THE COWBOYS AND THE COURTESAN
…With nothing but her eyes and the pressure of her palms on his chest, Salome held him s...
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THE COWBOYS AND THE COURTESAN
…With nothing but her eyes and the pressure of her palms on his chest, Salome held him spellbound. “I know that whatever you choose to call it—or not—I am most attracted to you,” she murmured. “And you are attracted to me, I think.” As a man who valued honesty, he could hardly contradict her. “Very much. But you’re right if you mean I can’t call it love.” “You don’t have to. It is enough for now that I feel the emotion. I won’t ask you to reciprocate. Nor will I tell you that you captured my heart with a single glance, for I doubt you’d believe me if I did. Instead, I shall show you the depth of my feeling.” Before Isaac realized her intention, she sank to her knees. Good God, she wasn’t… She was. In seconds she removed his gun belt and unbuttoned his shirt and trousers. Damn, the lady knew her way around men’s clothes. Knew her way around a man’s anatomy, too. Isaac groaned as one of her hands cupped his balls and the other gripped the base of his shaft. He’d been half erect already. At her manual attention, his cock swelled and hardened into a thick, solid club. Fast. “Impressive,” Salome said in a throaty purr. “You could bludgeon someone to death with this, Mr. Strong.” She brushed the lower half of her face over him, letting
him feel the silky softness of her veil and the heat of her lips through the fabric. Isaac’s gut clenched. His breathing went ragged. She tilted back her head to meet his gaze, her eyes smoky slits. “You may call me Sal. All my dearest friends do.” With those words, she maneuvered his cock under her veil and deep into her hot mouth…
ALSO BY MIMI RISER The Adventures of Cassie Nova, Book I: Rebel Queen Dungeons & Dirty Dreams My Knightly Adventures, Books I - III Return To The Burn Romeo’s Revenge Samantha White and the Seven Dwarves Saving Sally Savoy Sherwood Charade Tina Takes A Tumble
THE COWBOYS AND THE COURTESAN BY MIMI RISER
AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com
THE COWBOYS AND THE COURTESAN AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2008 by Mimi Riser ISBN 978-1-60272-437-2 Cover Art © 2008 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy
PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To my brother, author Robert W. Pohle, Jr. (alias James Farnsworth), whose western novels and longtime love of the genre inspired me to delve into the realm of cowboys and courtesans, myself.
THE COWBOYS AND THE COURTESAN
THE COWBOYS AND THE COURTESAN Dodge City, 1883 Isaac Strong wrinkled his nose. God knew he was no stranger to stink, but out in the open air of the range ugly odors dissipated faster and seemed easier to stomach. Here in the confines of town the combined smells of animal and man were enough to stagger an ox. Whew. Dodge reeked to its rafters from the cattle filled stockyards near the train tracks. Inside the Silver Whistle Saloon on the south side of the tracks—the wrong side for the unwary, unwise, or unarmed—it stank even worse from the crush of unwashed cowboys and the pungent perfume of the whores 1
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bent on relieving them of their wages. Booted feet stomped time to the off-key tinkle of an upright piano while lamplight cast a garish glow over figures clad in dusty denims and gaudy gowns. Hoots, hollers, and loud laughter added to the sensory assault. A few of the cowboys were Isaac’s trail mates who’d ridden in with him that day after grueling weeks in the saddle driving three thousand head of longhorns up from deep in Texas. The rest had arrived earlier with other herds. All were thirsty for hard drink and ravenous for rowdy fun. Except Isaac. He’d already had his day’s fun buying fresh clothes, then visiting a bathhouse and a barber. Trimmed, pressed, and polished, he now wanted only a solid meal and a soft bed, and he’d been told he might find both at the Silver Whistle. The back of the saloon doubled as a restaurant and the upstairs offered rooms for rent. The big question was whether or not any of those rooms were open to the son of a slave. Trail dirt scrubbed off but not the rich bronze color of his skin. For thirty years, since infancy, he’d been free—technically—though not always in practice. To many people his skin still labeled him “inferior,” perhaps dangerous. Definitely unfit for polite society. Which was why he had such high hopes for the Silver Whistle. There was nothing polite about this place. Provided his money was the right color, he doubted anyone here would care what the rest of him looked like. He was wrong. Grumbles began the moment he started toward the bar to 2
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inquire about food and a bed—foulmouthed mutterings calling him an ape and much worse. The problem, Isaac surmised by the tone of the taunts and the accents of those who uttered them, was that some of the crowd were former Confederates, men who’d lost everything in the war and blamed him and his breed as part of the cause. On the one hand, as aggravating as he found their politics, Isaac understood their grief. He’d lost family and friends in the war, too. However, he kept his other hand in easy reach of the pearl handle sticking out of his hip holster. He always tried to be kind and forgiving, but he wasn’t stupid. Besides, the idiots were all drunk as skunks and far less predictable. Maybe they wanted blood and maybe they just wanted to scare him. Not that they’d succeed in either case. If put to the test, he felt confident he could mop up the floor with the lot of them. Strong wasn’t his birth name; he’d earned the title, and it meant exactly what it said. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to demonstrate that, though. He’d hate to dirty his new suit. Sweaty bodies pressed in close as the crowd thickened near the bar. The rude grumbles grew louder. Too late Isaac realized the hecklers had surrounded him. “Show us yer tail,” someone hollered. “Ain’t all monkeys got tails?” “Yeah, but stud monkeys like him wear their tails in front,” came another shout over a chorus of guffaws. Isaac’s chest heaved with a sigh. Hell, he might have to fight his way out of here, after all. There went his crisp, clean 3
