Red Letter Nights Read online

  RED LETTER NIGHTS

  Three stories in one book by three sizzling Blaze authors!

  ALISON KENT

  “Kent’s gIRL-gEAR series triumphs with…complex, rich characters whose scorching chemistry will keep readers guessing!”

  —Romantic Times

  KAREN ANDERS

  “Karen Anders delivers a wonderfully sexy story with sophisticated characters whose passion will singe your fingertips!”

  —Romantic Times

  JEANIE LONDON

  “A wonderful talent that makes you want to read her stories over and over again to relive the wonderful sensations her words evoke.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  Dear Reader,

  Sometimes a glimmer of an idea turns into something wonderfully fantastic. That’s what happened with Red Letter Nights. This collaboration was all about New Orleans, a place near and dear to all of our hearts and the perfect place to set our novellas. But there were more stories to be told, so we all have follow-up books set in Court du Chaud, the “hot” court. Books that deal with a pirate ghost, voodoo curses, psychic phenomena and, of course, falling in love.

  But for now, here is our collaboration of eighteen months of e-mails and lengthy phone calls, ideas and magic. Magic because Christmas is a red-letter season for secret admirers, sexy gifts and love notes. A red-hot time that inspires couples to turn their fantasies into reality. And all our couples really want more than just one hot holiday.

  Café Eros is the hub of the hot court. Tucked away from the world behind a wrought-iron gate, this gardened courtyard is the place to live in New Orleans’ French Quarter. This anthology collection contains three blazing novellas that prove Christmas is only the start of some very red-letter nights…nights when desire is too hot to keep secret.

  Enjoy,

  Alison Kent

  Karen Anders

  Jeanie London

  RED LETTER NIGHTS

  Alison Kent

  Karen Anders

  Jeanie London

  To Karen Jeanie for inviting me along on the trip to New Orleans! But especially to Walt. It may take a while, but I never fail to use what you give me.

  —Alison Kent

  To Jeanie London for her support, laughter and great friendship. To Alison Kent for her wonderful twisted way of looking at things, which makes me chuckle just when I need to. Thanks for coming along for this fantastic ride!

  —Karen Anders

  To my Court du Chaud collaborators—Karen Anders and Alison Kent. Working with you both has been a thrill and a pleasure. ;-)

  —Jeanie London

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  LUV U MADLYAlison Kent

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  DELIVER MEKaren Anders

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  SIGNED, SEALED, SEDUCEDJeanie London

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  LUV U MADLY

  Alison Kent

  1

  CLAIRE BRADEN couldn’t remember a hotter day coming this close to Christmas in any of the places she’d lived during her thirty-one years. Whatever had possessed her to move to New Orleans was an inspiration that had long since melted into a puddle of sticky goo.

  The temperature was unbearable, though it wasn’t the heat as much as the stifling humidity. The sort of sweltering, wet-blanket air that had her dreaming of walking naked through her town house and eating fresh fruit over the kitchen sink.

  Running her air conditioner in December seemed such a sin, but run it she would—if only it wasn’t in need of repair. And she hated the thought of parting with that much cash until the heat took up seasonal residence late in May.

  A cold front would blow through soon. She believed that with all of her heart. Besides, it was the holiday season. Surely Santa had received her wish list already.

  The air conditioner. The Kooba slouchy shoulder bag in plum, please. Ten more hours in every day. Ten less pounds around her hips. Oh, and a fling with the guy whose balcony at Number 13 in the Court du Chaud sat kitty-corner to hers.

  The first was practical, necessary, hardly a treat; the second a reward with which she’d be spoiling herself once she billed her current image-consulting client. The third, a pipe dream, the fourth her inherited lot in life.

  The fifth, on the other hand, was extravagant, unexpected, a gift she wanted way more than she needed. It was also a gift that would go a long way toward assuaging the full-blown case of lust she had in her heart.

  Unlocking her courtyard-facing front door, she let herself into the town house’s entry foyer. The outside heat and humidity were nothing in the scheme of things. Her new neighbor was the number one source of her blood running hot.

  She’d been living at Court du Chaud for two years, yet knew very few of the other residents. Establishing her business as a corporate image consultant would have been even longer in coming had she not arrived in New Orleans with a portfolio of high-profile businesses whose executive offices she’d made over, as well as client consultations already scheduled as the result of referrals from past jobs done well.

  As it was, the hours she poured into work came from the same pitcher as the hours left for sleep and socializing. She hadn’t yet mastered that never-ending loaves-and-fishes magic. And as much as she enjoyed dating and making new friends, sleep was what kept her running at this pace.

  She had gotten to know Perry Brazille who lived across the court. The two women often ate breakfast together at Café Eros, the two-story eatery at the courtyard’s entrance, drinking coffee, splitting one of the rich pastries that neither of them needed, comparing notes on their romantic dry spells.

