RESCUE PARTY by Cheryl Dragon

RESCUE PARTY by Cheryl Dragon

 Lucky Springs Series

When a flash flood hits Lucky Springs, Kacy Hillen tries to make it to the shelter of the high school gym to help others. Her car gets stalled in high water, but... three hot men come to her rescue.
 On the outside, Kacy is all about achievement and independence, not man crazy. On the inside, she wants a string of men adoring and pleasing her so this is a fantasy come true. And she even knows the men! Steve and Dean are a gay couple she had no idea was bisexual, plus Clay who screwed as many girls in high school as possible but now seems to go both ways.

Kacy is exploring a whole new side of her fantasy life, and they haven't even invited her to a party. . .yet!

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~Excerpt~

Clay Fulton and his friends watched the skies nervously. The water rose slowly in the streets as rain pounded the town. A low-level hurricane had swept up the Gulf, and while most storms were nothing major for centrally located Lucky Springs, this one had produced excessive rainfall. Add in gusting winds, and it was a good day to stay inside.

“We might be in for a flood,” Clay said. The former Army Reservist’s brain planned in terms of emergency action. The small town he grew up in rarely had extremes in weather, but a lot of the land was low lying.

“You’ll just have to stay here. We’re on high ground.” Dean hugged Clay from behind.

Men still felt new to him, but Clay leaned back into it. Privately, he knew he was bisexual, but he hadn’t put it out there publicly yet. Before, he’d strictly done women, and the men thing wasn’t quite second nature yet. He needed some reassurance. “You’ll get sick of me.”

“Not a chance.” Steve sat on the window seat that looked out from the huge log cabin. “In this weather, we should stick together.”

Clay discovered Steve and Dean were a couple when he returned to Lucky Springs. After high school, he’d gone into the Army Reserve and got a college degree, but nowhere else could be home. He was big into cheerleaders in high school, and a little real life experience taught him he’d been searching for more.

Things had changed when Clay was invited to one of the sex parties and found them there, as well. An open secret for most of Lucky Springs, private sex parties kept things interesting since there wasn’t a BDSM or swingers club in town. Not even a strip club or adult bookstore could be found until the next big city…more than two hours away by car.

Being back in the small town where in high school he’d been a top jock and really wild felt oddly comforting and also a little bit of a let down. He wasn’t the stud with big dreams anymore. He’d peaked in high school and went into the Army Reserve to pay for college and receive some discipline. Being back home felt safe, and his job at the factory in the IT department suited him.



“You’re quiet.” Dean pressed into Clay’s back. The tall, sexy man had dark brown hair, brown eyes and was a year younger than Clay.

The desire hummed through their bodies. Being with men wasn’t something Clay had ever thought of until the Reserve where hot, hard men were all over and not shy about what they did or where. And even still, Clay hadn’t done anything with men until these two.

“He misses all the action. He’s bored with Lucky Springs.” Steve stood up and pinned Clay between the bodies of the other men.

The hunk sandwich made Clay’s blood pound in his veins. “Not bored. How could I be with you two around? It’s just this storm feels different.”

“I think he’s missing women. We need to hit another party.” Dean trailed his hand up Clay’s tattooed arm. The pattern went from elbow to shoulder.

“A woman is nice. The right woman is harder to find.” Steve kissed Clay softly.

Giving in to the distraction, Clay kissed Steve back. The confident man was an inch taller than Clay and a year older at thirty-one. He’d shocked many Lucky Springs residents by coming back from college with his best friend’s younger brother as a boyfriend. Dean swore he knew all along Steve was the man for him.

Steve pressed into Clay and kissed Dean over Clay’s shoulder. Clay still couldn’t quite believe he was part of their relationship now. Of course, before the party, he’d have bet every penny he had they’d never fuck a woman. Seeing how fluid sexuality could be opened new worlds to him.

“I’m not in the way, am I?” Clay wasn’t sure if this would be forever, for now or where he even belonged. He didn’t want to leave. Of that much he was sure. Men weren’t a replacement for women. In fact, he hadn’t lost his lust for women at all. It was different, and being bisexual answered a lot of questions for him.

“Never.” Dean slid his hands over Clay’s crotch and teased his cock through the denim.

“Sharing is good.” Steve nipped at Clay’s neck.

“I don’t think he can go too long without pussy. Remember all the stories of him in high school?” Dean teased.