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clothes—not to mention his supper and a good night’s sleep. “Them’s purty fancy duds fer a darkie, boy.” With a nasty smirk, a pockmarked fellow swept up an arm and knocked Isaac’s broad brimmed hat onto the floor. A soft crunch sounded as a boot heel crushed the crown. That did it. Isaac’s hands fisted in preparation for smashing out the man’s tobacco stained teeth. Klunk! The ugly coot dropped like a stone before Isaac threw a single punch. “Well, dang. Poor ol’ Hank musta had a mite too much liquor,” a bright, young voice drawled. Or a mite too much gun butt applied to the back of his head. Isaac glanced at the unconscious form crumpled by his feet, then raised his gaze to meet a pair of big blue eyes sparkling with devilment—eyes he recognized since they belonged to his trail team’s wrangler, the slender and blond haired Joey Parker. Soot smudges marred the lad’s friendly face, but then, they always did. Joey and soap had a longstanding feud it seemed. Nevertheless, he’d been a stalwart companion on the drive up from Texas, accepting Isaac easier and faster than the rest of the team had. If Joey didn’t mind Isaac’s brown skin, Isaac could overlook Joey’s grime. God forbid the wrangler suffer on his account. He suppressed a groan while Joey discreetly re-holstered his six-shooter. Fortunately, no one else noticed the move. “Stand clear. You’re going to get yourself in a heap of 4
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trouble,” Isaac warned in a whisper. “Nope, I’m keepin’ you out of trouble.” Joey’s full lips stretched into a wide grin as he brandished a handful of silver dollars in the air. “Belly up to the bar, boys! Drinks are on me!” Yeehaw. The whole herd of cowboys stampeded, forgetting Isaac and everything else in a mad dash for free booze. Floorboards thundered and whoops shook the rafters. Still dead to the world, ol’ Hank would have been trampled into mush if Isaac hadn’t made a lightning snatch, hoisted him by his belt, hauled him backward and propped him up in a chair against the wall. Beside the chair stood a low platform with a crimson curtain behind it, creating a makeshift stage, and on the drapery was pinned a theatrical poster proclaiming in bold letters: Salome, the Courtesan of Kings! Interesting. But there was no time to study the picture that went with the caption. Dirty and disgusted, Joey stomped forward with Isaac’s squashed hat. “What the heck did you do that for? He deserved to be thumped.” “No doubt. But the gesture demonstrated speed, strength, and a rare generosity of spirit. Your friend is obviously as broad minded as he is broad shouldered,” a sultry tone answered. “Soft heart and hard muscles. I find both qualities most attractive in a man.” Joey’s posture stiffened. “And just who the dickens are you?” “One who has been enjoying the view. And your new 5
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employer, I hope. Would you two be interested in a temporary job?” Would they? Lord have mercy… Isaac’s breath snagged in his throat as a tall, elegant figure swathed in an exotic robe and veil stepped out from behind the curtain and sashayed to the edge of the platform to gaze down at him through mysterious sloe eyes outlined in kohl. Salome? The lower half of her face was hidden by a square of saffron silk, but Isaac didn’t need to see her whole face to know she was a beauty—one fit for kings all right. An Oriental queen, that’s what she looked like, sensuous as a summer breeze and hot as the desert sun. Sweet Jesus, she almost blinded him. An elbow jab in the ribs brought him back to reality. “You’re starin’ like a moonstruck calf,” Joey hissed, his brow wrinkled by a frown—remarkably unimpressed by feminine glamour, it appeared. Or maybe too young to appreciate it? Hell, the boy wasn’t that young. “Who put a burr under your saddle?” Isaac muttered. Joey ignored the jibe. Crossing his arms over his chest, he aimed a suspicious glare at the woman. “About that job offer… What’re you payin’ and for what sorta work? If it ain’t legal, we ain’t interested.” Hey now, that’s no way to talk to a lady. Isaac opened his mouth to protest. Salome silenced him with a wave of her hand. “Oh, it’s 6
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honest labor, and quite simple. I merely desire a couple of trustworthy souls to guard this mockery of a stage while I perform my ‘Dance of the Seven Veils.’ A highly artistic exhibition, I assure you.” She peered over his head at the raucous mob by the bar, disdain evident in her expressive eyes. “You see, I have only arrived here today. This is but a brief stop in a tour I am making across the country. When I was hired for this engagement, I was led to believe the Silver Whistle was a respectable establishment. Now that I know otherwise, however, I hesitate to expose myself to such an uncouth audience without some modicum of protection. Will you help me?” Expose herself? Lordy, the images that conjured. Isaac was gut wrenchingly certain Salome’s dance was artistic indeed. He melted inside as her gaze returned to his. In that moment, he’d have walked over hot coals for her. “Ma’am, we’ll do whatever we can, and no charge for the service. It’ll be our extreme pleasure to help.” “Speak for yourself,” Joey groused. “Oof!” he added when a heavy arm slung around his shoulders crushed the air out of him. “He’s just joshing,” Isaac said, tightening his grip when Joey squirmed. “But of course.” Salome chuckled, a delicious, smoky sound that made Isaac’s pulse jump. A surge of raw heat struck his loins. Oddly enough, the struggles of the firm, young body locked against his side 7
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aggravated the sensation. Pure imagination—it had to be—but unnerving. He wasn’t the kind of man who lusted after boys, for godssake. His hold broke, and Joey stumbled free, gasping and flushed, as though he’d felt a physical spark, too—and not so imaginary. Good God. Joey’s apparent immunity to female charms suddenly took on a whole new, disturbing possibility. Isaac slanted a wary, sideways look at him. Blushing scarlet, Joey stared everywhere but at Isaac. Which means what? Salome chuckled again—for no good reason that Isaac could see. The dancer seemed to be enjoying some obscure, private joke. With willowy grace and the rustle of silk, she turned and pulled aside the curtain, revealing an open door that led into a dim hallway. “Come up to my suite, gentlemen, and we shall discuss the details of our liaison.” Liaison? Isaac tensed. As a well-schooled man—and, yes, his education both surprised and frightened those of a bigoted mindset—he knew the term, but Miss Salome probably meant a liaison of the business sort as opposed to the sexual. Not that he’d refuse the latter if she offered it. The shock he’d just experienced with Joey had given him a powerful hankering to prove his masculinity with a woman—which the exquisite Salome most definitely was. All woman. His heart hammered against his ribs as she paused in the doorway to glance over her shoulder at him. 8