  And while at the café, Claire had picked up enough tidbits of gossip—most of those from the court busybody, Madame Alain—and enough snippets of conversation to know her new male neighbor would fill her straight-sex, no-emotional-involvement-fling bill nicely.

  He’d paid cash for his town house, drove an import that cost a four-year tuition, dressed in suits that had never seen a rack, and had that rock-star smolder that caused women to throw panties and scream.

  And, yes. It was terribly out of character for her to be drawn by external trappings when her business was all about image and she knew better than most what a fresh coat of paint could hide.

  In fact, she gave herself a refurbishing makeover at every opportunity, trying on different looks as if she’d be able to find the source of her personal discontent once she hit on the right combination of color and style.

  But her neighbor was hot and sexy and built like a god, and there were times nothing else mattered. Times like now with the holidays approaching when she wasn’t so crazy about spending the days alone.

  After kicking off her Prada pumps, she peeled off her panty hose, then tossed them, her purse and her navy blazer onto her overstuffed sofa colored in oriental reds and golds, and headed into the kitchen for a tall glass of iced tea.

  Her sleeveless white blouse unbuttoned over her ivory silk camisole, she retrieved her leather attaché and the day’s mail she’d tucked down inside, and made her way upstairs to her bedroom’s balcony.

  The cane fan overhead stirred the sluggish air; she sat in one chair at the glass-and-black wrought-iron table, propped her feet on a second, dropped her attaché onto the thi
rd. It didn’t take her long to sort through the mail.

  Flyers, catalogues, postcards and sales sheets went into one stack for the trash. Bills went into her Day-Timer, as did her tickets to see the Black Eyed Peas in March. That left half a dozen Christmas cards that she settled in to read with her cold drink.

  Three were from Windy, Tess and Alexandra, the women who made up her core circle of confidantes. They’d attended and graduated University of Texas together, still vacationed together and tried each year to coordinate their holiday greetings.

  This year, unfortunately, Claire was suffering from overcoordination. She hadn’t even found time to buy cards, forget personalizing, addressing and mailing them.

  A shame, too, because reading the handwritten notes from her girlfriends, even though she talked to them at least once a week and exchanged e-mails with each more often, brought a silly smile to her face.

  Seeing their handwriting, imagining where they’d been sitting when they’d dashed off the words, picturing their quirky habits—Windy tugging on the ends of her hair, Tess requiring a certain fountain pen, Alex keeping one eye on the task, her attention on her computer screen and a role-playing game…

  Claire sighed. First thing tomorrow she was stopping for cards. For her girlfriends, her family. Enough even for the neighbors she had gotten to know. Chloe who owned the café. Josie, the social worker living in number sixteen. Perry who seemed to run on Claire’s same manic schedule.

  Hmm. Maybe she’d even slip one underneath the door belonging to the object of her lustful affection. Welcome him to the neighborhood properly and all that. Invite him over for a holiday drink. Keep the introductions sweet and simple and…sweaty.

  At the sound of his balcony door opening, Claire forced her attention to her drink and the rest of her mail. She didn’t think he’d ever caught her out here looking her best. And lately, with the heat…she grimaced. Imagining what he’d see should he glance over hardly got her hopes up.

  But then she thought twice. She’d had a great pedicure over the weekend, and was waxed, trimmed and plucked smooth way beyond where the hem of her skirt had settled high on her upper thighs.

  Her blond chignon was no longer as sleek as it had been this morning. The humidity had taken its toll; stray wisps blew around her face thanks to the overhead fan, adding to her look of coming undone.

  Her camisole was lacy, her skin sticking to the silk, the cups of her bra pushing up and shaping as advertised. The overall look was one more Maxim model than corporate image consultant, but it was also one suited to her mission of indulging in a holiday fling.

  Overt sexuality was not her personal style. At least not when it came to an outward display. She enjoyed subtlety; a hint of skin went a lot further in her book than nudity. She preferred a quick flick of a tongue wetting lips to a mouth sucking on a lollipop.

  The glimpse of a man’s chest in the open neck of his shirt. An expensive watch on a hair-dusted wrist. Both of those got to her in ways biker shorts or rippling abs did not. And a gaze cut short by a flutter of lashes hit her a whole lot harder than a long hungry stare.

  Yet even as those thoughts crossed her mind, she felt her neighbor visually taking her measure. She pulled her feet from the chair and reached for her attaché. As she did, her blouse gaped open but only for a second, maybe a fraction more.

  Then she stood, leaning forward to tuck her Day-Timer and the cards she hadn’t finished reading down inside the leather case, knowingly exposing her cleavage above her camisole.

  That done, she picked up her glass of iced tea and moved to stand at the balcony’s railing, looking down at the twinkle of colored lights on the Christmas tree in the courtyard below, and letting her thoughts run wild.

  She imagined her neighbor standing behind her, felt the heat of his body that was so much larger than her own, absorbed his strength as she leaned back against him.

  She fantasized about the touch of his hands, his broad palms skimming up her bare arms, her skin pebbling, her hair standing on end.