Clay’s face felt hot, but he wrapped his arms around Steve’s broad shoulders. His dark hair and piercing green eyes had always intrigued Clay. Now he understood he was attracted to men even in high school, and facing it had been too hard. He’d instead certainly enjoyed all the girls.

“Half of it was probably made up.” Steve claimed Clay’s mouth again, and their tongues tangled.

Moaning, Clay backed off the kiss and shook his head. “Most of the stories were true. I wasn’t an honors student. I did a lot of girls. I had no idea it was because I wanted to try guys, too. No matter how many girls I did, it wouldn’t be the same as a guy. Doesn’t mean I don’t want women also.”

“You know now.” Dean nuzzled the back of Clay’s neck. “We’ll find the right woman and life will be perfect.”

Clay wanted to believe them. But he’d pleasured and screwed over a lot of women his age in this town years ago. He wasn’t as popular these days. If he came out as gay, they might forgive him. But wanting dick and pussy would only add to the greedy, cocky bastard image. Bad boys in high school were hot. Adult women wanted responsible and successful men. “The women here who know me will think I’m a jerk.”

“Or you were confused. Don’t underestimate people.” Steve understood the high school games since he was the current football coach, but Clay knew people remembered a lot and held grudges. The scars from teenage years didn’t disappear. As Steve worked his hands under Clay’s shirt, it was hard to care. “Let’s wait out the rain in a more fun way.”

Ready to agree, Clay tugged his shirt over his head. As the fabric fell to the floor, he spotted something through the window out in the road. “What the hell?”

Steve turned. “That car won’t make it.”

It was a small sedan creeping along as the water level continued to rise. “The water will cover the tail pipe and the car will drift.” Dean shook his head. “Fire and Rescue won’t get here in time.”

“We’re here.” Clay fished his keys from his pocket. “My pickup can handle that.”

Steve stood at the ready but looked unsure of what to do. Dean was a vet, so they had first aid if they needed it. Clay’s brain immediately calculated the needs and dangers. “Steve, you can handle my oversized pickup, right?”

“Sure. The thing is huge, but that’s good because this water will be nothing for it.” Steve took the keys.

“Okay, Dean you’ll be in the back with me. Get blankets or whatever just in case. Plus rope. Not sure how this’ll go. First aid supplies won’t hurt.” Clay shoved his stocking feet into work boots.

Dean gathered what he needed, and Steve helped, they knew where everything was stored in their house on the edge of town better than Clay. Technically, Clay still had a room at his uncle’s house, but he had been staying with Dean and Steve off and on. He never wanted to leave this safe space of open talk and sex.

Clay watched the car dip into higher water, knowing the engine would cut out in seconds because it couldn’t exhaust. The other two walked up, ready to go. As the trio dashed out the door and into Clay’s pickup, he was grateful he’d gone for the oversized and fully equipped gray Tundra. It had reminded him of the big military vehicles, and his uncle said it was too much car for a keyboard tapper with a desk job. Now that truck would prove its use.

Steve drove into the water and pulled up next to the small, red sedan with a sunroof. Looking inside, Clay recognized the gorgeous black woman behind the wheel. Kacy Hillen was smart, strong, put together, and had never once looked Clay’s way. The sexy woman now stared at him for help as her engine refused to turn over. The driver’s side window was cracked but not enough to pull her through.

“Don’t bother. It’s locked,” Clay shouted.

She popped the manual sunroof up. “Damn it! Help me; I need to get to the school.”

“Not now, you don’t.” Clay hopped over the side of his truck bed and stood on the hood of her car. He needed to move fast before it became buoyant and was washed away by the building current. They had to get her out of there. “Park it and put the sunroof all the way back if you can. We need to get you out.”

“What about the door?” She rolled down the window and looked. “Shit!”

“Water is coming up fast, come on,” Dean shouted as he tossed a rope to Clay.

Clay fixed the rope through the sunroof and open window before tying it off. They’d at least have a tether. She tried moving the sunroof.

“The pop up is manual, but the slide-back is electric,” she said.

“Cover your eyes.” Clay grabbed a crow bar from the back of his truck. When she was covered, he cracked the sunroof off the top of the car and kicked it into the water. “Be careful.”

Her purse landed on the car’s roof first, and he tossed it into the bed of the truck. “Take my hand, Kacy. I don’t bite.”

