Hold on to the Nights

Yesterday, my deepest wish came true; you finally came to see me and brought with you a man whom I believe will love you and care for you as you deserve. And now comes the most difficult part of this letter, for I have a confession to make that will not endear me to you.

Your marriage to that boy was never annulled, and my legal counsel informs me that despite my best efforts, you are still legally wed. I didn’t tell you this earlier, because I thought that if you knew, you might return to him. But now that you are over him, and in the event that you plan to marry again, you need to know the truth.

Please know that I only want your happiness.

Forgive me.

Your father,

Brent Whitfield

Lara dropped the letter into her lap and gave a small huff of laughter. Even at the end, her father had refused to call Graeme anything except that boy, as if by doing so he somehow diminished Graeme, both in his own mind and in Lara’s eyes.

The news that she and Graeme were still married had hit her like a physical blow. She’d tried so hard to forget him, but the letter had brought all the emotions back in sharp relief—the longing for what might have been and the regrets for what would never be. Worse, she’d begun dreaming of Graeme again, and certain things had come back to her in startling clarity; his laugh, his smell …his taste.

Christopher had no idea she’d once been married, and Lara didn’t relish telling him, even if that marriage had only lasted for two amazing, unforgettable nights. And if she was honest with herself, one of the reasons she was so reluctant to tell him was because a part of her realized that after five years, she shouldn’t still be thinking about those two nights as often as she did.

Almost absently, Lara reached inside the open collar of her blouse and withdrew the small, round locket that lay nestled between her breasts. The silver was warm from her skin and she ran her finger over the delicate open-face filigree on the front, in the shape of a Celtic love knot. Helpless to resist and knowing she was a true glutton for punishment, she flicked the locket open.

On one side nestled a tiny photo of Graeme. His lips curved in the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes gleamed with suppressed laughter. Lara recalled the day the picture had been taken. She and Graeme had been walking along the Thames, arms wound around each other, when a peddler with a Polaroid had offered to take their photo for five pounds. Graeme hadn’t been interested, but Lara had insisted. She’d wanted a photo of Graeme, and had tormented him until he’d finally capitulated. He’d encircled her in his arms with his chin resting on the top of her head.

Afterwards, he’d taken one look at the photo and declared it unfit to keep, although Lara hadn’t missed how he gave the peddler ten pounds instead of five. She’d tried unsuccessfully to wrestle the photo from him until they were both breathless and laughing, and then the photo had been forgotten altogether.

Lara hadn’t thought of the picture again until the day Graeme had given her the locket. He’d carefully snipped her face from the photo and had tucked it into one side of the locket, facing his picture. Lara had liked to think of their images, closed in the snug space, eternally kissing.

The locket had been her wedding gift from Graeme. Snapping the locket closed, Lara dropped it back beneath her blouse. Despite everything, she’d never been able to put the locket away. She wore it every day, like a talisman. It represented all the dreams she’d once had, the dreams that would never come true, thanks to her father. Even at his bedside, knowing he would die soon, she’d been unable to speak the words that she knew he’d longed to hear.

I forgive you.

You did the right thing.

I’m happy with the way my life has turned out.

After her father had died, Lara had come to the bitter realization that if her life hadn’t turned out exactly as she’d hoped, then she had only herself to blame. She needed to forgive her father, cut her losses and move on. Getting Graeme to sign the divorce papers would be the first step.

Unzipping the outer compartment of her suitcase, Lara withdrew the bulky envelope that contained her costume. She’d ordered it just two days before leaving Chicago and had almost given up on receiving it in time to bring it with her to the convention. In fact, the UPS delivery truck had arrived at her townhouse at about the same time as her taxi had arrived to take her to the airport. She’d shoved the package into her suitcase and hadn’t yet had an opportunity to look at the costume. Now she turned the lumpy packet over in her hands, noting the return address.

Dressed to Thrill, Chicago.

