Stroke of Midnight
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Jamie Denton
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18.3K
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28
1
One year later
NATALIE TRENT NEEDED to get laid. In the absolute worst possible way, too, she thought, trying not to frown as she swiped mascara over her pale, reddish-blond eyelashes. Not that she hadn’t had offers in the past twelve months. She lived in Manhattan, for pity’s sake, where the men weren’t only plentiful, but plenty horny. She’d just gotten…choosy, all because of a stupid New Year’s resolution she’d been determined to keep.
She smoothed the foam applicator of her new “long-lasting” lipstick over her lips, then fanned them with her hand to speed up the drying process. Resolving not to fall in love with every guy she dated might have been a wise decision at the time, but it’d also been the most crippling. Apparently she wasn’t wired to spread her legs if she wasn’t in love. A small detail she’d come to understand about herself which had made for some very long and lonely nights—three hundred and sixty-five of them to be exact.
Lips dry, she applied the glossy overcoat before slipping both tubes inside her vintage gold Fendi, right next to her engraved invitation to the Monticello Ball. She scooted out of the postage-stamp-size bathroom into the equally small bedroom she used as a dressing room and closet. What her minuscule one-bedroom apartment lacked in space, it more than made up for in location. At least she had the front apartment overlooking 77th Street in the five-story converted town house. She could’ve found an apartment much less costly with more room, but she wouldn’t trade the Upper East Side locale just off Park Avenue any more than she’d part with her beloved Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo or Monticello shoes.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror she’d tacked to the wall next to her shoe armoire, she almost considered changing. The short metallic-gold Anna Molinari shift tested the legal limit of decency. She should wear the black Versace she’d received as a thank-you gift from the designer following a glowing article Natalie had written for W on Donatella’s spring line, but then the strappy gold, four-inch Monticellos she treasured would have to go, as well.
She turned and frowned at the reflection of her backside. The dress was definitely eye-catching, though, even if it left next to nothing to the imagination.
Wait a minute, she thought. Wasn’t that the entire point of wearing the sexy, slinky designer dress? To catch a man’s eye and finally put an end to her self-imposed, albeit unintentional, celibacy?
She made one last adjustment to the clingy dress before slipping a thin pair of shoulder-length gold earrings through her lobes. A satisfied smirk tipped her mouth. After five years in New York she’d learned to hide her small-town background. She’d even managed to ditch most of her Pollyanna views and could be as cynical as Isabel—if she tried. But what mattered most was not a single invited guest at the party, other than her two closest friends, would ever guess that the only daughter of the town drunk had dared to cross the lines of privilege and invaded the exclusive territory of the rich and famous.
Armed with her personal invitation to the hottest party in town and a few discreet foil packets, she left her apartment and prayed she’d find not only a cab, but an end to her abstinence. She’d lasted an entire year and hadn’t once given her heart away. Little had she known when she’d impulsively made that stupid resolution that a sexless year would result. She’d suffered more than any young, healthy twenty-seven-year-old female ever should. She had needs and she planned to have the desperate edge taken off her razor-sharp libido—tonight. And she would do it without losing her heart in the bargain.
She’d only had to walk as far as Fifth Avenue in the cold night air before she found an available taxi and gave the driver Isabel’s address. As a freelance fashion reporter, Natalie treated tonight’s event as more of a working party than a social event. The annual Monticello Ball promised plenty of grist for her “who’s who wearing what” article, from the exquisitely dressed to the oh, puleeze, what was she thinking? disasters. Mr. Blackwell she wasn’t, but both Vogue and W would pay her a small fortune for a report on the fashion exploits of the celebrities in attendance at the most anticipated party of the year. She might even wrangle Rafe Monticello into granting her an exclusive preview of the upcoming fall line of Monticello shoes. Or perhaps an interview with the creative whiz behind the empire, his mother, the elusive Lucia.
By the time the cab neared Isabel’s loft, Natalie decided if she planned to answer when sexual opportunity banged on her door, she needed to adopt a more free-spirited attitude toward sex like her fabric designer pal, Isabel Parisi. Isabel had sex all the time and never let her heart get all tangled up in the sheets. Unfortunately, Natalie had a feeling she really had more in common with sensible accountant Arianne Sorenson. Arianne didn’t give her heart away, probably because it had already been stolen, Natalie thought. Either her friend wasn’t fessing up or she had yet to realize her heart already belonged to the sexy, dark, Rafe Monticello.