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“I forgot to ask your names, gentlemen.” And Isaac couldn’t tell her because for a mortifying moment he forgot what he was called. Those hypnotic eyes of hers sucked all coherent thought out of his head. While he did a quick, mental scramble to rake his wits back together, Joey answered for them both. “This here’s Isaac Strong and I’m Joey Parker. ’Cept I’m no gentleman,” the young wrangler declared. “Ah, but we shall make you one.” Salome’s gaze narrowed in speculation. “In my dressing room there should be by now a large tub of hot water that I ordered from the kitchen a short time ago. However, I believe you need a bath more than I do, my friend.” Understatement of the year. But Isaac approved the idea. “That’s mighty generous of you, ma’am. We thank you.” “Oh, no, we don’t!” An expression of pure panic on his smudged face, Joey bolted for the saloon’s rear exit. Isaac caught him by the back of his shirt, dragged him up onto the platform and through the door in Salome’s wake. “Oh, yes, we do. A little soap won’t hurt you, son. I’ve been wondering for weeks what you look like under all that dirt.” “Trust me, you don’t wanna know,” Joey moaned. He fussed and fumed all the way down the hall, up the stairs, and into Salome’s so-called suite, which consisted of a small bedroom dominated by a large, four-postered affair, and a smaller dressing room filled with steam from the expected tub. Salome busied herself lighting an oil lamp for each chamber while Isaac followed on her heels, hanging on to 9
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Joey’s shirt—with a scowling Joey still in it—and trying like hell not to show undue interest in the bed. “You ever have a bath before?” he asked the boy. Joey rolled his eyes. “Once or twice. Maybe.” Sarcastic son of a gun, wasn’t he? “Good,” Isaac said. “Then you know what to do now.” He pushed Joey into the dressing room and yanked the door shut behind him. A reverberating thud sounded from the other side. Joey must have kicked the tub. Salome’s soft laughter mixed with the noise. “Take your time, Mr. Parker. As I’ve arrived here a day early, we have the entire evening to relax. My first performance is not until tomorrow.” Whatever Joey grumbled in return was muffled by the wood door. Probably just as well. Isaac doubted it was anything fit for a woman’s ears. “And you, Mr. Strong”—the woman in question stepped close—“have you a preference for how we spend our evening together?” God, yes. But it wasn’t a preference a gentleman could admit to a lady he’d just met—and, unlike Joey, Isaac did consider himself well mannered. Granted, the situation looked promising, but looks often deceived. “Never presume” was his motto. Wherever they were headed, let the lady lead the way. He leaned back against the door and hooked his thumbs in his belt to keep his hands out of mischief—such as plucking away silk garments, one by one, like the petals of a flower. She loves me, she loves me not… 10
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His throat constricted, making his voice tight. “Um, that depends on what the options are, ma’am.” “Ah, and that depends on your answer to a very important question.” A sultry gleam in her eyes, Salome sidled closer— near enough for Isaac to feel her body heat if not her actual flesh. She stood but a few inches in front of him and only a little shorter. Tall for a female. Her spicy perfume filled his nostrils, clouding his mind like a drug. Then her question hit like a bucket of ice water down his britches, snapping him alert again. “Do you believe in love at first sight, Mr. Strong? True, romantic love such as Romeo and Juliet’s?” Damn. She probably wanted a yes. Most women would, right? And most men would oblige her with one just to keep things moving toward the bed. Isaac cursed his conscience that demanded better behavior from him. In heady moments like this he might think the term love, but only as a poetic substitute for lust, and he refused to pretend otherwise. If a man couldn’t offer a genuine commitment, he should at least give honesty. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t. If you’ll forgive me for being blunt, I think physical attraction is all people mean when they say they’re in love. Romance makes for good storybooks, but I’ve never seen much evidence of it in real life.” “No? How very sad, but perhaps you’ve not looked for it carefully enough.” As opposed to drawing away, as Isaac expected, Salome rested her hands on his shoulders. “Your 11
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parents, for instance. To have created such a fine son between them, surely they were in love.” Jesus, especially not them. However, Isaac had long since pushed past the bitterness of his birth—or so he kept telling himself. If his tone sounded hoarse, blame it on the woman’s enticing touch and not resurrected rancor. “They weren’t even married. My father owned a plantation in Louisiana, and my mother was a house slave who he…um, forced his attentions on.” “Oh. I see.” A lot, it appeared. Salome’s hot gaze mellowed into warm sympathy, yet without diminishing any of her seductive allure. In fact, her evident compassion increased her appeal. A considerate soul himself, Isaac appreciated the quality in others. “That explains much, Mr. Strong. Such as why you are almost too well behaved. Never would you force anyone, I can tell—not even someone like myself who is not nearly the lady you treat me as.” Meaning her billing as a courtesan, a whore, albeit a highclass one? Hell, her profession was none of his business. It was difficult enough in this world for a male to earn a decent living; it must be doubly hard for a female. “I view it as a matter of simple human dignity, ma’am. Everyone deserves respect.” He wasn’t a religious person, but his mother had been. From her he’d learned the value of forgiveness and the Golden Rule, which was the only biblical 12
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message he’d ever taken to heart. “I try to treat people the way I want to be treated.” “Regardless of race, creed, or sexual activity?” Salome’s brows rose. “My, you are a radical thinker, aren’t you?” A tease, but Isaac liked it. He enjoyed women with wit. Maybe he enjoyed this one too much. She enchanted him on multiple levels, seduced his mind along with his body. Kindness, charm, intelligence, and beauty—a dangerous package, Miss Salome. If he wasn’t careful she might make him do something really stupid. Like believing in love? He froze as she leaned in, her veiled face scant inches away. Her hands slid from his shoulders to flatten on his chest. “As it happens, I’m rather radical myself,” she whispered. Just a thin slice of air and a mist of silk separated her mouth from Isaac’s. He didn’t dare consider how easy it would be to sweep aside that silk and taste her lips. Once he started kissing her, he might not stop till he’d devoured her whole. “We have much in common, Mr. Strong—more than you may suspect. I, too, am of mixed blood. My father was a doctor in San Francisco, and my mother…the Chinese girl who did his laundry. He married her, though. They loved each other—at least so far as I remember. They died during an influenza outbreak when I was still young. It was then I discovered there was no place for me in traditional society. I was ostracized by both sides, accepted by neither his people nor hers. Perhaps that is why I do believe in love. Because I 13
