Midnight Craving (Contemporary Romance) Read online

  MIDNIGHT CRAVING

  Author: Kimberly Ivey

  Word Count: 35, 280

  Copyright 2011 by Kimberly Ivey

  Publisher: Endless Sky Productions

  Cover Art: Endless Sky Productions

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be published, reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form or other form as yet to be invented without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions of this work from reputable booksellers.

  MIDNIGHT CRAVING

  Dante lifted Lady Ophinia Abernathy, impaling her silken love sheathe on his turgid phallus.

  Armand Giancarlo re-read the last typed line of his manuscript and gritted his teeth in disgust. “Bloody drivel.”

  He tapped the backspace key eleven times, erasing the last two words, and then pondered a few other possibilities.

  …sheathing her honeyed love tunnel upon his…

  …fleshly monolith.

  …love sword.

  …man staff.

  Perhaps it was best to leave a blank space in the text until a suitable phrase presented itself.

  He continued typing, his fingertips flying across the keyboard.

  Lady Abernathy tossed her head back in wanton abandon, the long, spun-gold locks of her silken tresses brushing the tops of his muscled, naked thighs. Seizing her cream-colored breasts in his tanned, work-roughened hands, Dante, squeezed the pliant globules, then plucked at the erect berried tips as Lady Ophinia gyrated above him, her milky thighs clutching his sweat-slick hips as they rode passion’s storm together.

  Armand drew in a breath, clicked save, and then closed the lid of his lap top.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “By God but that is the worst sex scene I’ve ever written. What in bloody hell is wrong with me? I can’t even write a simple love scene anymore.”

  Frustration clawed at his insides. What was he to do? A full draft of Passion’s Storm was due on his agent, Tara Carrington’s desk in six weeks. He’d barely begun writing the book. Dragging a palm down his face, he released an exasperated sigh. “Better luck at the next writing session.”

  Perhaps once he’d settled in at the Driftwood Inn Bed and Breakfast on Annabelle Island tonight he’d be able to infuse passion into his newest novel. At least he was counting on a change of scenery to pull him through this recent writing slump. Over the past few months, a wicked case of writer’s block had strangled the shit out of his muse.

  Writing under the nom de plume Raven Midnight, Armand’s latest erotic romance novel had been contracted by Devondale, the publishing house that launched his writing career three years earlier. Before that, he’d enjoyed a fifteen year stint as a romance novel cover model. His sleek, oiled pecs and biceps had graced the covers of millions of paperbacks and hard covers world wide.

  Two years ago at thirty six, he’d retired from modeling. Better for a man to walk away at the height of his glory and fade gracefully into the background, than to become a shriveled old icon with flabby abs whose photos the tabloids trotted out every now and then for a chuckle.

  He checked his watch. Half past eleven. He’d phoned for a taxi to take him to the airport over an hour ago.

  Rising from the small writing desk, Armand gathered his papers, books and pens. Nothing was going to prevent him from making his flight to the island paradise. He’d drive himself to the airport.

  After placing his laptop in its case, he remembered a few additional files and reference books he might need. Gathering an assortment of books and writing supplies from the study, he brought it into his spacious, Los Angeles mansion’s foyer and stuffed them in his carry on bag.

  Helen, his long-time housekeeper, wheeled in his suitcase which contained two weeks worth of clothes, as well as a suspicious looking brown paper lunch bag. He did a double take at the smiley face she’d drawn on the sack with black marker. Sometimes Helen treated him as if he were ten years old, but truth was, he appreciated having a lady fuss over him.

  Helen’s wiry, salt and pepper brows knitted together. “Mr. G, I thought you said you’d be gone a month? That suitcase looks awfully small. Did you pack enough skivvies? You remember I pitched the old holey ones to the trash last week.”

  Indeed, he did recall. Some pairs had been his favorites, particularly the one with the cartoon crocodile print. “Yes, Helen, I’ve packed plenty of skivvies,” he reassured her.