Lara had ordered costumes and accessories from the small shop before, but only to support the children’s theater program. The nonprofit venture had a small staff and an even smaller budget, but the expressions on the kids’ faces when they saw their new costumes made it worthwhile.

The envelope that contained her own costume was lumpy and hard in places, and Lara knew without opening the package that it didn’t contain the shaman robe and hood that she’d requested. Of course, she hadn’t specifically ordered the shaman costume. She’d indicated that any costume from the Galaxy’s End television series would fit the bill, so long as it concealed her identity. What had the costume shop sent her instead? Turning the envelope over in her hand, Lara tore it open and dumped the contents onto the bed, ripping aside the lavender tissue paper.

What the—?

Lara gingerly picked up a piece of the costume and inspected it. No. There was absolutely no freaking way she could wear this outfit. She’d asked for a costume that concealed her identity, one that would let her blend in with the crowd and enjoy the festival, secure in her own anonymity. Instead the costume shop had sent her …a skimpy slave-girl outfit!

And not just any slave-girl costume, either. It looked suspiciously like the one that Princess Leia had worn in the Star Wars movie.

Pushing aside the remnants of tissue paper, Lara spread the bits and pieces of the costume out on the flowered bedspread.

Yep, there was no doubt about it.

There in front of her was a perfect replica of the famous metal bikini with its wrought-gold top and bottom, the delicate, curved slave bracelets for her upper arms, the chunky slave collar and chain, and the tiny suede booties, cleverly designed with straps and Velcro to conform to any foot.

The only difference was that this ensemble also contained a gold mask, reminiscent of the Venetian Renaissance. Covering everything but the mouth and chin, the mask curved elegantly along the sides of the wearer’s head and locked into place at the back.

How could the costume shop have made such a colossal mistake? There was no way she could wear this outfit, of course, and she felt a pang of regret that she would have to miss the masquerade ball.

Lara picked the mask up, turning it over in her hands and admiring it in spite of herself. Finely crafted, the mask was a work of art. How would it feel to wear such a gorgeous creation? Hesitating only briefly, she slid the mask over her face and fastened the closure. The lightweight metal felt cool against her skin.

When she peered at herself in the mirror, it was like looking at someone else. Even the familiarity of her own body, clad in figure-hugging jeans and a turquoise tank top, did little to dispel the sense that she was actually looking at an exotic stranger.

Entranced, she touched her fingers to her lips, exposed beneath the bottom edge of the gold face plate. She’d always considered her mouth too full, but now the gold mask framed her lips and emphasized their plumpness. They looked …hedonistic. Except for the glittering blue of her eyes behind the eye slits and the thick, red-gold hair that fell to her shoulders, she was unrecognizable.

Mysterious.

Lara glanced at the rest of the costume. Did she dare? She’d played a lot of dress-up games as a kid, but nothing like this. She’d never worn anything so risqué in her entire life. She’d asked for a costume that hid her identity so that she could size Graeme up without worrying that he might recognize her. But now, instead of being an anonymous observer, she’d stand out like a neon beacon. The costume was a scant step away from complete nudity. Not that she thought Graeme would recognize her even if she did decide to wear the costume.

What had Valerie said? That she’d changed in the last five years, so much so that even Graeme would have a hard time recognizing her. The mask would hide her features, and he wasn’t even scheduled to make an appearance at the costume ball that was kicking off the convention tonight.

Maybe she did dare …

Eyeing the outfit warily, she pulled a single-serving bottle of white wine out of the minifridge. Before she’d even consider putting the costume on, she needed a little false courage. She twisted the cap off the bottle and took a deep swig, and then another. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she stripped out of her clothes and donned the costume. She had a moment’s panic when her breasts refused to cooperate, and threatened to overspill the embossed cups of the bra. It was only after some jiggling and rearranging that she finally managed to subdue them.

Her silver locket lay nestled between her breasts, and she carefully removed it and placed it on her night-stand. Then she squeezed the bracelets around her upper arms and fastened the gold slave collar around her neck. A short length of chain hung from the front and lay cold and smooth against her breast.

