t know he’d fled the country. She’d been mixing a pitcher of margaritas for a bachelorette party when Charlie strolled into the bar, parking himself on a sleek, steel stool. He steepled his hands in front of him, and cocked his head to the side. “How is the expansion going?”
“What do you mean?” she asked curiously. She knew Charlie, had met him once before through Dillon, but they’d never broken bread or toasted together.
“I understand you needed some money for your bar. Dillon asked me for a loan on your behalf, and since he’s been good and loyal to me, and was willing to pay 15 percent, I happily said yes. And seeing as Dillon has left the country, it seemed the right time for you and I to get acquainted.”
The saying you could hear a pin drop took on new meaning as the sound in the bar was vacuumed up. She could hear everything, from the chatter of nearby patrons, to the waiters placing drinks on low tables, to the frantic beat of her heart and the blood roaring in her ears.
“What do you mean?” She carefully set down the pitcher she was holding. If she held it a second longer she’d drop it, and it would shatter and break. It would be her tell, and if there’s one thing she knew from the mobster movies she’d seen, you don’t let them smell your fear. When they do, they pounce.
He drummed his fingers against the counter. “What I mean is we need to talk, Red.”
“About what?” she asked, feeling like an animal crouching in a corner.
“About what you can do to repay me.”
Her eyes widened. “But the money wasn’t for me. I didn’t even know he got a loan from you,” Julia had said, her voice rising in fear, her skin turning pale.
Charlie arched an eyebrow. “That’s very funny.”
“But it’s true. This is the first I’ve heard of this, I swear. I never got that money. I never saw a dime. I had no idea,” she said, trying so hard to prove her innocence, as her stomach twisted and her hands turned clammy.
This couldn’t be happening.
Charlie cackled. “That’s what they all say. I had no idea. But now it’s time to have an idea about how you’re going to pay me. I hear you like poker. Make me a gin and tonic and I will tell you how you will be playing for me. Because what this means, Red, is that you are mine.”
She still was his, and she had no idea how much longer she would have to pay for that son-of-a-bitch’s twisted act of deception.
* * *
Julia couldn’t sleep, which bugged the crap out of her. She’d never suffered from insomnia, not even in the darkest days with Dillon. Not even in those early weeks of Charlie’s indentured servitude when she was still dazed and shocked that this had become her life. But now she lay wide awake in her king-size bed, the window open, the late night sounds of San Francisco drifting in: the occasional car horn, the faint hum of the bus that ran on electricity, the crash of a garbage can, likely knocked over by a vagrant.
Clay had seemed a bit wary of her neighborhood, and while her section of The Mission wasn’t bad per se, it hadn’t yet come into its own. She didn’t mind the seedier elements; she knew real danger didn’t lie with the guy panhandling on the street corner. But she liked that Clay had a protective side, and a helpful side, too. He’d tried so hard to get her to open up the other day and tell him all her troubles. She’d been tempted. She could see herself laying them at his feet and serving them up for him to solve.
But then her problems would become his problems, and she couldn’t abide by that. Dillon had sloughed off his garbage onto her, and she wasn’t going to hot potato it on to someone else, especially someone she cared so deeply for. Because she did care for him. So much more than she’d planned to when she said yes to that one weekend in New York. She’d thought she could jet across the country and have a fantastic getaway. Instead, she’d gone all in.
She had nothing to show for it though.
All the anger that fueled her during the game had faded, and she simply felt weary, and lonely, too, as she flashed back to the pained look on his face, to the tortured gaze in his eyes, to the way he’d reacted when she’d pleaded.
Then she cast her mind further back to the night before when he’d tried so hard to find his way into her heart. Her chest tightened at the memory, and she longed so deeply to let him in the way he wanted, and the way she wanted too.
The very least she could do was say she was sorry. She grabbed her phone from her nightstand and began tapping out a message to the man she missed more than she had ever expected.
