The Longest Night. Kathleen O'Reilly

sorry, but I believe your exact words were, ‘You’re a nice girl, but not tonight.’”

      “I don’t like being used,” he said resolutely. Of course, half a year without sex could melt the strongest resolution, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “Six months ago, how much of the tartlet performance at the gala was for my benefit and how much of it was to piss off your old boyfriend?” he asked.

      “I don’t do tartlet performances,” she started. Though she didn’t deny the piss-off-your-old-boyfriend part at all, which irked him, because he liked to think that on that one night six months ago she had felt the slow burn between them.

      “Too old?” he questioned, mainly because he was irked.

      Her dark brows furrowed in anger. He held up the hand of peace. “Apologies. You bring out the worst in me.”

      “An auspicious way to start a relationship, Mr. Barclay. I would think you’d be running hard and fast in the opposite direction. Some repressed need for self-punishment, perhaps?”

      He balanced his chin on his hand, content to drink in her face. It was like pouring one-hundred-and-forty proof right onto his crotch. He’d never met a woman who was so completely aware of her own power.

      “I’m not giving up,” he said.

      “Cocky, aren’t we?” she asked with a cold look in her eyes that should have kept him away.

      “Cocky? You’ve been stuck up here for the past six months,” he said, pointing to his head. “I can’t look at another woman, I can’t sleep because of the dreams, and I didn’t want to come tonight because I knew what would happen.”

      “What?” she asked quietly.

      “It’ll start all over again. You’ll ruin me for another six months, only now, well, it’s worse. So I’m thinking it’s now going to be at least a year. Yeah, I see that smile. You think this is funny, but I don’t. This is all about survival, sweetheart. Mine.”

      There. He’d told her. It wasn’t the sophisticated approach he probably should’ve used, but he hadn’t had much sleep lately and it was all because of her.

      Then she got up to leave. He’d blown it. His one shot. Gone. She glanced around the room and cast one anxious glance in his direction. “The store. Tuesday,” she whispered, and then quickly walked away.

      ON SUNDAY MORNING, Cassandra was up early. She always squeezed in a workout before she started the day, but last night she’d had very little sleep, and it was all Noah Barclay’s fault.

      Everything had been fine until she’d looked deep into his dark, tortured gaze. This was a man who looked to be in pain, and she’d put him there. There was the usual victory dance of power in her head, but this time the victory dance wasn’t nearly as much fun.

      In fact, this time the victory dance was completely unfun.

      It was that complete lack of fun that prompted her to give him a second chance. That, and the fact that the man had the most mesmerizing eyes. Honest and completely unsmarmy. She’d actually checked. But there was no telltale hand over the mouth or the shifty-eyed marker of dishonesty. He’d met her gaze square-on and she’d gotten a jolt that she hadn’t been expecting.

      Okay, sue her, she was attracted to the man. She would give him a shot, then he’d show his true colors and, yeah, she’d seen the end of this movie before.

      Cassandra picked up her mop from the broom closet and jabbed at the floor with more anger than precision. Nothing like a little housework to ease frustration.

      She lived in a little, two-bedroom, one-tiny-bath, no-garage in Hardwood Heights. It was her sanctuary and she loved it. The community had strict rules about noise and behavior, so it was always quiet. Peaceful.

      So peaceful that it was unnervingly loud when she heard a scratching noise at the front of her house.

      That was odd, she thought as she peered through the glass in her front door. No one was there. But then the scratching started again.

      She flung open the door. Still nothing.

      Then she looked down.

      Some people might have called it a dog. Cassandra was horrified, and slammed the door on it.

      She hated dogs.

      The scratching started again.

      Her fingers drummed against the wood door frame, knowing that if that stupid animal didn’t stop, her brand-new, seven-hundred-and-eighty-six-dollar door was going to be ruined. It was a honey, too. Golden oak with beveled glass that just dressed her place up so nicely.

      No way was that dog going to ruin it.

      She marched to the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water. Then she opened the door and doused him.

      The mutt retreated to the lawn and sat on his haunches, fur bunched and smelly—now a wet smelly—and glared back.

      “You’re a stupid dog, aren’t you?”

      She slammed the door and waited. The scratching started again.

      Darn it. He wasn’t leaving.

      Where did the thing belong? Maybe a neighbor had lost it? Not that she thought anyone was going to claim it. Something that huge and that old and that ugly wasn’t going to be popular anywhere. Worst of all, it had big, mean teeth.

      After gathering her courage, she threw on some shoes and went outside. She was prepared to confront the monster, using the back door of course.

      She clapped her hands in what she thought was an anti-dog manner. “Go home.”

      The dog growled at her.

      Okay, let’s try something new. Kindness. “Here, buddy,” she sang, snapping her fingers.

      The dog growled at her.

      “You are a stupid, stupid animal,” she announced, and the dog promptly went and curled up on her porch. Not that her porch was large, mind you. In fact, the dog took up the entire space.

      “No, no, no. You belong to someone else. This is not your home. Bad dog, bad dog.”

      The dog opened one lazy eye and showed his teeth in a twisted-looking grin.

      “Where’s Timmy, boy?”

      The dog yawned.

      Okay, this was getting her nowhere. She gave him the eye as she walked next door to Mrs. Mackenzie’s place. Mrs. Mackenzie was an elderly woman who, to Cassandra’s knowledge, had no pets, but maybe that had changed. After all, it was never too late to gain a pet.

      When Mrs. Mackenzie answered her door, Cassandra smiled politely. “Did you lose a dog?” she asked with hope in her voice.

      Mrs. Mackenzie squinted, her mind creaking. She was a dear old woman, but a little slow. “No. Can’t say that I did.”

      “Do you know anyone in the neighborhood who’s lost a dog recently? Big, ugly, black and gray.”

      Mrs. Mackenzie shook her head. “No, dear. The neighborhood board frowns on dogs. Don’t know anyone around here that has one. Sorry. Would you like some pie? I just made a fresh cherry. With ice cream.”

      Cassandra shook her head, depressed at the fifty-pound spawn of Satan that had just been dumped in the lap of her lawn.

      Still determined, she went door to door, covering thirty-seven houses in five blocks. And all she got for her trouble was seven chocolate-chip cookies and three lewd propositions. Damned perverts. Somebody out there was dog-less, probably crying and worrying.

      She made her way home, munching the last cookie, thinking that maybe the animal had disappeared while she was