  Helen handed him the paper bag with the hand-drawn smiley face.

  “Lunch?” he inquired.

  “No. Your favorite cookies—English tea biscuits.”

  “You used my Mum’s recipe?”

  A twinkle lit her blue eyes. “I certainly did.”

  “Thank you, Helen. I can’t tell you how much that means to me…the memories it brings back.”

  “Awww, don’t go getting sentimental on me. Besides, I can’t have you snacking on the peanuts they serve on the plane. The last time they gave you a terrible case of flatulence.”

  Armand stared coolly at the wall above the diminuitive Helen’s head and cleared his throat in an attempt to salvage some decorum. “Thank you, Helen, for the reminder.” He peeked inside the brown paper bag and inhaled the aroma of warm, buttery shortbread. Oh, yummy! Surely one wouldn’t hurt. He was about to lift a cookie when Helen snatched the sack from his grip.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” she admonished, then folded the top down. “These are for the plane trip.”

  Feeling like a scolded pup, Armand tucked the cookie bag into the side pocket of his carry on.

  A flash of yellow beyond the front window alerted him. At last, a taxi.

  He lifted his laptop case and other bags. Helen led the way down the brick walkway past the three tiered Grecian fountain, the wheeled pull man in tow.

  “You’d better send me a post card,” she chattered on. “It’s gonna be lonely around this big old mansion without you for a month.”

  “I’ll send you many postcards, Helen.”

  After his bags were placed in the trunk of the cab, Armand slid onto the back seat.

  Helen lingered at the open door. “Now you behave yourself, Mr. G. This ain’t spring break. You’re pushin’ forty. I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and see a commercial on TV for Guys Gone Goofy with you in it, you hear?”

  Pushing forty? A shiver coursed through him at the distasteful turn of phrase. Armand might have otherwise chuckled at Helen’s joke, for at one time he might have participated in such youthful follies, but the sting of her words echoed in his brain.

  “I promise not to flash anyone,” he reassured Helen, adding, “Besides, it’s the off season. There’ll be no frivolities this time of year.”

  He closed the door and lifted a hand, waving a goodbye to Helen as the cab pulled away from the curb. Sitting back in the seat, Armand pulled the glossy brochure from his jacket pocket and scanned the page: Driftwood Inn, a Victorian Bed and Breakfast on the eastern shores of historic Annabelle Island. Private suites. Deserted white sandy beaches. Within driving or walking distance to restaurants, shops, and historic homes. Ahhh…precisely the quiet location he needed to finish writing Passion’s Storm.

  He laid the brochure beside him on the seat as the cab driver rambled on about the traffic, the weather, and a local ball team’s latest win on the way to the airport—
small talk, which Armand wasn’t very good at.

  The driver glanced into the rearview mirror. “Both of my kids were real disappointed. Next weekend’s game’s sold out. ‘Course there’s some folks on the internet selling tickets for two hundred bucks a pop. I can’t swing that. Are they freakin’ nuts? And it would have to be my oldest boy, Charlie’s tenth birthday this weekend, too. He’s gonna be real disappointed, he is.”

  Armand felt the corners of his mouth begin to tilt upward into a smile as a wickedly brilliant idea presented itself. No. He couldn’t. Oh, yes he could. With delight, he chuckled.

  The driver met his gaze in the rear view mirror’s reflection.

  “You say somethin’ buddy?” the ruddy faced man inquired.

  Armand reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced eight hundred dollars in cash and handed it to the driver. “Please take your family to the game.”

  “Holy frickin’ shit, mister!”

  The taxi swerved into another lane as another string of four letter words spewed from the man’s mouth. Armand gripped the seat. Great stars in the night! The man was going to kill him!

  “Um, sorry about that,” the cabbie offered. “I freaked when I saw the money. But I can’t take it.”

  “I insist. Consider it my cab fare plus a generous tip. Enjoy the game with your lovely family. Besides, I’m off to a secluded island for the next few weeks and won’t be needing much cash.”

