Thieves In The Night (12 page)

“Hello, Chantal.” Roger leaned down and dropped a kiss on her cheek—which was as far as he’d ever gotten—and sat down next to her. He was dressed in Aspen casual, a three-hundred-dollar sweater, five-hundred-dollar cowboy boots, and twenty-dollar jeans. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, just bland. His hair was thick and brown, with a slight graying at the temples; he had the prerequisite tan. But Chantal knew he could stare at her hard all night long and not generate the heat Jaz had with even the briefest of glances.

Chantal managed a smile. “Roger.” She glanced up at her aunt. “Elise.” She forced into her voice a lightness she didn’t feel, knowing Elise would die the death of a thousand swords before she let anything slip about the morning’s fiasco. Lunch would be something else. Chantal tossed around the idea of calling in sick and letting an anonymous hostess relay her excuses.

“Chantal,” her aunt greeted her coolly, and took the chair on the other side of the table, her back to the room.

This scene had been played many times before, Chantal mused, the three of them meeting for cocktails, dinner, and then everybody going home alone. Elise was between marriages and Roger didn’t have enough nerve to ask Chantal for a private date or a kiss, let alone anything else. His aggressive pursuit of business deals didn’t overflow into his pursuit of her, thank heavens. Unlike another man’s pursuit, a man who hadn’t asked, a man with plenty of nerve and the tender touch to back it up.

Elise and Roger began their predictable conversation of contract negotiations. Unslopped drinks were delivered all around, and this time Chantal got soda. Apparently the war of the waitress was over.

A band warmed up at the other end of the room, the guitarists running riffs, the drummer hitting licks. The saxophone player came in on a low note, and by the time the singer picked up the microphone, the band had melded into a tight rock-and-roll groove.

Elise and Roger’s chitchat faded into numbers and names, and Chantal let her gaze drift around the dimly lit bar. A few couples got up to boogie down, and she noticed the warring waitress had latched on to better game. She was hustling some guy leaning on the bar, and, from the looks of it, was having a good time doing it. The sour countenance she’d subjected Chantal to had been transformed into the epitome of teasing charm, and her hand was practically in the guy’s back pocket. Then, for heaven only knew what reason, she turned around and leveled another dirty look at Chantal.

Chantal immediately looked away, shaking her head. If she could elicit that kind of unbidden response from unknown cocktail waitresses, then this was definitely not her night. She tried to slip back into Roger and Elise’s conversation, but they were well past the preliminaries, right into the guts of a transaction. She wasn’t up to guts, so she concentrated on tracing damp lines into her cocktail napkin with her straw. A splashing brandy snifter put a screeching halt to the harmless endeavor.

The lady was good, really good, Chantal thought, truly amazed that the waitress had been able to slop two inches of brandy out of a balloon snifter. No mean trick.

“Compliments of the gentleman at the bar.” The waitress sounded absolutely disgusted, but Chantal barely heard her. Somewhere, way in the back of her mind, the shape supporting that back pocket was beginning to register with familiarity. Jaz. Was it possible? Her pulse picked up and her heart lodged in her throat, but not before wrapping itself in a tight spiral of jealousy. No wonder the lady had been having such a good time.

She shot a quick glance at Elise and Roger; they were oblivious to the interlude. They were the ones who ought to get together, she thought fleetingly, craning her head sideways to peek around the retreating hips of the waitress. Her breath stopped momentarily, her teeth unconsciously capturing her lower lip in anticipation as she peered across the dim interior, trying to pick him out. It was predictably easy. He was the only man at the bar staring at her and mouthing the words, “Wanna dance?” He was the only man at the bar whose eyes met hers with enough impact to stop a freight train, holding her steady on a true course straight to her heart.

He was leaning against the bar, resting his elbows behind him, with one boot heel hooked on the brass footrail. Narrow-cut black jeans were low and tight around the cream-colored boots, and low and tight around his slightly thrust-forward hips. The narrow red tie and white dress shirt he wore under his faded blue-jean jacket added a rakish air of formality. He stayed absolutely still under her slow perusal, his body language open, inviting the hundred and one visions he put in her mind.