“That’s not what every girl in high school said.” She smiled and tugged the hood of her raincoat up over her head. He saw her mentally prepare herself for something out of the norm, and finally, she grabbed his hand and worked her way up through the sunroof hole until she stood on the seat.

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry.” Clay ignored the beating rain on his bare torso. He’d be freezing soon, but getting Kacy safe was the priority. Watching her wiggle free of her car was a reward itself. She slid down the windshield.

Her sexy curves and large, beautiful eyes had intrigued him even back in high school. She’d always been a good girl who didn’t get into trouble or give players the time of day. When her gym shoes landed on the hood of her car next to Clay’s, he was relieved. She’d dressed practically, in jeans, a T-shirt and sturdy shoes. Why she was out in this weather would be a question for later.

“Pull forward a bit,” Clay shouted to Steve.

The truck moved up, and Dean let the rope go more. Then he popped the tailgate down so Clay could get Kacy into the bed easily.

Clay exhaled as he stepped into the bed of his truck and locked it. “You okay?” he asked Kacy.

“Fine! Thank you. I didn’t expect to get so bad this fast.” She held the side and sat in the back of the truck bed. Steve had the windows open so he could hear what was going on in the back.

“Flash flood was no joke this time. The storm system stalled over Lucky Springs, and it’s not letting up. We’ll take you inside,” Dean said.

“You’ll be safe with us. Where the hell were you going in this weather? Every report says to stay home.” He shook his head.

Kacy met his gaze with a challenging look of her own. He didn’t mind rescuing people, but the question was valid. She seemed smarter than to run off into danger. Or maybe she was just the book-smart sort of woman?

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SCARS by Kiru Taye

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MY ANGEL by Denise Skelton

MY ANGEL by Denise Skelton

Simone Porter, an inner city youth center director, has lived her whole life being dominated by her over controlling mother, but yet she still retains her romantic nature and idealistic views about life and love. Matthew Turner, however, has been hurt by a materialistic wife who used his kindness and affection and threw it away for another man. Now his heart is hardened and he feels he will never love again the way he loved his wife.

Brought together by an almost deadly "accident", Simone and Matthew develop a bond that becomes the basis for a fantastic friendship. Despite the extreme disapproval of Simone's mother and Matt's father, they become best friends. But is friendship alone enough to heal Matt's broken heart? And is Simone capable of going against her mother's wishes and standing for up for what she wants?

As they juggle work, family conflicts, and their own conflicting feelings soon the passion and attraction between them becomes too great to ignore. However, Simone is torn between Alan, the man her mom wants for her, and Matt, the man her heart wants for her. Matt must decide between the ex-wife that used to be his everything, and Simone, his "Angel". However, in this battle between true love and family influence, Simone and Matt learn that it is sometimes harder than it should be for best friends to become lovers. And Matt's relationship with his ex-wife proves to be more dangerous to them than anyone could have imagined.

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Excerpt:

The second and fourth Sunday of every month at the Porter’s home was always the same. Often the meal changed, sometimes the faces, but the atmosphere would always remain the same. The aroma of barbecued ribs greeted them as they entered the small formal dining room. Gathering around the table, everyone

settled in, and after saying grace, they prepared to devour the meal that Debra Porter had cooked.

Looking across the table, Simone Porter smiled faintly at Alan Whitaker. Her mother’s newest idea of what was the best thing for her daughter. He glanced back at Simone. He was handsome with dark eyes. His clean-shaven chestnut skin stretched over his high cheekbones as he offered her a bold smile.

"Go on everyone, dig in," Debra ordered, her voice demand-ing and tired at the same time.

Simone knew that tone all too well. It was her mother’s "look at this magnificent feast I’ve painstakingly created especially for you people and you had better praise me before you even bother to put one bite in your mouth" tone that she used so often it’s part of her personality.

"Everything looks wonderful, Mother," Simone whispered. "Yes, it does, doesn’t it," Debra beamed. "I’ve really outdone myself this time."

"Yes, honey, you have," Simone’s father, Joseph, added. Out of the corner of her eye, Simone saw her father pick up a large slice of cornbread, pass it to her sister René, and gesture for her to put it on Simone’s plate. René looked at her father, then glanced quickly at her mother before gingerly slipping the cornbread on the plate.

"There you go, baby girl," he announced.