  “Aw, man. I’m never going to forget this buddy.” A gigantic grin split the cabbie’s face. “Hot damn! I’m takin Charlie and Bud Jr. to the game. Oh, yeah…and my old lady, too.”

  Armand closed his eyes and sighed. Why was it so easy to make other people happy, yet he could not find such for himself?

  Perhaps elusive happiness would come with the completion of his book.

  He’d told Tara Carrington that Passion’s Storm would be finished in six weeks tops, although he’d not divulged to his agent his planned month long getaway or his destination. He damned well hoped he could pull it off in such a short amount of time.

  Opening his eyes, he glanced at the brochure again. Solitude and serenity beckoned to him from the glossy pages. A sun drenched beach with white sand that looked as soft as spun sugar. A hammock strung between the posts on a shady porch of the antebellum bed and breakfast. The perfect writing retreat.

  A lonely place for a lonely man.

  He flinched. Where had that thought come from? But wasn’t that exactly what he was? Feeling his throat constrict, he shook off the icy wave of regret that washed over him and redirected his thoughts to his destination.

  When he’d phoned the owner, Mira Reece, she’d assured him none of the other rooms were booked at the inn. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself. Yes, this was a good idea. No distractions. Peace and quiet. Spending a few weeks at the secluded, beach front retreat was exactly the prescription he needed.

  Mira Reece finished her evening ritual at the Driftwood Inn—setting out ten dishes of cat food around the perimeter of the house. She did this twice daily for her twenty-two cats—half of them feral strays no thanks to hurricane Alva’s visit a few years ago. She’d always held a soft spot in her heart for the animals who’d survived Annabelle Island’s near total devastation. All the dogs she’d rounded up post storm except one had been adopted by locals. She’d kept Bo, the blind golden retriever as a pet. Whether the aging dog had lost his vision from injury in the storm or his prior owner’s cruelty she didn’t know. He trotted at her heels her each day, a faithful companion as she went about her tasks in the rose garden or on the porch.

  It wasn’t the animals’ fault that life treated them cruelly and they’d ended up alone and abandoned. Actually, it was a miracle they’d survived the nearly two hundred mile per hour winds that left eighty percent of the island’s homes devastated—her own, the Driftwood Inn, severely damaged and needing major reconstruction.

  In some ways, Mira was thankful the feral cats wandered to her Inn. At least she could always make certain they had the basic necessities of food and water—as well as a little love—even if it was delivered at a distance.

  Other than her young niece and two nephews who occasionally spent weekends with her and the nearly two dozen cats, she lived alone on a deserted strip of beach. The responsibility of caring for something other than herself gave her a reason to get out of bed every morning, and something to look forward to every evening at feeding time.

  She left the timid animals to eat—Bo, on the porch, snoring heartily on his favorite rug— and hurried back inside the house. Mr. Jones, her only guest was scheduled to arrive shortly and she needed to freshen up and make the Inn presentable.

  She put fresh sheets straight from the dryer on the bed and placed fluffy new white towels in his bathroom. Downstairs, she lit a fragrant red cinnamon scented candle and with a flick of the feather wand dusted her grandmother’s Victorian period antiques in the foyer.

  Jones, her first scheduled arrival in the month since the summer season closed, had rented the entire third floor of the house for two weeks—possibly for the entire month, he’d stated on the phone. She hadn’t asked why one man needed so much space or the reason for his extended stay, although he’d insisted on seclusion. She figured it wasn’t her business. As long as he paid his bill and didn’t cause trouble at the Inn, she’d gladly put up with him for a month.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder why a single man from Los Angeles would fly cross the country to a secluded island retreat off the east coast unless there had been recent trouble in his life. Was he getting over a break up or a divorce? He’d not offered details, only stating that it was imperative he not be disturbed for the duration of his stay.

