Kathleen O'Reilly - The Longest Night

Cassandra shook her head, her nose filling with the scent of cucumber. “Never.”

“You were go marry Benedict.”

“I was young, impulsive…and stupid,” said Cassandra.

Benedict O’Malley had taught her many things, most important among them, you can never escape who you are. She thought Benedict had seen something more than her body when he looked at her. Yeah, right. Cassandra was cheesecake—every man’s favorite fantasy, so over the past eight years she’d perfected the fantasy into a fine art.

“Can’t sex forever.”

Insidious thoughts of falling boobs and lengthening crow’s-feet crept into her mind, but today she was not going to feel sorry for herself. “Can, too,” she answered, ripping the cucumbers from her eyes.

Beth shook her head.

It was a conversation they’d replayed many times. No one believed that Cassandra enjoyed her life. No one believed that a woman could indulge in sexual dalliances strictly for the pursuit of pleasure without any messy emotional complication. Yeah, well, no one knew what they were missing. No worries, no panicking about relationships torpedoing. No thank you, sex was strictly physical.

Cassandra practiced her own set of rules when it came to sex. Rule No. 1: no promises. That way she stayed disappointment-free. Rule No. 2: no option on exclusivity. If a man wanted an exclusive, he was shown the door. No man was worth that kind of loyalty. Rule No. 3: certain sexual behaviors were required, certain ones were allowed and certain ones were verboten. No threesomes, no dressing up in weird costumes and no bondage. Never bondage. Rule No. 4: a man must be factory inspected for disease. A piece of paper from the lab made it so much easier to keep things physical. And last, but most important, was Rule No. 5: no sex without Mr. Safety in place.

“I gonna fine you man,” said Beth.

“Your mask is tightening up nicely. Just a few more seconds,” answered Cassandra.

“You can hide.”

“Time’s up.”

She warmed up a washcloth and began to wipe away the remains of the mask. Eventually, Beth emerged looking just as fresh-faced and glowing as normal, no crow’s-feet, no laugh lines. By all rights, Cassandra should have hated her, but she didn’t. Go figure.

“Now we’re going to start with the base. Something pale for your complexion, but not cakey. Can’t have you looking like the creature from the wax lagoon.” She dug into her makeup box and brought out Powdered Bisque.

Beth sat still while Cassandra sponged on the base. But she knew that wouldn’t last forever. And sure enough, Cassandra was right. “Spencer doesn’t know many guys. There’s Noah, but well, we already know that won’t work out.”

Cassandra stopped in midsponge. Just a moment, not enough for anyone to notice. She didn’t want Beth to notice the telltale shaking in her hands. Steady, steady, steady. “Spare me from the Jimmy Stewart types.” The Jimmy Stewart types who had already shot her down once.

“I’m going to talk to Jess and she’ll talk to Adam. All those corporate types are connected, they know a lot of guys.”

“Yeah, but they’re all unemployed.”

Adam was a reformed operational efficiency expert. He had been known as the “Ax-Man,” before Jessica had turned him around.

Beth cast her a sharp look. “Well, what does that matter since you’re not going to get serious anyway?”

Cassandra moved on to blush. Rose Shadows. “It doesn’t. Why don’t you leave my love life alone, hmm? I appreciate the thought, but I’m doing fine.”

“It’s wrong. There, I’ve said it. Morally, what you’re doing is wrong.”

Cassandra took a step back. It was a judgment she would have expected from Mickey, but never Beth, who didn’t like to step on ants and had never swatted a mosquito in her life. “Why? I’m not getting married, so I’m expected to live like I’m stuck in some convent? Honey, my ticker is working just fine.”

“I don’t think it’s wrong, you just make it so…cold-blooded. Sex shouldn’t be that way.”

“Men handle it just fine. It’s all about the release. Nothing more. It’s great exercise, clears up the complexion and relieves stress. Tell me how something that does all that and manages to make me feel good, could be bad for me?”

“I’m not saying it’s bad for you,” Beth started, then stopped. “Okay, I am, but why don’t you try having a normal relationship for once?”

Cassandra snapped the blush case closed. “I wasn’t built the way the rest of you were.” It was true. She had the body of a stripper and men just didn’t get “normal” female thoughts about her. She got the howlers, the whistlers, the grabbers and the droolers.

Beth met her eyes in the mirror. Her blond eyelashes were next on the list.

“Don’t blame this all on your…” Beth couldn’t bring herself to say it, so instead eyed meaningfully in the direction of Cassandra’s chest. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had thoughts about getting a regular boyfriend. Don’t you ever get lonely?”

No, she never got lonely, because she had perfected the art of being alone. “Let’s move on to your eyelashes.”

“I’m not done.”

Cassandra shot her a hard glance. “I can put a mask on your mouth, too.”

Beth held up a hand. The bride had finally remembered that today was supposed to be all about her. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Cassandra pulled out the wand of mascara, soft brown, waterproof, because the last thing Beth needed to worry about was tears.

Cassandra didn’t have to bother with waterproof. “No tears” was one of her rules, as well.

NOAH BARCLAY rolled in his bed, feeling the warm body right beneath his hands. She was there, her dark hair a thick curtain over her face. God, he loved her hair. He moved inside her, deep, deeper, and her legs tightened around his waist, taking him further inside. Then she smiled up at him and cocked her head. She was taunting him. He leaned down and kissed her, long and thorough, and when he drew back, she surprised him by pulling his head down again. This time she was biting his ear. Pleasure, pain.

He started to laugh. So she wanted to play? He could do that. He began to pound inside her, watching her dark eyes widen first with surprise, then pleasure. Her lashes were so long, thick, a mask she hid behind. He wouldn’t let her hide from him. He brushed back the hair from her face, and still he pounded.

Pounded.

Pounded.

Damn!

Noah sat upright in his bed, the pounding noise still there.

What the hell?

He looked at his clock: 11:07. He’d slept in late this morning, but then, that was what happened when you returned from conducting business two continents from home.

Shaking off the remains of sleep, he pulled on a pair of boxers, noticed the swelling down below, then hastily reached for a pair of jeans, adjusting everything so that the pants would fit.

Back to reality. But, man, he wanted to go back to that dream.

For the past six months the dream had always been variations on a single theme: one beautiful woman, one desperate man and the kind of love-making that could bring a guy to his knees.

Noah gave himself a firm head-slap. Daylight was here, and there was an incessant knocking on his front door.

“What?” he snapped as he swung the door open.

It was Joan—the woman he normally called his sister. Today the label of choice was nuisance.

“You’re not awake?” Joan asked, swaggering into his apartment with that awful perfume.

“Go away,” growled Noah, thinking that if he didn’t get too close to Joan, he could return to bed and finish the dream.

“You can’t keep these sorts of hours, Noah. Look at you, circles under your eyes, and your hair, well, your hair looks terrible. You have a wedding tonight and I have a full list of items that I will need you to report on.”