For a long moment, Lara just stood and gazed into the mirror, hardly able to believe it was herself reflected there. She looked like a decadent offering, designed for a man’s pleasure. Her skin gleamed pale and smooth beneath the bikini, and when she turned experimentally, the crimson cascade of fabric swirled and provided alluring glimpses of her legs. The brevity of the costume shocked her. The front and back of the metal bikini bottom were held together by gold loops, exposing her entire flank.

Turning to the side, Lara examined her profile, sucking her tummy in and then letting it out. She wasn’t overweight, but there was a slight roundness to her belly that no amount of exercise or starvation could eliminate. But the reflection in the mirror wasn’t of a pudgy girl, but a lushly curved woman. She’d always thought her breasts a bit too large for her small frame, but now the bra pushed them upward to a whole new fullness. They looked …sexy. She looked sexy. Erotic. Words that Lara would never have used to describe herself, but there was no question they applied to her now.

Lara gazed at her reflection, and a naughty thrill coursed through her. Did she dare attend tonight’s costume ball like this? Just the thought of appearing in public dressed in such a salacious way brought a flush of color to her pale skin. She could have been a character straight from one of her own erotic stories. Which inspired another intriguing thought: how would the intergalactic outlaw, Kip Corrigan, react if he saw her?

Immediately, Lara’s imagination surged, and she could almost anticipate how the fictional Kip would respond. He’d bend her backward over any available surface and feast on the bounty of exposed female flesh. Then he’d take his time removing the costume, piece by piece, until all that remained was the collar and length of chain around her neck. She could envision him wrapping the slender links around his fist and using the chain to hold her, while he plundered her sensitized breasts with his mouth.

Warm tendrils of excitement unfurled in Lara’s womb, spreading outward and causing heat to build between her legs. She realized that her hands had drifted to the soft skin of her breasts just above the embossed bra, and her breathing had quickened. Beneath the lower edge of the mask, her lips were parted and damp, as if she anticipated a lover’s kiss, and behind the eye slits, her irises shimmered hotly.

Closing her eyes, she shifted her internal focus slightly, imagining it was Graeme doing those things to her. The images in her head swam and then sharpened into stark relief, and she gasped softly. Instead of the fictional Kip, it was Graeme who stroked her heated flesh, all the while telling her in explicit, exciting detail what he intended to do to her, his Scottish burr more pronounced with his arousal.

In her mind’s eye, he fastened his mouth around the aching bud of one nipple, drawing sharply on it. When she might have protested, he tugged gently on the chain, holding her in place. Meanwhile, his free hand skated along the silken skin of her abdomen until he found her core and stroked her slick center.

Lara’s eyes flew open and she stared at her reflection, more aroused than she could recall being since …well, since the last time she’d had sex with Graeme, five years earlier. In the mirror, her breasts rose and fell in an agitated fashion, and her skin had taken on a warm, flushed glow. Her blood pulsed hot and quick through her veins, and her eyes were filled with sensual need.

With a soft groan of dismay, she picked up the small bottle of wine and drained the contents in one long swallow, then swiped her mouth with fingers that trembled.

She took a deep, calming breath, willing her pulse to slow down. What would Graeme think if he could see her now? In no way did she resemble the shy teenager she’d been when they’d first met. Lara hardly recognized herself.

She could do this; she could become the woman that Val had described; strong and sure of herself and of her own future. She told herself again that she’d moved on with her life; she had a job and a great guy who did care about her, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself believe there was anything left between her and Graeme.

They were strangers in every sense of the word.

And while millions of women would no doubt kill to marry Graeme, she knew that divorcing him would be the first smart thing she’d done in five years.

2

THE COSTUME BALL was already in full swing by the time Lara arrived at the ballroom. Under any other circumstances, she might have felt self-conscious about entering by herself, but then she caught a barely veiled expression of lust on the face of a passing waiter. That covert look told her that she looked good. Better than good—she looked delicious. With a smile, she accepted a pink-tinted pomegranate martini from a waiter who stood just inside the entrance, and took a hearty swallow, gasping as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. With her eyes watering, she stepped into the ballroom.