Simone looked innocently at her father. "Thanks, Daddy," she said. Her voice, which was barely above a whisper, was fine and delicate like a perfectly tuned silver bell.

"Joe, don’t give her that," Debra scolded him. "She doesn’t need to be eating any bread. It’ll go right to her hips."

Simone glanced uncomfortably across the table at Alan, then to her right, meeting her mother’s disapproving gaze. She watched as everyone passed around the serving plates of green beans,

potato salad and cornbread. When the plates were passed to her, she scooped out a tablespoon of beans and a tablespoon of potato salad.

"Simone, I made that rib just for you," Debra said, pointing to the lifeless, tasteless-looking piece of meat on the serving plate. "I steamed it first to get rid of as much of the fat as possible, then I used a new recipe that I cut out of some magazine." She paused as if trying to remember the name of the magazine, then waved her hand, dismissing the idea.

Simone groaned inwardly. Reluctantly, she speared the meat with her fork and placed it on her plate as far away from the other food as she could manage.

"Debra, let her have one of the other ribs. That one doesn’t have any barbecue sauce on it." Joe said with concern.

"It doesn’t matter, it’s better for her that way .... Besides, you know I don’t like to waste food."

"Why don’t I just take Simone’s rib," René said, reaching toward Simone’s plate with her fork. "And she can have mine. That way nothing will go to waste."

"René," Debra warned, her voice low and stern. René looked at her mother, then sympathetically at Simone, saying I’m sorry with her eyes.

"Debra, leave Simone alone. Let the girl eat," Joe said, feeling embarrassed and sorry for his younger daughter.

"Joe, she’s trying to lose weight. No wonder she’s as big as a house, with you sneaking her food all the time," Debra shot at her husband. "Now I," she said, proudly placing the tips of her fingers on her chest, "am trying to help her."

"You know, Mrs. Porter, everyone needs a person in their life like you," Alan said, smiling at Debra. "Someone to guide them, you know, and to lead them down the right path."

"You know, Alan, this is so true, and I have always been there for my family. To help them make the right decisions, even if they do not realize or appreciate it. And with Simone and her diet, I happen to be in that very predicament. Why just the other evening, Joe and I met her for dinner and ... "

Simone closed her eyes, willing herself to be anywhere but in the home where she had spent the first 19 years of her life, sitting across from the man her mother had hand-picked for her. A man who was intelligent, successful and very, very attractive. A man who was probably a great person. But something deep down inside Simone whispered that he was going to be the second most annoying person she had ever met. She crowned her mother with the title of "First Most Annoying."

She groaned. If God were merciful, then her latest diet would shift into high gear and she would shrivel up and fade away any minute. She opened her eyes, glancing quickly around the room.

Nope, it didn’t work. I’m still here.

"Excuse me," Simone said, rising from the table.

"But you didn’t eat your dinner. I prepared that especially for you."

"I know, Mother, and I’m sorry. I’m just not very hungry." Simone averted her eyes from her mother’s critical gaze. As she turned to leave the room, her mother’s words followed her.

"Like I was going to say, I could not believe that she ate two whole pieces of fried fish."

Walking into the hall Simone took her coat out of the closet and went into the living room. As she opened the patio door, she stepped out into the frigid January weather. Taking a deep breath, she allowed the cold, crisp air to clear her mind. If she had known her mother had invited Alan to dinner, she would have made up some excuse not to come. She would rather have gone to the

movies or to the mall. She suppressed a moan. She would have even preferred cleaning her house from top to bottom than spending the entire afternoon with her mother when she was in her "can someone please take our pathetic daughter off our hands, I beg you" mode.

Simone walked across the yard, smiling at the sound of fresh snow crunching under her feet. Brushing off one of the lawn chairs, she sat down and stared into space as she contemplated a quick exit that would bring her the least amount of ridicule from her mother. She decided it might be better just to hang out in the back yard for a while.

For as long as she could remember her mother had made every attempt to change her. At the age of 7, Simone wanted to take ballet and her mother made her take piano instead. At 10, Simone wanted to play on the community co-ed football team. Debra had told her that she wasn’t allowed to play or even associate with the children at the community center, because most of them were what she liked to call street urchins. At 16, Simone wanted to join the Young Democrats Club in school. Under threat of losing her driving privileges, Simone again bowed to Debra’s wishes and joined the Republican club instead. After all, that was the place to meet unattached young men of stature and wealth.