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must. I know too well how lonely life is without it.” Amazingly, Isaac understood her point—disagreed but understood. She held on to her fairy-tale ideals the same way his mother had clung to her hope for a better life in the heavenly hereafter—and for the same reason. Solace. For the latter, religion had been her buffer against the world’s ills. For Salome, it was romance. More than ever he wanted to pull her into his arms and give her all the comfort one body could bestow on another. Except cold comfort that would be when they parted—as they must soon. He never stayed in one spot very long. Even if the romance she craved did exist—a big if—that kind of love was beyond his capabilities. Yet equally impossible, it seemed, was resisting the woman’s appeal. With nothing but her eyes and the pressure of her palms on his chest, Salome held him spellbound. “I know also that whatever you choose to call it—or not— I am most attracted to you,” she murmured. “And you are attracted to me, I think.” As a man who valued honesty, he could hardly contradict her. “Very much. But you’re right if you mean I can’t call it love.” “You don’t have to. It is enough for now that I feel the emotion. I won’t ask you to reciprocate. Nor will I tell you that you captured my heart with a single glance, for I doubt you’d believe me if I did. Instead, I shall show you the depth of my feeling.” Before Isaac realized her intention, she sank to her knees. 14
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Good God, she wasn’t… She was. In seconds she removed his gun belt and unbuttoned his shirt and trousers. Damn, the lady knew her way around men’s clothes. Knew her way around a man’s anatomy, too. Isaac groaned as one of her hands cupped his balls and the other gripped the base of his shaft. He’d been half erect already. At her manual attention, his cock swelled and hardened into a thick, solid club. Fast. “Impressive,” Salome said in a throaty purr. “You could bludgeon someone to death with this, Mr. Strong.” She brushed the lower half of her face over him, letting him feel the silky softness of her veil and the heat of her lips through the fabric. Isaac’s gut clenched. His breathing went ragged. “I think you can forget the mister and call me Isaac now,” he strained out. “With pleasure…Isaac.” She tilted back her head to meet his gaze, her eyes smoky slits. “And you may call me Sal. All my dearest friends do.” With those words, she maneuvered his cock under her veil and deep into her hot mouth. Isaac groaned again—a low, guttural sound—and not just from the fire she sent roaring through his veins. For some strange reason, he didn’t want to contemplate Salome’s “friends,” dear or otherwise—didn’t care to be reminded that what she was currently doing to him she’d probably done to numerous others. 15
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Jealous? Hell, he couldn’t afford to go green-eyed, not with his views on romance. If he kept his emotional attachments light, he allowed women the same privilege. Anything else was not only unfair, but downright hypocritical. Jealousy stemmed from possessiveness, and possessiveness smelled too much like slavery—like the way his Creole father, Henri Dubois, had sold off any black man on the plantation who dared show an interest in Isaac’s beautiful mother, Celeste. It wasn’t enough for Master Henri to own her body; he’d demanded her heart, too. And been furious when he never got it. Poor old Henri. In his warped mind, he’d honestly thought he loved Celeste—as though raping a person night after night demonstrated affection. The worst of it was Isaac looked like a Dubois, except for his brown skin and curly hair. He’d inherited Henri’s height, muscular build, and handsome features. Sometimes, in his grimmest moments, he feared he’d inherited the man’s savage temper, too, though God knew he controlled it a hell of a lot better. Thank Celeste’s tender influence for that. Hence the real reason why Isaac avoided romantic entanglements—it wasn’t just that he didn’t believe in love. Deep down inside, he worried that if he ever became too involved with a woman, his Dubois blood would surface and he’d turn into the pig his father had been. And if anyone could involve him, it was Salome, all sweet seduction and blistering skill. Lord, what she did with her mouth and hands—and seemed to adore the act in the process. 16
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Isaac’s legs almost buckled out from under him. He’d been sucked before, but never with such generous warmth and passion. What had started as lust was becoming much more. Frankly, it scared the tar out of him. Salome was different from others he’d known—too different, too damned tempting in too many ways—soft and strong at the same time, a beauty with brains and sensitivity both. She stirred thoughts and feelings that Isaac had steadfastly steered clear of for years. A big mistake he’d made coming up here, but how could he have guessed she’d pierce his armor so hard and so fast? If he was half the gentleman he tried to be, he’d stop this…this liaison. Now. Push her away. The lady had no idea of the danger she courted by courting him. But he was a man first, and not always a gentle one, so pushing wasn’t really an option. As though they had a mind of their own, his hands buried in her black, satiny hair, pulling her closer instead. His thumbs fumbled with edge of her veil. He wanted to see her entire face, drink in the sight of her lips wrapped around his rod. Salome stopped him. With a surprisingly firm grasp, her hands locked around his and pressed them back into the cool wood behind him. The gesture said, This is my show and I need no assistance, thank you very much. With his cock in her mouth, Isaac was in a poor position to argue. He braced against the door to the dressing room and gripped its brass knob to steady himself. His eyes drifted shut as he surrendered, hot and helpless and gasping for breath, to a 17
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virtuoso sexual performance. Through the wood he heard the muffled splash of water, reminding him who sat on the other side of the door and how tenuous his and Salome’s privacy was. It should have been a sobering thought. Why wasn’t it? Why did the unexpected and unbidden mental image of a young man’s naked, wet body drive desire over the edge? Even in the throes of sudden, intense orgasm Isaac wondered these things—but only with a small part of his brain and not with any degree of clarity. The bulk of him was busy toppling backward through the door, which he’d accidentally opened when his hand tightened in spastic reflex and twisted the goddamned knob. Jesus— He grabbed forward, trying to catch himself, clutched silk and heard fabric tear. Then bam! He landed on his ass on the dressing room floor while the back of his head hit the rim of the bathtub. Ouch. Salome, thank God, had released him with remarkable agility when the door swung wide, or he might have lost an important piece of physical equipment in the course of the fall. As it was, he simply lost consciousness. Although, actually, nothing was simple anymore—if it ever had been. In the dizzy moment before oblivion claimed him, Isaac decided he’d lost his sanity, too. There in the doorway stood Salome, her veil hanging loose and her robe ripped down the front, exposing her to the waist. 18