The lights had been dimmed and a large stage had been set up at one end, where a tuxedoed band played dinner music. Artificial trees, sparkling with minilights, lent a magical quality to the event. Three enormous movie screens had been placed at even intervals on the far wall, and clips from the show Galaxy’s End played endlessly so that no matter where you looked, there was Graeme Hamilton in the role of deep-space convict Kip Corrigan.

For a moment, Lara stood in the doorway and just stared, transfixed by the Technicolor images. Would she ever get used to seeing his face? Would the day ever come when her heart didn’t stop at the sight? Her life would be so much simpler if seeing him didn’t affect her so much.

But it did.

With a soft groan, she gulped down the rest of the martini. She just had to keep remembering that the pictures she saw on the big screens weren’t really Graeme. They were illusions, figments of somebody’s imagination, the same way the stories she wrote were the embodiment of her own unfulfilled fantasies.

She was so done with fantasies.

Across the sea of linen-covered tables adorned with flowers and flickering candlelight, Lara could see a long buffet table where white-tuxedoed waitstaff served food to the masked and costumed ballgoers. On the parquet dance floor in front of the stage, couples dressed as various Galaxy’s End characters danced together. The costumes were so impressive and so much like the ones from the actual show that Lara had a brief moment of unease. How badly did she stick out with her Star Wars getup? She shivered, aware that her scantily-clad body drew more than several appreciative glances from the men in the room.

Lara forced herself to move through the buffet line and then, plate in hand, searched for an empty seat among the crowded tables. She finally found one right next to the dance floor. The six women already seated there were dressed in identical costumes as Kip’s onscreen love interest, a prison guard named Lily, despite the fact they were easily in their midfifties. They each gave her welcoming smiles, although Lara didn’t miss how their eyes absorbed every detail of her own skimpy outfit.

Needing a little more false courage, she stopped a waiter as he passed near their table and snagged a second martini from his tray, although the first one seemed to be doing the trick. Even now, her limbs were feeling looser and the second drink didn’t taste nearly as overpowering as the first had.

The woman closest to Lara turned to her and winked. “Now that’s what I call a costume,” she said.

Lara flushed behind the concealing mask, not sure if the woman was being sincere or sarcastic. Maybe she should have chosen a table of men. Maintaining an aura of sensuality was so much more difficult when surrounded by six matronly women, several of whom clearly disapproved of her revealing outfit, judging by their expressions.

“Thanks,” she responded. “This isn’t the costume I ordered, but by the time I received it, it was too late to get something else.”

The woman on Lara’s other side patted her arm reassuringly. “Don’t think twice about it, hon. If I had a body like yours, I’d wear that costume, too. And that mask is absolutely fabulous.”

Lara smiled gratefully at her. “So is this your first Galaxy’s End convention?”

“Goodness, no,” the woman laughed. “We were here last year, too. We’ve been Graeme Hamilton fans since day one.” She indicated the other women at the table. “We call ourselves Hamilton’s Hussies. Maybe you’ve heard of us? We practically started Graeme’s fan club!”

Lara had heard of them. In fact, she was a frequent visitor to their Web site, dedicated to Graeme and to his career. She’d posted countless erotic stories about Kip Corrigan and the other Galaxy’s End characters to the fan fiction page of the site, and had even exchanged e-mail correspondence with the Hussies under her screen name, Secret Lover.

But she didn’t share any of this with the women at the table. Her stories were too personal to talk about with strangers, especially since they were based completely on Graeme Hamilton himself. She shivered to think how he would react if he could read her lusty tales. There was no doubt in her mind that he would recognize the main character as himself. Most of her stories were drawn directly from her own experiences with Graeme, right down to the dialogue.