Now, at the age of 28, Simone still felt she was ruled and bullied by her mother. Debra never threatened. She didn’t have to. She just had a way about her that made people do exactly what she said and when she said it.

"Hey baby girl," she heard from behind her.

She glanced up at her father’s smiling face.

"I brought you something. Follow me."

She rose and followed her father across the yard to the garage that doubled as a workshop. Once they entered the garage, Joe crossed the room and lifted a napkin on his workbench to reveal a plate with a regular-size portion of food on it. He reached

inside his shirt pocket to pull out a paper napkin with a fork wrapped inside, and held it out to Simone. She looked at the plate and back at him.

"Go ahead, take it. She didn’t see me bring it out."

Sitting down on a stool next to the bench she reluctantly took the plate, carefully placing it on her lap. Joe pulled up another stool to sit next to her.

"Simone, your mother means well, really. She just goes overboard with almost everything she does."

"I know, Daddy, and I’m trying to lose weight. It’s just not that easy."

"Simone, you’re not overweight."

"Daddy I’m five-foot-three and ... "

"You still go to the gym a few times a week, don’t you?" She nodded.

"You take good care of yourself. You’re in good shape." "But Mother’s the same height and she’s barely 100 pounds."

He shook his head as she spoke. "You and your mother are two different people."

"But ... "

"No, you are different people and you are going to look and act different. And I’m glad of that." He sighed. "I love your mother dearly, but I don’t think the world could handle another Debra Porter."

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CARNAL IN CANNES by Jianne Carlo

CARNAL IN CANNES by Jianne Carlo

Mediterranean Mambo Series

Money, power, and women all come easy to Harrison Indiana Ford. Yet he wants more -- to ensure his daddy’s oil fortune goes to him -- not Delora, the stepmother who seduced him as a teenager. If Harry doesn’t marry a virgin and produce an heir before he turns 32, Delora inherits it all. D-day and unpredictable circumstances force Harry to hire a matchmaker and marry a stranger.

Martine’s survived the streets of Haiti’s capital with her virginity intact, but she’s no innocent. Fleeing persecution, she stows away on a cargo ship, and enters France illegally. Desperate for the million Euro Harry offers for her virginity and their child so she can bring her ailing grandmother to France, she signs the pre-nuptial contract using forged documents.

Delora’s not about to let a billion dollars slip through her hands. There are too many ways to sabotage a relationship, prevent a pregnancy. And it’s so easy to foster suspicion and hatred where there’s no trust. What Delora doesn’t count on is the explosive sexual relationship that develops between Harry and Martine.

As lust morphs into caring, Delora’s detectives search for Martine’s hidden secrets. How did Martine get from Haiti to France?

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Excerpt:

 

“How did you word the ad?”

After two months sailing with Suresh, Harry had grown accustomed to the young genius’s tangential conversation and topic shifts.

“Geoff insisted on doing the wording -- the lawyer in him, I guess. Proof of virginity required, younger than thirty but over eighteen, in good health, free of diseases, yada yada. Significant financial reward. He handled the screening once the letters started arriving.”

“And how long did the ad run for?”

“Two weeks,” Harry said and sat straighter in the seat as another thought occurred to him. “You ever had a virgin, Suresh?”

“No. Avoided them like the plague. In my circles taking a virgin means marriage.” Suresh geared down as they crested a hilltop. “I gather from the question you’re in the same boat.”

“Yeah. I don’t draw many lines in the sand, but that’s been one.”

“I can’t say I envy you. It’s bad enough you have to sleep with a stranger, but a virgin?” His shoulder blades squeezed together. “Not my idea of a good time.”

“Mine either,” Harry muttered.

“Does it matter that she’s black?”

Catching the billionaire’s tentative cut to him, Harry shook his head. “The virgin thing matters more. I like my women experienced. Very experienced and then some.”

Suresh hit the left turn indicator. Ticktock, ticktock. They waited for the light. On the right, the famous Cannes beachfront curved in a graceful arc. Striped tents of every shape, color, and size dotted white sand. One long wooden pier interrupted a seascape of aquamarine Mediterranean.

“I presume that your father chose to locate his holding company here in Monaco because of the tax benefits?” Suresh asked.