  She’d just finished the final touches to the common areas of the house and returned to the front porch when a tall, deeply tanned man with dark, shoulder length hair and the longest legs she’d ever seen exited a snazzy little hybrid rental. Mr. Jones, she assumed.

  He approached the house, waving her brochure.

  Bo sprang up on all fours and let out a baritone woof that warned the stranger to keep his distance.

  Mira reached down and patted Bo’s head. “It’s all right, Bo. This is a friend.”

  The man hurried up the walkway. “Hello, madam. Is this

  one hundred four Sea Breeze Lane?”

  She recognized his British accent from when they’d spoken on the phone a few days earlier. “Yes, this is the Driftwood Inn. Are you Mr. Jones?”

  He slipped off his sun shades, his sultry bedroom eyes causing her heart to flip-flop in her chest. He hung them casually from the open vee of his crisp, white shirt, his movements as fluid as liquid silk.

  “Yes, I’m Mr. Jones.”

  Mira perused him leisurely, drinking in every inch of his masculine form. She swallowed hard. Before her stood male perfection— chiseled cheek bones, a strong jaw and full, lush lips. He was tall with broad, muscular shoulders, and his dark smoldering eyes made her think of things she’d never done, but might like to try.

  She chided herself silently for that last thought. It was the loneliness speaking again, her years of self-imposed isolation on the island.

  When a wicked smile tilted the corners of his lips upward, she jerked, realizing she’d ogled a bit too long.

  “You must be Mira Reece,” he said in a voice so rich and deep it slid over her skin like warm tanning oil.

  Mira sucked in a breath. “Y-yes, I’m . . . Mira.” Oh, my gosh. What’s wrong with my tongue? I can barely speak!

  He moved toward her, four or five long strides and extended his hand. Swallowing hard, she grasped it. Warm and genuine, yet such a tender squeeze as if he feared he might hurt her.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Reece. I’m…Jones. Um, yes…that’s correct…simply call me Jones.”

  Mira’s gaze slowly lifted to meet his. She froze, not certain she was still breathing. The man dwarfed her, everything about him, his body, h
is hand, his very presence. She felt small in his shadow. That wasn’t all. She was incredibly turned on at the sight of him.

  She drew in the woodsy scent of his cologne. Expensive, she’d bet. And that gold watch on his wrist hadn’t come from a department store either.

  Her hand fell away as he released it. So did half her rational brain. She stood there gawking up at him, feeling like a silly high school girl with a crush on the football team’s star quarterback. Strange, but he looked so familiar. Had they met before? She was about to ask when he spoke.

  “Would you please call your porter?” he asked. “I’ve several heavy bags in the trunk of my car.”

  Mira blinked. “I . . . I don’t h-have a porter.” What was wrong with her? Had she lost all sensibility?

  “Very well,” he said and turned to walk back to the car.

  Mira stared at his broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist and tight, firm buttocks that worked casual tan slacks.

  Mr. Jones lifted a large suitcase, a second smaller one, and what appeared to be a laptop case from his trunk. He closed it then headed back up the cobblestone walk.

  Mira rushed toward him. “Let me help. She took the carry on from his grip and led the way up the front steps and through the stained glass paneled door into the foyer. Their heels clicked loudly on the polished oak floor, two of his for her one. Pausing to reach into the desk drawer at the bottom of the stairs, she removed his suite’s key, then motioned for him to follow her up to the third floor.

  Mira showed him each room, opening window curtains and blinds and pointing out the historic lighthouse in the distance and the quaint town to the west.

  Bathed in the dazzling orange glow of the setting sun, Mr. Jones stood in front of one of the light-filled windows, staring out at the beach below. He made a stunning sight, the late afternoon sun’s rays picking up a few faint silver strands in his straight, shoulder length chestnut hair. He must be about forty, she figured, yet he was absent the paunch most men acquired.

  She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she was certain she knew him from somewhere. Had he been a guest at the inn before? She was about to ask if he’d ever visited the island when he turned to face her.