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While beside the tub stood a dripping Joey, having just finished his bath apparently, and wearing nothing but a wideeyed look of shock. A male and a female, right? Definitely. But something had gone horribly askew. The unveiled portion of Salome’s face bore the faint shadow of a day old beard. Her chest was as smooth and flat as a boy’s. And Joey’s wasn’t. Good God… *
*
*
“You’re a woman.” “And you’re not.” A moot point. The true woman was beautiful. And naked. What wonderful luck. Utterly enthralled, Li Salvatore stared across his latest love’s unconscious form into the smoldering blue eyes of a brand new infatuation. Deliciously defensive, the delightful creature glared back at him. “Sal?” She spat out his nickname like an accusation, no doubt mistaking it for an abbreviated version of his stage name, and therefore a lie of sorts. As though she were in any position to condemn. Sal chuckled as he stepped into the dressing room. He adored a challenge, which Isaac and Joey were proving to be—the woman even more than the man, and he guessed why. Joey faced him like one confronting a rival. Was she secretly in love with her cowboy companion? How perfect for Sal’s plans. It was much easier to seduce two at once if a spark 19
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already existed between the pair. He could view this as a romantic service—bringing two lonely souls together. With me as the catalyst. He stepped nearer. “You were listening to Isaac’s and my conversation were you?” “Seein’ as y’all were standin’ right by the door, I could hardly help it, now could I?” Scowling, Joey grabbed for a nearby towel. To cover herself? Oh no, not yet. Fragrant and fresh from her bath, with her eyes full of fire, she quite dazzled him. Sal refused to relinquish such a glorious vision so soon. He grabbed, too, and caught one end of the towel just as Joey gripped the other. A brief tug-of-war ensued. Sal won. “Damn,” Joey cursed when a sharp yank jerked her forward and molded her to him. Sal’s arms closed around her ribcage, locking her in place, squashing her breasts against his bare chest—small breasts but high and firm and perfectly formed, just the right size and shape for a man’s hand. Or mouth. Delectable. Although Isaac’s hard muscled chest had felt equally luscious. Male meat or female, Sal’s appetite craved it all, and his appetite was voracious. He hoped to feast on both before the night was through. Simultaneously, if he had his way. His hold hardened when Joey tried to push free. “Mmm,” he murmured. “You feel as good as you look. But I’ll bet you taste even better, Joey Parker. Or should I call you 20
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Josephine now?” “Not if you wanna keep your front teeth. I’ve always hated that name.” She shivered as he stroked a hand down her spine to explore the tender curves of her derriere. Goose bumps rose on her skin. “The same goes for your paw, mister. Take it off my ass, or I’ll take it off your wrist.” Feminine flesh and feisty temper. Sal grinned. Whereas Isaac fought to control his emotions, Joey gave full vent to hers. A fascinating contrast. Individually, they each charmed him. Together, he found them irresistible. A little patience might help his cause, though. He’d discovered what he needed to know, which was that, whether or not Joey cared to admit it, her body liked him. With a little care the rest of her would follow. Winning her over to his way of thinking was half the fun, after all. “Very well. My sincere apologies for allowing my desire to so shamefully overrule my manners. I beg your forgiveness.” He released her and stepped back to give her some space, even handed her the towel. Some women enjoyed a rascal while others preferred a gentleman. To seduce Joey, he suspected, would require both, the trick being to keep her guessing as to which he was. “It may be a bit late to revert to formalities, but in order to remind myself to behave, perhaps I’d better call you Miss Parker. You, however, may still call me Sal. It’s short for my surname, Salvatore, not Salome, if that’s any comfort.” 21
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“Not much. And Joey will do just fine, thanks. I ain’t no Miss.” Grumpy, but apparently deciding she had bigger things to worry about, Joey wrapped the towel around herself, sarong style, and knelt by Isaac, in obvious concern for his condition—which, to be honest, didn’t look all that serious to Sal, and as the son of a doctor, he ought to know. He crouched beside her and laid a hand on Isaac’s chest, just to be sure. Yes, a good, strong heartbeat and regular breathing. Isaac would revive on his own soon enough. No need to force the issue. Sal wanted a few more minutes of privacy with Joey. Not a Miss, huh? And not overly encumbered by modesty either. All three of them were half naked at present, yet she seemed to take it in stride. Her lack of embarrassment spoke volumes. Worldly and well traveled, Sal was familiar with cultures where dress codes were looser and nudity less frowned upon. And girls often married young… “Isaac?” Joey patted the man’s face, attempting to rouse him. Sal grabbed her hands. “Wait. I’m afraid Isaac has gone into shock.” Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. Isaac had been shocked when he’d passed out—or damned surprised at least. “We should put him to bed right away to keep him warm.” Us, too. Bed was a marvelous idea, shock or no. Sal was so glad he thought of it. He rose to his feet, pulling a wary-eyed Joey with him. “And while we’re tucking him in, you can tell me 22
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what Indian tribe you were captured by and how long you lived with them.” His intuition said very long. “How the heck did you know?” Like a wild thing snared in a trap Joey stared at him, her hands trembling in his. “A lucky guess.” “Yeah?” She yanked free from his grasp. “Well, you guessed wrong. I wasn’t captured.” Her eyes narrowed and her chin tilted up in defiance. “I was rescued. And if we need to get Isaac to bed, we’d best do it. You take north, I’ll take south.” Defiant but practical. “Of course.” Sal suppressed a smile as Joey bent over and grasped Isaac’s legs. He slipped his hands under Isaac’s arms, lifted, and between the two of them, they carried him into the next room and hoisted him onto the large bed. While Sal stripped off the man’s clothes, then bundled him under a blanket, the woman talked, and Sal listened, no longer amused. His heart bled for the orphaned child of western homesteaders. A five-year-old girl left alone to perish on the prairie by the outlaws who murdered her parents. “A Comanche hunting party found me, half dead, ’round about sunrise the day after the attack. One of their wives had just lost a daughter and been grievin’ bad, so they let her adopt me in her little gal’s place.” Joey perched on the edge of the bed and studied her hands clutched together in her lap. “Thirteen years I lived with ’em. Grew up, married… I’d still be with ’em if cavalry hadn’t raided our camp and killed 23