“Yep,” Harry replied. “And those benefits have been significant. I reckon we avoided paying millions. Isn’t your principal company based here too?”

“Yes. Though some of the newer ventures are based in the British Virgin islands.” Suresh tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “My advisors wanted me to switch to Bermuda a while back, but I held off. The island’s too heavily regulated for my liking.”

Harry punched the window button. Fruity suntan lotion and coconut oil teased his nostrils. Belligerent pigeons fought each other and pedestrians for sidewalk space, squawking their territory. The hum of cars idling, broken by the occasional revving by an impatient foot on the accelerator, provided a background murmur.

“Shall I valet park?”

“Yeah. Hopefully bitch stepmother hasn’t arrived as yet.”

Murphy’s Law ruled the rest of the day.

Suresh and Harry found an anxious Austen pacing the penthouse honeymoon suite’s entertainment area. The room reeked of luxury and aristocratic heritage. Club-sized chocolate leather chairs and ottomans as soft as down were enclosed by walls of hardcover books stained with centuries of cigar smoke. Crystal decanters filled with liquids of varying hues and levels decorated a dark cherry sideboard, and the dim lighting reflected a space that oozed generations of secrets and conspiracies. The French version of an exclusive gentleman’s club, London’s White’s to the extreme.

A man who bore a striking resemblance to a caricature of a Louisiana pot-bellied politician sat on a bar stool nursing a tumbler of amber liquid. His round face contorted into a grimace when they stepped out of the elevator. Watery blue eyes flickered brief disinterest, and he focused instead on the liquor swirling in the glass he held in one hand.

“Where is she?” Harry addressed his question to Austen, who stood in the center of the room idly tossing an orange from one hand to the other.

Jerking his head to the left, Austen answered, “In the bedroom unpacking.”

“My stepmother?” Harry’s eyebrows lifted.

“Due any minute with a new doctor.”

“That bitch never told me I’d have to put my finger up a darkie’s twat.” Dr. Halliday took a swig of his liquor.

The revolting words raked memories Harry had worked hard to erase -- Silas’s broken body, the skin on his face sloughed off by miles of gravel. His temper blazed.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Harry barked, a red haze distorting his vision, rage flooding his thoughts. “Get the fuck out of here!”

His voice escalated to a roar, the pulsing veins in his forehead emphasizing the loss of any semblance of logic. When the doctor curled one corner of his mouth in a sneer, Harry lost it.

Harry grasped the fat bastard’s jacket lapels and pulled him off the stool. Bourbon splattered over the bar counter and dripped onto the carpet. The tumbler tottered at the edge of the bar, and then thudded and bounded three feet to the left, coming to rest at the foot of a coffee table.

Suresh pedaled backward and hit the down button on the elevator.

As soon as the doors opened, Harry shoved the man into the empty lift and punched Lobby. Bitterness pulled down the corners of Harry’s mouth. He stared at the elevator’s gold-mirrored finish, not seeing anything but the ugly past.

A slight movement in the blurred reflection alerted him to the present. He turned around, each movement lethargic, deliberate. The silhouette of a slender female, one hand braced on her right hip, came into his line of vision. She walked with the lithe grace of a gazelle, and his lungs faltered with each slow step she took.

Shadows dipped and danced, hiding her features from his sight. When she turned her head to greet Austen with a husky murmur, he absorbed her profile. High cheekbones, an arrogant nose so perfect it belonged in a plastic surgeon’s after catalog, and a sloped Cleopatra brow. She kept her head averted for five more strides, and his gaze slid over bare feet encased in four-inch stilettos.

Her legs went on and on, long, toned, and shaped so fine no Vegas showgirl he’d ever dated could match such perfection. Lost in appreciation of her nymphlike curves, he hadn’t yet made it to her eyes when she halted. Not in any particular hurry, he lingered on a three-inch-wide leather belt hugging her narrow waist. A twinge of disappointment caused his forehead to pucker -- B-cup breasts he guessed, but barely so.

All in all, he decided, raising his eyes, not bad.

She lifted her chin, and their eyes met.

Oxygen left the room. A water-in-the-ears sensation hushed all sound. Her lips moved, but he didn’t hear a word, just had an impression of a musical throaty voice. Images bounced back and forth in his brain as the woman from Grasse blazed across his brain, her long legs encased in smoky nylons, the sexy black garter belt she struggled with, the glimpse of pouty pussy lips, and the curls of dark pubic hair.