When she finally met his eyes again he gave her a long wink and a slow, easy smile. Everything inside her melted.

I’ll be back.
It was as if he’d never gone, which, considering the short amount of time that had passed, was a distinct possibility. There was nothing in Aspen for him—except her. “Ah, Jaz.” She sighed, shaking her head with resignation.

“What?” Roger asked.

“Uh, nothing. I’ll be back in a minute.” She didn’t know what she was going to say to him, but whatever it turned out to be was better said privately at the bar.

Jaz watched her approach, watched the tight sway of her hips and the supple movement of her legs beneath the clinging angora dress, and his muscles tensed with the memories of holding her close. The elfin princess was coming for him, and this time he wasn’t going to let her go.

Old Roger didn’t look too happy about it, but then, he wasn’t too keen on old Roger either. He’d seen the chaste kiss Roger had given her, and it had taken all his self-control not to go over there and show old Roger the correct technique. Not to go over there and take her breath away with his mouth on hers. Not to go over there and start something stupid, like a fight. It wouldn’t have been much of one. The man had a good thirty pounds on him, but Jaz knew that days later, Roger would still be wondering what had hit him.

Only Chantal’s confession about no love life had stopped him. Old Roger was a fool. But moving too fast had been Jaz’s own foolish mistake that afternoon. He wouldn’t make it again—he hoped, his chest already swelling with a deep breath of anticipation.

When she stopped less than a foot away, he pushed himself off the bar and touched his finger to her lips. He didn’t want her to say a word until he had her in his arms. Silently he led her to the dance floor, his hand trailing along the back of her neck, taking note of her tense muscles. He tried not to imagine all the ways he could work those tensions out—of both of them. But she had a way about her. Without even trying, she started an avalanche of hormones and other, more emotional responses that were both challenging and irresistible.

Right on cue the band changed tempo into a sultry song about love gone bad, and Jaz marveled at the amount of magic ten bucks could buy. Curling his fingers around her belt at the small of her back, he pulled her body tightly against his, until he felt every delicate curve soften and give way to his hardness. This was where she belonged. She had to know it.

Instinctively following his lead, Chantal closed her eyes and ran her hands under the collar of his jacket, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. The sway of his body ruled hers. She’d think of something to say in a minute, as soon as she caught her breath and remembered how to form letters into words.

“I’m sorry for this afternoon,” he whispered in her ear. “You left me hanging and I acted like a fool. Can we still be friends?”

Friends, she thought. The next step for strangers. Tonight she needed a friend. She nodded, and felt his soft kiss of acknowledgment on her cheek.

“Good. Did you miss me?”

“I didn’t have time,” she hedged. She’d barely had time to accept the hours of loneliness his leaving had brought, let alone share them, even with a friend. “Besides, I’m not sure you actually left.”

“I left,” he assured her, “but I came back because I missed you. Did you miss me?” The man was not shy about his feelings, she realized, and once again she felt the uneasy mix of apprehension and anticipation swirl into inevitability. More than friendship was at stake. She knew it as surely as she felt the throb of music through the slow ripple of the muscles in his shoulders, the firm pressure of his hips against her abdomen.

“You couldn’t have gotten very far,” she said breathlessly.

“I got to Denver and back today . . . but it seemed farther and longer without you.” The saxophone wailed its heartache and Jaz swung her into a low dip, holding her off balance. A teasing smile lit the depths of his eyes and touched the corners of his mouth. “Did you miss me?”

“I . . .” She hesitated.

“Missed you too,” he finished confidently, and pulled her up into his arms. The band quickened its pace, and he leaned back to grin at her, doing a gentle bump and grind against her body and shuffling his feet backward until they were lost in the crowd.

Incorrigible, she thought, feeling the more-than-friendly suggestion in each erotic move. He used the music to ply a rock-and-roll brand of sensual corruption on her body, promising more than he gave, enticing her with each added degree of pressure. Enticing her and drawing a response as surely as a pulsing flame draws a moth into fire; drawing her into the danger zone where desire overcame inhibitions. Words had no meaning under this kind of assault. She completely gave up on conversation and surrendered to his mating game, tunneling her fingers through the dark silky hair curling around the back of his neck. Tactile delight coursed up her arms and down to her breasts, pressed so closely to his chest.