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my husband and his other wife. The soldiers dragged me off kickin’ and screamin’. And pregnant. I reckon they thought they’d saved me from some horrible fate, but there was my capture for you. Two weeks later, at Fort Sill, I miscarried. And a week after that, I ran away.” Her gaze lifted to Sal’s as he sat by her on the bed. “That was seven long years ago and I’ve been fendin’ for myself ever since—which is a hell of a lot easier to do as a man, let me tell you. I can’t figure why you wanna be a woman.” “I don’t. There are men who wish they were female; I’ve met some. However, I’m not one of those. My charade is merely what I do for a living. I’m what is known, in theatrical circles, as a ‘female impersonator’—and, all modesty aside, I’m quite good at it. Given the proper venue, my performance is very popular. But make no mistake, beneath my costume I’m most masculine and happy to be so. I don’t want to be a woman any more than you really want to be a man.” “How do you know what I want?” Defiance again. But she was weakening; Sal saw it in her eyes. She was almost as intrigued by him as he was by her. “Because we’re a lot alike, you and I.” He laid a hand over hers and squeezed, a seductive gesture but a gentle one and meant to show empathy as well. “Neither of us have much regard for the status quo, it seems. We both play our own game by our own rules.” “Think so?” Her mouth quirked up at one corner. Skeptical. “And what game are you playin’? First you chase after Isaac, and now you’re givin’ me the same sorta look— 24
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like a hungry wolf watchin’ something he figures might be supper.” One could only hope. Sal allowed himself a small grin. Did Joey have any idea how beguiling she was? A woman who spoke her mind plainly and with blunt honesty—a rare find, remarkable and refreshing. Also incredibly arousing to one who appreciated inner assets as much as outer. “Such a frank observation deserves a frank reply.” He slid a bit nearer to her and was pleased when she held her ground and didn’t scoot away. A brave woman, too. She had strength and confidence, this wild Comanche in a golden haired, blueeyed shell. But then, so did Sal. Plus, he was royally besotted and not afraid to admit it. Unlike Isaac, Sal did believe in love at first sight; it happened to him all the time. Always he knew, instantly, at a single glance, what he wanted and went after it without shame or mercy. Like now. “Perhaps ‘game’ was a poor choice of words,” he conceded, “because the truth is I’m not playing.” Not exactly. Love was a game, in a way, but one he took seriously. If his ardor was fleeting, as many ex-lovers had accused, it was real while it lasted. “Everything I told Isaac, I meant. Yet I’m equally enamored with you, and that’s the truth also.” So much so, something between his legs was becoming painfully hard—but he didn’t mention that. He stared deep into her eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I desire both of you?” he 25
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asked. Joey blinked. Her brow furrowed. Amazing. She was seriously pondering the question when most would dismiss it as insane and perverted. “I might,” she answered carefully. “Some Indian tribes practice polygamy, as I’ve heard it called, and it seems right natural when you’re raised with it. I was one of two wives, and neither of us felt any less loved for havin’ to share the same husband.” Her gaze slanted to Isaac stretched out beside them, then back to Sal. “But a man wantin’ two women is a whole different thing from him wantin’ a woman and another man.” “Not to me. An attractive person is attractive, regardless of gender. I’ve never limited myself to one or the other. In fact, for me”—he slid an inch closer and chanced snaking an arm around her waist—“the ideal romantic experience includes one of each. With myself in the middle.” Joey tensed, then, with a breathy sigh, relaxed in his hold and almost surrendered. Almost. She was clearly tempted by the bait Sal offered her. Not just himself, but also the chance to indulge a repressed yearning—the prospect of hot, sweaty sex with Isaac Strong. That she desired the man was evident. Yet still she hesitated. Why? Her own masquerade marked her a dyed-in-the-wool rebel. She knew from personal experience a person could love more than one at a time. The problem must be Isaac himself, who 26
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seemed so straight-laced and proper on the surface. She was worried that a fast, easy capitulation—and to an admitted sodomite, no less—would shock and dismay him. How little she realized. She glanced again at Isaac and shook her head. “He’d never agree to that. More likely Isaac will bust your nose when he wakes up.” Only with extreme effort. Sal was a master of self-defense, well trained in martial arts by the half-caste Chinese who’d taken him in when his parents died. But that was another story and one he couldn’t share without confessing a former fib (how he’d pretended to need protection in order to make their acquaintance). Suffice it to say his training had sharpened his senses and mind along with his physical prowess. He noticed details and nuances many missed, was a shrewd judge of character as a result, and trusted his intuition. Not often was he wrong. Joey’s disguise had deceived him at first, but only because he hadn’t been studying her. His attention had been riveted on a bronze Hercules. Within moments of meeting Isaac, he’d guessed the man’s secret—scented the desire buried inside him, like the smoke of a banked fire waiting to be fanned into flames. No doubt Isaac had been fighting his secret for years and shuddered to acknowledge it, but the hidden hunger remained. Isaac liked men. Sexually. Sal had seen it in Isaac’s reaction to Joey’s boy persona, 27