For a second, for a hairbreadth instant, he thought he’d found the woman from Grasse, the one with odd-colored eyes. She’d worn a mask like the other catering staff, but there was no mistaking the deep blue of her left iris or the rich brown of the right. Passion and fierce determination blazed in the way she tilted her chin, and her lips curled in a sneer, as if he hadn’t caught her half-naked in an empty room, and as if she wasn’t in the wrong.

A rose hue darkened twin spots at the apex of this woman’s cheekbones, and her eyes -- Harry did a double take -- her unremarkable coal eyes flickered down his form. Her blush deepened into a delectable cherry shade.

Mouth watering, Harry followed the direction of her gaze to his groin and knew his complexion matched this beauty’s. He wore faded jeans, a brown belt with a silver buckle, and tented couldn’t begin to describe how his erection strained against the tight denim.

Austen cleared his throat.

Harry jerked, and his stare collided with hers again for a hint of a second. In a rush to avoid another strained, uncomfortable ogling, he strode in the direction of the bar but halted as soon as his boot hit the floor, and swallowed an expletive.

Two zipper teeth pinched the underside of his cock’s crown.

Mortification and pain stamped his skin with a fiery heat, but even though his freaking organ throbbed, he couldn’t will it into flaccidity.

Harry twisted the cork out of a bottle of scotch, poured a stiff shot into a crystal tumbler, and downed the liquor using his right hand. The left he utilized to surreptitiously separate flesh from brass zipper teeth, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment as the sting subsided. Harry did a two-step spin.

“Introductions, Austen.”

“Miss Martine Bellamy, Harrison Indiana Ford.”

“Miss Bellamy.” Harry ambled her way, hand outstretched.

Chin cocked, eyes half-hooded, she returned the gesture, and her slender fingers gripped his hand in a firm shake.

“Mr. Ford,” she murmured, and she had that sexy French accent down to a purr.

“Under the circumstances I believe it best if we forgo the formalities, Martine. My name is Harry.” He didn’t release her palm or her gaze.

She tried to tug away from him, but his hold tightened, and he exerted enough pressure to show who commanded this scene. Martine’s bottom lip jutted out, and rebellion flared ever so briefly in her half-hidden eyes before a rigid self-control battened down her emotions.

The elevator pinged.

Every follicle covering his flesh stood at attention as the ventilation system swirled Chanel No. 5 through the room. Harry fought his automatic gag reflex.

Delora.

“Miss Bellamy, would you wait in the bedroom until we’re ready?” Harry shuffled about as quickly as he could within the confines of the tight pants and bruised skin.

The last time he’d seen the onyx-eyed beauty standing at the entrance to the penthouse, she’d flashed a ten-carat engagement ring with matching eternity band under his nose.

“Why, Indy in the flesh.”

The years had been kind to Delora Consuela Perez Ford. Her creamy olive complexion still glowed, and those saucer-sized black eyes blazed her Gemini nature, one minute oozing passion and love, the next flashing contemptuous, taunting hatred.

“Como estás, mi madre?” Harry drawled, imitating an illiterate peasant’s pronunciation, knowing she hated when he reminded her of her origins.

Austen cleared his throat.

Suresh choked back the beginnings of a guffaw.

Harry glared at both of them.

Twisting his lips to one side, Suresh shrugged, and Harry turned his attention to Delora.

At least his damned prick had calmed down. Harry exhaled, stalked to the bar, and poured a stiff shot of bourbon.

“I see you haven’t changed.”

She’d perfected her English. Not a hint of her Mexican accent remained. He downed the liquor, measured another ounce, swallowed that too, and slapped the glass on the wood.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he said, exaggerating his native old-boy drawl. Harry shifted and braced both elbows on the bar. Out of the corner of his right eye, he caught a slight motion and realized the beauty, Martine, hadn’t moved an inch.

He squinted his displeasure at Austen.

Suresh’s mouth twitched a couple of times, his onyx eyes twinkling their amusement. Harry zinged him with narrowed eyes.

A quick sweep of the room and he’d memorized each person’s position, assessed potential reactions, and formulated a change in direction.

“What’s Halliday doing back here?” He pointed his chin at the stout medicine man standing next to Delora.

“He’ll do what he’s supposed to.” Delora hadn’t taken her eyes off him. “He says you managed to find a woman, a black woman.”