Once the cabbie turned down Isabel’s street, Natalie pulled out her cell and dialed. Iz picked up on the second ring. “I’m on my way, Natalie.”
“On your way downstairs, I hope,” Natalie told her. “Arianne will flip if we’re late, and the traffic’s already horrendous.”
“What did you expect?” Isabel said. “It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Just hurry,” Natalie said, hating how desperate she sounded. “I don’t want to be late, either.”
Isabel’s chuckle was husky and knowing. “Don’t panic, Nat. Your freebie Monticellos will be waiting for you even if we are late.”
Natalie disconnected the call. The exclusive Monticellos weren’t all she hoped would be waiting for her at the ball. Although she couldn’t wait to get her hands on this year’s expensive glass slipper, she really hoped to find herself a prince. One ready, willing and more than able to put an end to her year of sexual deprivation.
JOE SEBASTIAN KNEW it was her the minute she walked into the ballroom. From his place at the bar, he waited for his lungs to refill with oxygen and his heart to stop ricocheting around in his chest. Time hadn’t dulled the images etched on his memory. If anything, they were even sharper now that he’d seen her.
A breathtaking vision wrapped in gold that closely hugged her lethal curves, she was hands-down the most sensual woman in the room as far as he was concerned. Although she wore a gold satin-and-sequined mask, complete with gold plumes sprouting up from the left side, he’d know that body anywhere. He should, since she’d been haunting his fantasies for a full year.
Would she remember him? he wondered, tossing back the last of the scotch and water he’d been nursing the past hour. Without taking his eyes off her, he signaled for the bartender. “Straight up this time,” he told the guy. “Better make it a double.”
Would she even speak to him? He wouldn’t blame her if she smashed one of Rafe’s Renaissance urns over his head. No less than he deserved for pulling a disappearing act on her after the time they’d spent alone with a bottle of champagne in one of the upstairs alcoves. No woman liked to feel used, and he imagined that’s exactly how Natalie perceived those incredible moments at the stroke of midnight one year ago tonight. Provided she even remembered.
He thanked the bartender and walked back into the ballroom for a closer look at the woman he hadn’t been able to erase from his mind. The taste of her mouth, the curve of her hips, the silk of her hair wrapped around his hand were images burned into his memory like a brand. The sound of her throaty laugher as he’d led her to the alcove and closed the dark red velvet drape for privacy. Her purr of pleasure when he’d skimmed his hands over her body and kissed her senseless until they were both filled with a need so fierce it had nearly killed him to walk away from her after offering some lame excuse he couldn’t even recall and promising to return shortly.
He’d never heard her outrage because he’d been forbidden to say so much as a goodbye. He’d left, but he’d never forgotten, and for the first time in his career as a naval intelligence officer, he’d been filled with resentment for the oath he’d sworn.
His days of disappearing for months on end were thankfully behind him. After twelve years of serving his country, Joe had had enough of covert operations, security issues and the only semblance of home being the nearest rack on a ship sailing to a classified location.
Acknowledging he was ready to settle in one place and put down roots was one thing. Actually having the staying power to remain in one place for any length of time was another. So had knowing what he’d do for a living. Instead of discharging from the Navy, he supposed he could’ve accepted the offer to become an instructor for SEAL training and collected a full pension in another ten to fifteen years. While he could always go back to civilian life, he craved solidity. After his last mission, the more distance from a lifestyle he wasn’t completely sure he still had faith in, the better. Investigating white-collar crime for the Securities and Exchange Commission did lack a certain level of excitement he’d become accustomed to as a SEAL, but men and women generally weren’t tortured or maimed beyond recognition because of corporate greed.
He moved through the couples dancing beneath the frescoed dome until he reached the edge of the dance floor where she only had to glance in his direction to see him. The black leather mask hid his face, but he was arrogant enough to hope she’d still recognize him.
The cool blonde dressed in elegant black standing next to Natalie said something to her that caused Natalie to turn and scan the ballroom. She nodded, spoke to the exotic dark-haired woman beside her, and then looked directly at him. From across the room, he raised his glass slightly and smiled when her clear blue eyes widened beneath her mask. What he could see of her face, paled.
She quickly turned away and spoke to his old friend and host, Rafe. Oh, yeah, he thought. She hadn’t forgotten him. From her reaction, she obviously hadn’t expected to find him here, either. The night suddenly held a wealth of possibilities.
He tossed back a good portion of scotch that only inflamed the heat already simmering in his belly. At least she hadn’t looked as if she wanted to rip his balls off for leaving her the way he had. Maybe she’d allow him to make it up to her by finishing what they started last year.