  The reality of her body’s reaction should not have been the surprise that it was. Her breasts tightened. Her sex tingled. She drank some of her tea, finding it difficult to swallow, much less move.

  The condensation from the glass dripped onto her throat; the dampness did little to cool her because, as she turned to go in…She made a huge mistake and glanced over to the next balcony.

  His balcony.

  He stood in the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of the day’s dark suit pants, his tie loosened at his neck, the sleeves of his white dress shirt cuffed to midarm.

  His chest rose and fell heavily, his pulse popped at the base of his throat. With his jaw set tight, his temple throbbing, he looked the picture of a man barely restrained.

  She forgot how to breathe. In that instant, she felt as if she would never again need food or water or air. Only him. She would need only him. And as self-sufficient as she was, as independent—living on her own, pursuing her goals with only the occasional encouraging “attagirl” from her circle of friends—the thought of needing a man for anything left her reeling.

  Especially a man she didn’t even know.

  RANDY HAD NEVER intended to stay at the office so long. Yes, he’d been working late every night for several weeks. But he’d determined tonight would be the night of change. The night to take back his life.

  The night to get home, pour a drink and head out onto the balcony to wait. To see if she’d show as she had yesterday, if they’d make that same connection. The one that had nearly forced him to his knees.

  She didn’t make an appearance every night, but lately, the heat and the Christmas tree in the courtyard below drove her outside more often.

  The fan hanging over her balcony stirred the heavy air. He knew that because his fan did the same.

  The lights on the tree he only noticed because of the way she watched them, the way they sparkled like colored gems in her white-blond hair, the way they brought a smile to her mouth—one he didn’t think he’d ever seen reach her eyes.

  It didn’t seem to be sadness that kept it away, but focus. As if she didn’t have time in her schedule for distractions of any sort. And that intrigued him because it reminded him so much of himself.

  He’d heard gossip about her air conditioner being on the fritz. It sucked for her sake, but he definitely liked the way she looked all hot and messed up. She was the type of woman who made him think about sex that went a lot farther than sharing a nice dinner and then getting off.

  Looking the way she’d looked last night had him weighing the pros and cons of having her at her place or his. His with cool sheets and pebbled gooseflesh. Hers with nothing but hot skin on skin. The answer required no obvious thought. All he needed was a way in.

  His own town house had been gutted by the previous owner and now consisted of a downstairs great room and an upstairs loft. He made his way to the kitchen area’s island counter, dropping off the mail he’d picked up from the floor by the front door’s drop slot before grabbing a cold beer from the fridge.

  He then reached for the room’s main remote control panel, hit the button for the corner lamp and the one for the big-screen TV, flipping to ESPN before glancing at the stack of mail.

  Longneck bottle halfway to his mouth, he stopped, his attention snagged by a red envelope, no stamp, no address. The size of a small card or invitation. He picked it up, turned it over. The flap was unglued.

  Curiosity got the better of him. He set his beer on the black marble countertop, pulled the card from the sleeve and read.

  It may look a lot like Christmas, but it feels like the Fourth of July. I have fans. I have ice. Wanna share? I’ll leave the door open. Say 10:00 p.m.? And, by the way, I prefer no strings. And no questions.

  Blood running hot beneath the surface of his skin, he read it for a second time, then a third, then had the presence of mind to glance at his watch.

  Eight-thirty. He had time to shower, shave, chang
e clothes and decide on a bottle of wine. No strings and no questions. Wondering what her reasons were for the conditions, he decided he’d give her that for now.

  But only for now.

  CLAIRE STOOD on her balcony watching the lights twinkle on the Christmas tree in the courtyard below.

  The last time she’d looked at the clock in her bedroom, it had been nine-thirty-five.

  She’d thought about slowly counting to sixty over and over for twenty-five minutes, but changed her mind when she tripped herself up first time out.

  Will he or won’t he?

  He wants me; he wants me not.

  She’d written the card while still parked in the lot of the gift shop, having shopped on her way home from work. The plan was to slip the invitation into his mail slot before she second-guessed herself.

  What she should have done was write out the cards for her girlfriends first and imagine their responses to her scheme that was so wildly out of character. Claire the safe one, the practical one, the boring, predictable one.

  Instead, she’d let herself be swayed by a gorgeous man in gorgeous trappings, knowing full well she was buying into the myth of beauty being more than skin deep. Sure, it could happen. But really, what were the odds?

  In her experience, very slim. The men she’d known who were yummy enough to eat knew it—and weren’t the least bit shy about strutting their studly stuff. Totally unattractive. Horribly gauche. Hardly traits about which to write home.

  Traits that reminded her exactly why she needed to close her eyes and open her mind, to find a man who made her think and laugh and wonder how she’d lived without him in her life.

  And she was still pondering all that strutting and how it always ended up going nowhere and was so unappealing and made the whole dating process such a huge waste of time, when she heard the opening and closing of her front door.