Then there were her other stories …the ones based solely on her own imagination. With her writing, she was free to explore all her forbidden fantasies about Graeme, disguised as fan fiction about the Galaxy’s End characters. In her stories, she could do anything, and she could have Graeme respond in any way she desired. She could relive every moment of that summer when she had first fallen in love with him. She could replay every heated second of their time at the Scottish inn when he’d aroused her to the point that she thought she might die from sheer pleasure, and then he’d shown her there was even more.

In her fan fiction, she enjoyed dominating him, forcing him to submit to her desires. But in the end, he would always wrest control back from her and then subject her to the most delicious torture.

“So you’re a big Graeme Hamilton fan, huh?” she asked, picking at the cheese manicotti on her plate, and then mentally rolled her eyes at her own inane question.

“Aren’t we all?” asked the second woman. Her short brown hair was liberally sprinkled with gray, and there were lines around her eyes and mouth, but the excitement and anticipation in her eyes made her look like a schoolgirl. “I fell in love with him the first time I saw him in the pilot episode. I mean, how could any woman not fall head over heels for him, right?”

Lara avoided answering the question by taking a gulp of her martini. This was exactly why she’d been reluctant to attend the convention. Any minute now, they’d start gushing about Graeme’s physical attributes and speculating about his love life. Was this what he had to endure every time he made a public appearance?

The woman on Lara’s other side smiled knowingly as she speared a small roasted potato with her fork and popped it into her mouth. “So, when did you lose your virginity to His Royal Hotness?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Excuse me?” Lara knew her mouth was open, but she couldn’t seem to close it, any more than she could prevent the sudden, hard slamming of her heart within her chest. They couldn’t possibly know! Nobody, aside from her parents and Val—and Graeme, of course—knew that she had relinquished her virginity to him five years earlier. In the years since, she’d been so careful not to let anyone find out ….

The woman grinned as she observed the hot color that turned Lara’s neck pink. “I mean, when did you first discover Graeme Hamilton? When did you first realize you were smitten?”

Just over five years ago, when I was almost eighteen years old and nobody in the entertainment industry even knew Graeme Hamilton existed.

She looked at the expectant faces of the women. How would they react if she told them the truth? If she told them that she had known Graeme before he became Hollywood’s hottest heartthrob? That she knew him intimately? That she’d fallen in love with him the first time she’d met him and had lied to him about her age, telling him that she was actually twenty-one and not seventeen? He’d been twenty-three and she’d known instinctively that he wouldn’t want anything to do with her if he realized just how young she was. Then, when their relationship had turned serious, she hadn’t dared tell him the truth for fear of losing him. She’d continued the pretense of being a college student from California right up until after they’d eloped, when her father had tracked them down at the small Scottish inn where’d they’d spent their wedding night and dragged her from Graeme’s bed, telling him in explicit terms just what he’d done with a minor.

What would these women think if she told them that particular story? That she’d spent two days and nights locked in a bedroom with Graeme? That she’d kissed, licked and nibbled every delicious part of his body?

They’d never believe her. They’d think she was making it up, and she wouldn’t blame them. There were times when it didn’t seem real to her. Sometimes, that long-ago summer seemed no more than a dream.

“I’ve been a fan of Graeme Hamilton’s since before he made Galaxy’s End,” she finally said. That, at least, was the truth.

“Well, welcome to the club,” the first woman said. “My name is Sandra.”

“And I’m Claire,” the second woman added, indicating the registration badge she wore on a lanyard around her neck. “We’re both from Wisconsin.”

“I’m Lara. From Chicago.”

At that moment the band stopped playing, and a spotlight was turned onto the stage next to where Lara and her companions were sitting. As they watched, a round woman dressed in a figure-hugging prison-guard costume stepped forward and took the microphone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, in a Southern accent. “Welcome to the second annual Galaxy’s End convention, where we joyfully celebrate everything related to that fabulous series, now in its third season.” She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully. “And we especially want to celebrate the gorgeous actor who made us women long to be marooned on that uncharted planet.”