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felt it in his response to “Salome’s” charms. True, Isaac had assumed it was a woman seducing him. True, Sal’s act was a good one. But not good enough to fool a man in close quarters—not unless the man wanted to be fooled. Isaac had responded to the subliminal energy of the situation more than outer appearances, Sal was pretty sure. Isaac was also already awake. As of the past few minutes he looked less like a sleeper and more like a covert listener. Sal had detected certain telltale twitches under the blanket that Joey appeared to have missed—not that he planned on enlightening her. The mere fact Isaac hadn’t yet bolted from the bed was a promising sign. If the man wished to play possum while debating how to handle what must seem to him an awkward predicament, far be it from Sal to ruin the subterfuge. This might be what Isaac needed to help him lower his guard. Some men found it easier to accept another man’s touch if they began with a woman between them. In any case, the woman herself was a wondrous prize to be won. Sal stroked a fingertip along a delicate jawline, drawing Joey’s gaze from Isaac back to himself. “I didn’t ask if you thought Isaac would agree. I want to know if you will.” She froze at the tiny caress—though perhaps froze was the wrong term. There was nothing cold about Joey Parker. A hot blush reddened her silky skin. Her eyes were wide, blue windows offering him a clear view deep into her soul. Sal saw so much in those eyes—passion and pain, loneliness and longing. Eyes that tugged at his heartstrings. Eyes that 28
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answered yes, even though she seemed unable to say the word aloud. Fascinated, he let his fingers trail down the side of her neck to her throat—felt the frantic flutter of her pulse, telling him her heart was racing. Telling him a lot. Living as a male, never able to drop her disguise, Joey must have gone without intimacy, physical and emotional, for far longer than any sensual creature should be forced to endure. Sal read the hunger in her expression—and the inner battle that went with it. She ached for lovemaking, but craved love itself even more. Doubtless, she feared he offered the first without the latter. Maybe she was right. The hotter his romantic infatuations burned, the faster they burned out, he knew from past experience. It didn’t stop him from pressing home his advantage. In fact, shifting his position and leaning in, he pressed her backward onto the bed. On the way down, her towel fell open, leaving her bare and beautiful beneath him. Sal wriggled out of the remains of his robe so they could meet skin to skin. There was always the chance, after all, that this time the love he felt would last. A slim chance at best, but he’d never find out unless he tried. Joey squirmed. “Hey, hold your horses, mister. This ain’t right. I hardly know you.” “Perhaps, but it’s a marvelous way to get acquainted.” He dug his knees between hers. She gasped when a firm, outward push parted her legs—but it was obvious she fought herself more than him. A desperate note tinged her tone. 29
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“Uh-uh, it still ain’t right.” She scrambled for excuses. “We…we oughta be tendin’ to Isaac. He’s been out too long, don’t you think? We should do something to rouse him.” Don’t worry, we are. If Joey would glance to the side, she’d notice how the blanket tented at crotch level, see the tension in a dusky jaw that indicated teeth being clenched. Isaac was about as “roused” as a man could become. Sal felt the scorch of willfully restrained desire seeping out from under the wool cover. His own fever rose in response. Ravenous need swelled him nearly to bursting. With effort he resisted the urge to sneak a hand beneath the blanket and fondle that tempting tent pole. He nuzzled Joey’s neck instead, savoring her sultry scent and clean taste, murmuring comfort between tiny licks and nibbles. “Trust me, Isaac is fine for the moment just as he is.” Sal wished he could say the same for himself. His grand romantic scheme was working better than he’d hoped. But at what price? Joey moaned as he suckled her earlobe. Her fingers bit into his shoulders. “I don’t trust you, that’s the point.” And a valid one. Unfortunately. Sal wrestled with his conscience—a new experience. Until now he hadn’t realized he owned a conscience. Maybe because he’d never before required one. Joey and Isaac weren’t his usual fare. They were decent people, the kind who’d love loyally and long if they ever 30
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managed to unlock their hearts. It was part of their appeal. Sal admired steadfast devotion; he just wasn’t very adept at providing it. But then, he’d never really received it either, not the sort he’d witnessed in his parents. His mother once confessed to him that she’d refused his father’s first proposal. Older, wiser, and wealthier, he’d seemed an almost godlike figure to her. Fearing that he’d ruin his social standing and medical practice if he married a poor Chinese girl, she ran away from him and hid. And the eminent Dr. Salvatore ripped apart San Francisco to find her. Sal sometimes wondered what he’d do if anyone ever stormed after him. His lovers might pout or protest when he bid adieu, but they still let him go. Was that why he always left? He could move on to the next conquest knowing he may have bruised a heart, but not broken it. Except he didn’t know that now. Somehow or other this situation had expanded beyond his control, beyond his wildest dreams. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, didn’t like to imagine he might—but he’d finish what he’d started, regardless. A warm female lay under him, a warm male alongside, and burgeoning lust filled the air, surrounding them all, like a thick curtain of steam. His nostrils flared at the musky scent of arousal. Frankly, there was no room on the bed for a conscience, too. With a mental kick, Sal sent his out the door, then tried not to think how soon he’d be following it. “You know, we could also view this from the perspective of two men loving one woman.” He said it for Isaac’s benefit 31
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as much as Joey’s, and was rewarded by seeing, out of the corner of his eye, the blanket bob a bit, as though the tent pole nodded in agreement. A small smile curled the corners of his mouth. “I’m willing to take turns being in the middle.” “Two?” The word came out on a hoarse rasp. Joey pushed at his chest, trying to dislodge him from his place on top of her—but not with much conviction. “Hell, it’s been so long, I ain’t sure I can handle one. I’ve dang near forgot what lovin’ feels like.” “Easily remedied.” Sal grazed his lips over hers. Just the breath of a kiss. “I stand ready, able…and quite eager to remind you how the process works.” “You’re not standin’,” she strained out. “Part of me is.” He rubbed his erection lengthwise against her slit—simply to demonstrate what he meant, of course. He didn’t really intend to penetrate her passage. But once he began—oh, God—she was so wet and so tight, so almost willing, he couldn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt in her slick heat. By then it seemed pointless to stop at all. His lips landed on hers, and Joey’s mouth opened to the insistent probing of his tongue. Her nipples puckered into hard peaks when he stroked his hands up her sides and cupped her breasts. She wanted him. Yes. Her inner muscles contracted around his cock, squeezing him in a silken vise, giving him no choice but to continue. He had to pull out and plunge in again. And again… *