Her voice radiated contempt. Delora liked finding those on a ladder rung lower than her to torture. And her prejudices ran deep; she’d been the one to sic her brothers on Silas, his father’s sole black employee. The grizzled foreman of the ranch had been more of a father to Harry than his actual daddy. Forgive and forget didn’t get close to working as far as Delora’s role in Silas’s ultimately fatal injuries went.

His stepmother’s nostrils flared, and Harry realized she’d thinned them -- eye wrinkles smoothed too, he surmised -- and wondered how many original body parts remained.

“You’re going to screw her,” she jeered and pointed a red-painted fake nail at him. “Your daddy’ll roll over in his grave. He’d have disowned you in a second.” She snapped her fingers.

“Ground rules, Delora. If I hear one more prejudicial remark from you, I’ll have Austen gag you and tie you to a chair. According to Daddy’s will you have to be present, not vocal. I’m marrying Miss Bellamy as soon as the exam’s complete and witnessed. You leave immediately, and I get to never see you again after today.”

“Where’s the executor’s lawyer?” Suresh asked. He held a cell phone to his ear. “Geoff says three lawyers present, three doctors present, according to the will.”

A choked gasp caught his attention, and Harry’s fisted his hands when he saw Martine’s face. She schooled her features quickly, but that delicious complexion had paled, and though she stared unblinking at some spot on the far wall, he read the bleak acceptance in her rigid posture.

“Suresh, handle things out here. I need to speak with my fiancée.”

Harry stomped past Austen, who shook his head and said, his voice low, “I didn’t have time to go through everything with her.”

Freaking disastrous.

His compulsive procrastination had just bit him in the ass. If he’d placed the ad sooner, had started the search earlier, hadn’t waited till he’d almost turned thirty-two… Harry dragged both hands through his hair and halted in front of Martine. He’d been so certain he could prove the will a fake.

“We have a few things to discuss, Miss Bellamy.” He waved a hand at the bedroom door. “If you’ll step inside…”

The muscles in her slender neck worked, but she showed no other sign of nervousness, poignant features impassive, fathomless eyes unreadable. She swallowed again, and he had the urge to stroke her throat, soothe away the events that had to follow their conversation.

Until that moment he hadn’t realized how humiliating the procedure would be for this woman who seemed poised for flight. He tried to imagine having three people penetrate him with fingers in front of six witnesses, including one hostile woman and one redneck twit. A wave of nausea curled through his gut.

Martine’s sweetheart chin tilted, her bottom lip plumped, and she gave him an almost imperceptible nod before preceding him out of the room. Gaze glued to her hips swaying against the thin cotton of her long white dress, he traced the outline of her waist-cut thong and bit his tongue as his prick found zipper teeth with unerring accuracy.

Halting just inside the bedroom, Harry kept his focus fixed on her back, adjusted his cock, and then slammed the door shut.

“Exactly what did Austen go over with you?”

She stood about three feet in front of him, hands in tight little fists, and looked at something above his right shoulder. Spiky onyx lashes, so long he could almost count them, fluttered like a wounded dove’s wings, their shaky motion blaring a painful vulnerability.

“You need to marry a virgin and consummate the marriage. It is to be a business transaction. I give you my innocence, and you pay me a hundred thousand euros when we divorce.”

Captivated by her lyrical, soft voice, Harry didn’t register the number t first. He frowned and blurted, “A hundred thousand? The deal’s for a million euros.”

“I do not need a million. Monsieur Stanford has agreed to the change.”

Those remarkable eyes held hints of amber, and her mouth took on a mutinous slant. Harry said the first thing that came to mind. “Why would you refuse more money?”

“If I am to whore myself out, I would set the price, Monsieur. I take what I need, no more.” Her nostrils flared, and she lifted her chin as if daring him to take issue with her statement. He frowned.

English wasn’t her first language, he guessed from her careful enunciation of each word. Again the image of the woman by the couch in Grasse flashed into his brain. For three weeks, every woman he’d screwed -- and there’d been several different females -- had had her odd-colored eyes. Every gaze he’d met, he searched for what he’d read in those astounding eyes that night -- a desperation bordering on suicidal, a determination worthy of a special-ops warrior.

“What do you need the money for?”

© Jianne Carlo, September 2010
All Rights Reserved

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