His eyes held hers with a tenderness beyond the physical. His smile touched her like no other. If fate had given her this man, there had been no mistake. A miscalculation in timing, she conceded sadly, but no mistake.

“Chantal?” Roger spoke her name above the music as his hand landed on her shoulder. The dance sputtered out of her body, the magic faded from her heart, and she twisted her head around to look at him. “Our table is ready.”

Jaz’s hands tightened on her waist in a possessive gesture. His message was clear, and she knew not even passionless Roger could have failed to miss it. A faint flush pinkened her cheeks. She wasn’t ready for a primitive confrontation, but neither could she pretend Jaz was only a stranger, because somehow, in barely twenty-four hours, he had turned into so much more.

“Roger,” she began hesitantly, choosing etiquette as the safest path of action. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Jaz Peterson. Jaz, this is another . . . uh, friend of mine, Roger Neville.” She doubted they heard much of the introduction under the music, which was probably for the best.

A firm handshake commenced and dragged out, and her blush deepened. This was ridiculous, she thought, but she had agreed—sort of—to have dinner with Roger and she’d made no promises to Jaz, not verbal ones, anyway.

She turned to Jaz and opened her mouth to say . . . what? Have a nice time in Aspen? Do you have a place to stay? Will I see you again? Nothing even remotely reasonable came to mind, and her confusion must have shown on her face, because he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Don’t worry, babe. We haven’t even started this relationship, let alone finished it. Have a good dinner.” He stole a nip on her ear, thankfully the one out of Roger’s view, and walked out of the saloon.

That would not have been her first choice of parting statements, she decided, completely unsettled by his confidence and the equally unsettling conviction that he was right.

* * *

Dinner at the Hotel Orleans had a lot of things going for it—fine food, good wine, and better service than the bar. But the best thing was their menu setup. They only served one entree per night, take it or leave it. That night’s selection could have been hog jowls and Chantal wouldn’t have cared less as long as she didn’t have to make a decision. She was still feeling the repercussions from one she’d made weeks ago in this same dining room.

She moved the lightly sauced and undoubtedly delicious
tournedos maison
around her plate, arranging and rearranging the shitake mushrooms between the two pieces of meat.

Roger waved the waiter over. “Take Ms. Cochard’s plate back to the kitchen and bring her another.” In typical fashion, he didn’t check with her first.

“No, It’s fine, really,” she said, stabbing her fork into a broccoli floweret. If she married Roger, if he ever asked, her decision-making days would be over, she mused. Jaz had let her make plenty of decisions, and the only emotional blackmail he wielded was the sensual kind. In that department he made the other men she’d known look like rank amateurs. A very private smile softened her mouth.

“Now, that’s the Chantal we all know and love.” Roger gave her hand a squeeze. His voice was a grating intrusion on her thoughts, and her smile immediately disappeared. Yes, she silently agreed. He and Elise both loved the pliable, subservient Chantal, a role she was having a harder time maintaining. Jaz was a breath of fresh air in her life, accepting her decisions even when his life depended on them. The knowledge was a heady source of power, as was the potent desire that flamed between them. Never had a man made it so clear that he wanted her at any cost. No, Jaz Peterson wasn’t shy. Her smile returned.

“Chantal?” Elise asked. “Will you take some papers down to the courthouse for us tomorrow?” Wine had softened the timbre of her voice. “I’ll bring them to lunch.” It had also softened the rather pinched look she’d worn this morning. But it hadn’t changed anything else, Chantal thought. Lunch would be a time of reckoning.

“Yes,” she said, getting a head start on her penance. Old habits were hard to break.

“Oh, look.” Elise’s voice rose to a lilt. “There are Jimmy and Angela Sandhurst. Have you invited them to the Lodestar Charity Ball yet?”

The broccoli hung in midair, halfway to her mouth, destined not to get any farther. Slowly, with the utmost concentration, she lowered her fork back to the plate. Using all the skill at her disposal, she loosened her stranglehold on the utensil and released it without a clatter. She was ready for this. Right? She’d known it would happen. Right?