C.J. Carmichael - Seattle after Midnight

Pierce stopped his car, realizing that he’d ended up outside the office complex that housed KXPG Radio. Every night he felt as if Georgia was speaking directly to him, when in fact she was reaching out to thousands. He was nuts to believe any sort of connection existed between them.

Georgia shared a final bit of poetry before signing off. Pierce had no interest in the radio after that, preferring silence to the insipid programming that followed Seattle after Midnight.

He eyed the parking lot and wondered which of the handful of vehicles sitting there at five in the morning belonged to Georgia. Oh, for Pete’s sake. Just go home, would you?

He didn’t. And fifteen minutes later his tenacity was rewarded as a woman who could only be Georgia dashed out of the building. The security guard had held the outer door open for her and continued to watch after her as she raced for her car. Pierce opened his window in time to hear her call out, “Thanks, Monty. I’m fine.”

The security guard waved, then returned to his post. No sooner had the door swung shut behind him than Georgia let out a scream.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever been awake at night when everyone—almost the entire world, it seems—is asleep? The world looks different in the dark, doesn’t it? It feels different, too. Somehow our fears, anxieties and insecurities seem to thrive in the shadows.

The late-night radio host understands the world of the dark. She knows about insomniacs, shift workers and night owls. With carefully selected music and her own specially chosen words, she reaches through the night and makes connections with these people.

Georgia Lamont is the host of Seattle after Midnight. She has a talent for connecting with her listeners. But what happens when she makes a connection with the wrong person? This is the question I asked myself when I began to write this story. But even as I began to explore the sinister side of the night, another question formed in my mind.

What happens when she makes a connection with the right person—someone who needs her as much as she needs him?

I hope you enjoy this story. If you would like to write or send e-mail, I would be delighted to hear from you through my Web site at www.cjcarmichael.com. Or send mail to #1754-246 Stewart Green, S.W., Calgary, Alberta, T3H 3C8, Canada.

Sincerely,

C.J. Carmichael

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The author would like to thank her friend,

audiophile Mike Fitzpatrick, for being her music consultant

for this project and for introducing her

to the bliss of Kenny Rankin.

Christina Rowsell (host of Christina After Dark),

thank you for your generosity in inviting me to your studio,

answering my questions and introducing me to the

fascinating, multitasking, crazy world of radio.

For my brother Phil

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT, Seattle. You know what that means, don’t you?”

The voice, seductive and yet somehow comforting, propelled Pierce Harding to crank up the volume of his radio, so he could hear above the steady drumming of rain on the roof of his car.

“You’re listening to Georgia and this is Seattle after Midnight on KXPG radio….”

Across the street the Charleston Hotel sparkled with seasonal fairy lights. A wreath decked out with bows and fake fruit made the oak entrance look Christmas-card perfect.

Pierce popped a square of chewing gum out of a pack and into his mouth. It was the beginning of December and Christmas was being rammed down his throat wherever he turned. He could only hope Georgia wouldn’t play any bloody carols on her show tonight.

Parked with the owner’s permission at the service end of a gas station, Pierce had a clear view up and down the street. The sidewalks were deserted. Occasionally a car would drive by. Only three had stopped for gas in the past half hour.

Thanks to the cold, he had to keep the windows closed and run the heater at fifteen-minute intervals to clear the condensation. But even with the pumped-in warmth, he felt chilled. Tired. Alone.

“This is your time,” the radio host promised. She sounded a bit like Demi Moore, Pierce thought. Only sexier, if that was possible.

“Yours and mine,” she continued, her voice dipping even deeper. “I have some sweet surprises in store for you, so stay with Georgia and we’ll get through this night together, I promise.”

Across the street the door to the hotel opened. Pierce grabbed his video recorder and hit the power button. But the two people holding hands as they dashed for a waiting taxi were strangers. He set down the camera and prepared himself mentally for a long wait.

His agency had been hired to keep twenty-four-hour surveillance on the wife of a man who was out of town on business for three days. Jodi and Steven Calder were in their midforties, childless and wealthy. Steven—Pierce’s client—suspected Jodi of having an affair. A suspicion that seemed likely to be true.

Just four hours ago Jodi had taken a taxi from the Calder’s estate home in Madison Park. She’d had a big black suitcase with her and when the cab had pulled up in front of the Charleston, Pierce had been sure she was up to no good.

But as far as he could tell, she was in her room alone and had been for hours. He’d been keeping an eye out for single males entering the hotel, but had seen none. The Charleston seemed to appeal more to older couples and families than the business crowd.

Or the illicit-lovers crowd.

What was Jodi Calder doing in that hotel room? Had her lover been delayed somehow? Had he canceled? But if that were the case, why hadn’t Jodi Calder returned to her comfortable home?

The situation was puzzling, but soon would become someone else’s problem. He’d broken the watch into three eight-hour stretches. Jake Jeffrey, his youngest and newest employee, would be covering mornings, starting at 5:00 a.m. Will Livingstone, the senior man in Pierce’s team, would handle the afternoon shift.

If Jodi Calder’s lover ever did turn up, they’d catch him, all right.

“Tonight we’re going to play something special.” Georgia’s voice sounded as close and intimate as if she were sitting in his car with him. “When Kenny Rankin sings in the key of D minor, the result is something no feeling person could ever forget. Imagine you’re at a table in a Parisian bistro, sipping wine and thinking of that one person you’ve never been able to forget.”

The music started then, plaintive notes, a pleasing melody, then a man’s voice, clear and pure. Pierce’s chest welled with an unrecognizable sensation, a sweet aching. More and more he felt this way when he listened to Georgia’s show and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the emotion Cass had tried to describe to him in the years they’d been married.

She’d been so good to him, tried so patiently to help him, and he’d given precious little in exchange.

Cass, I thought I loved you.

But the way he felt right now, he knew something had been missing. And Cass had known, too.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Georgia said as the song ended. “Tonight we’re going to be listening to a lot of music played in those sad, haunting minor keys. Because we all know that love isn’t always sunshine and roses. If you can relate to that, I want to hear from you. Give me a call, toll-free, at…”