She left her friends, snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter as if it were a lifeline and started circling the ballroom. He took in the subtle swing of her hips and the enticing movement of her breasts as she slowly headed in his direction. His fingers weren’t the only part of his body flexing. Being this close to her, he could see she was even hotter than she’d been in his memories, and they’d been damned hot.
He finished off the last of his drink as Natalie cruised the ballroom as if she owned the place, confident and sexy as hell. He’d been too long at sea if the sight of a woman made his dick this hard. He shouldn’t be surprised by his reaction. It’d been the same all year. Despite the little time they’d actually spent together, one thought of Natalie and his libido took off like an F-14 from the deck of an aircraft carrier. The woman had gotten under his skin, something thousands of miles of ocean hadn’t cured.
He would’ve contacted her when he’d returned to the States three months later, but without a last name, he hadn’t known how to get in touch with her. Rafe had been out of the country and before Joe had had an opportunity to speak to him, new orders had been cut and he’d been shipped out to another classified location. After nine months of being sent on one mission after another, then arranging for his discharge and landing a job with the S.E.C., he’d figured too much time had passed and he had given up on ever seeing Natalie again. When he’d accepted Rafe’s invitation, he hadn’t even considered the off chance of running into her again. He couldn’t believe his luck that she was actually here, but that didn’t necessarily mean he knew the right words to say after so much time had passed.
Fate wasn’t a theory he subscribed to as a rule. Tonight he’d make an exception—provided she showed him the slightest hint she was still interested.
She came to a stop a few feet in front of him, sipping her champagne as she turned and casually scanned the crowd on the marble dance floor. If it hadn’t been for the surreptitious glances she kept shooting his way, he might have thought he’d imagined her reaction when their eyes had met a few moments ago.
The pain it cost him was worth every agonizing ache as he checked out her ass and those long legs that went on forever. The hem of her impossibly short gold dress flirted with her slender thighs. She glanced his way again, then started tapping her foot as if impatient. The hem of her dress swayed with the movement, drawing his attention to the shimmering gold dress barely covering her derrière.
He struggled for breath and stared hard, but couldn’t detect a single panty line beneath the formfitting dress. Forget breathing. The heavy pounding of his heart convinced him he was close to cardiac arrest.
She spun around suddenly and looked directly in his eyes. Behind the frilly mask, her eyes held an intriguing combination of curiosity with a dose of apprehension. Unsure what to say to her, he just stared like a tongue-tied recruit and enjoyed the sight of her incredible body, the slight tilt of her head and the sophisticated upswept style of her more strawberry than blond hair.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, then took off faster than a missile.
“Damn it,” he muttered to himself as she wove her way through the guests and disappeared before he came to his senses.
“You look as if you could use this,” Rafe said suddenly from beside him. Amusement filled his voice. “Problems?”
Joe took the glass Rafe offered and downed half the contents. “There won’t be if you can tell me the name of that redhead so I don’t lose her again.”
He and Rafe had been friends since their college days when raising hell and chasing women had been their favorite pastimes. Their hell-raising days had continued long after they’d been handed their Ivy League diplomas, but when it came to the opposite sex, Joe was an amateur compared to Rafe.
“Natalie Trent,” Rafe told him.
Joe frowned. “She’s not one of your…” A sharp stab of jealousy hit him hard.
“Women?” Rafe finished for him. He chuckled. “No. She’s all yours, my friend.”
“How do you know her?” He wasn’t proud of himself for asking, but he was having a hard time stemming the flow of suspicion despite Rafe’s reassurance that he and Natalie had never been involved.
“She’s in the fashion industry,” Rafe said absently, his attention shifting to the cool blonde Joe had seen earlier with Natalie. He nodded in the other woman’s direction. “My accountant, she knows her.”
Based on the intensity in Rafe’s eyes as he watched the blonde, his friend looked as if he wanted to discuss more than balance sheets with the lovely bean counter.
Once Rafe left him, Joe searched the ballroom for Natalie. Apparently she’d pulled a disappearing act all her own.
He wound his way around the dance floor. A matched set of statuesque brunettes stopped him and smiled with blatant, smoldering interest. The silver-clad bookend on the left held up three fingers while her identical counterpart pointed toward rooms upstairs.
Under normal circumstances, he might have accepted without a second thought. Except tonight there was only one woman capable of holding his interest—an incredibly sexy redhead by the name of Natalie Trent.