* 32
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Whoa— A fast worker, wasn’t he? Also a talented one. I’m in big trouble. Joey melted into the mattress at the smooth force of Sal’s thrusts—sharp and true as dagger strikes, but infinitely more lethal to her peace of mind. She groaned under the onslaught of juicy, raw sensation. Dang, he feels good. But he shouldn’t! And she shouldn’t be letting him. Not here, like this, with Isaac conked out beside them—a man honorable to a fault, and one she’d developed a deep admiration for on the cattle drive up from Texas. A man who’d passed out looking like a bull with its balls caught in barbed wire. Not that she blamed him. Sal had fooled Isaac all right, but so had she. Joey didn’t want to make matters worse by having him awake to the sight of her humping away like a whore. If she had a lick of sense or a shred of pride, she’d rein in Mr. Hot-to-Trot, then kick him from here into next Sunday. I could do it, too. She was smaller than Sal, but not by much—slender, but tall enough and tough enough to play a convincing young man, especially under the grime she wore to minimize the cameo perfection of her features. Pretty or not, she made one heck of a wrangler—the Comanche had taught her plenty about horses, and survival as well. She knew how to fight, could inflict a powerful lot of damage when she put her mind 33
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to it. She just didn’t have the mind for it now. Sal’s sexual skill sapped all the resistance out of her. Her brain hollered no, but her body begged more. Her body, blast it, was starved for the solid warmth of a man on top of and inside her. And Sal was a man, sure as shootin’, despite the feminine war paint lining his eyes, and the hair that fell like a black satin veil over his shoulders, shrouding him and her both. Unable to stop herself, Joey raked her fingers through the inky softness, while her legs, traitorous things, wrapped around a masculine waist and her hips rocked in rhythm to the thrusting—wild, wanton, riding for a fall. Bad hips! Bad me. What the dickens am I doin’? Speeding the tempo? Well, hell, if we’re gonna do this, we oughta do it right. Except it was wrong. Wasn’t it? Yes! No… Shit, I ain’t sure anymore. Her control unraveled quicker than she could weave it back together. Almost frantic, she clutched Sal with thigh muscles firmed by long days in the saddle, urged him into her harder and deeper. Greedily, she sucked at his lips, his tongue—drank in his kisses as though they were honey sweet nectar, and she was lost in the desert. A woman dying of thirst, head reeling and flesh in flames. Doomed. Maybe it was Sal’s long hair and exotic eyes that had done her in. Put him in braids and he’d look something like Wild 34
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Hawk, her handsome husband who’d been so fierce in battle and so gentle in bed, always careful to divide his favors equally between her and his other wife. But not at the same time in the same bed, damn it. Isaac couldn’t be too badly hurt; cowboys were sturdy stock, and he was one of the sturdiest. He was bound to rouse soon. And then? What if he would be amenable to this game? He lay so close she felt the full length his muscular arm, iron hard, pressed against her side. Only the wool blanket separated them. Scratchy wool that rasped her skin. She ached to rip it aside and feel more of him, even while Sal’s smooth strokes built a fire in her belly that threatened to roast her alive. Molten shivers swept her at the possibility of having both men at once. Help… Wild Hawk was the one she’d adored. When she lost him she had vowed to never take another. Yet here she’d surrendered to one lover without a fight, and now wanted a second? Oh, yeah. With a vengeance. Isaac’s proximity seriously increased her desire. Such a fine figure of a man, strong and brave. And good! To be honest, she’d wanted Isaac for weeks—since the day he rode onto the Double C Ranch and signed on for the drive—she just hadn’t dared admit it to herself. She’d been trying so hard to stay true to Wild Hawk’s memory. She hadn’t wanted to want anyone else. She didn’t really want what was happening now. 35
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Yes, I do. She just wanted more of it, a heap more than she was likely to get. Each expert thrust pushed her closer to a blistering climax but even closer to emotional capitulation. Damn if she hadn’t gone and opened her heart along with her legs—opened herself to probable new pain. Her attraction to Isaac had started her downfall, but Sal had finished it. Sal had a hell of a lot to answer for. With wicked finesse, he’d snuck under her defenses, asked questions and said things that made her think maybe she could love again. With his merciless cock and hot kisses, he was ensuring she would. Didn’t he realize that some women couldn’t make love without falling into it—that now her affections were trapped between him and Isaac both? And neither man was bred for the long haul. Sal gave himself too freely, while Isaac hesitated to give himself at all, didn’t believe in love—or so he’d told “Salome.” Which leaves me with what? A hard ride and a harder goodbye, no doubt. The realization spurred her into action. Joey yanked her fortitude up by its bootstraps and fought down her desire. She clamped her calves over Sal’s buttocks, halting his motion— fisted her hands in his hair and dragged his head up to meet her stare. For a tense moment neither spoke while they each fought for air, chest to heaving chest, skin flushed and beaded with sweat. Finally, Sal broke the silence. “Something the matter?” He smiled, but only with his 36
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mouth. His eyes said he recognized she was riled. He had no idea how much. “Not anymore. Because I’m through playin’—and so are you. The game’s over.” Joey blinked back the sting of tears, struggled to keep her voice level. Almost succeeded. “The second I let go, you’re gonna get off me, then I’m gonna get my clothes and vamoose. If you’re lucky, I won’t shoot you on my way out the door.” She drew a ragged breath. “Tell Isaac goodbye for me.” *
*
*
Like hell. Even under her dirt, Joey had made a pretty boy. As a woman, she was breathtaking, more than any hot-blooded male could resist. Besides, they were supposed to be friends, damn it. Friends didn’t deceive each other for any reason. Didn’t she realize she could have confided in him? She should have trusted him better! Half blinded by a red haze, Isaac kicked off the blanket. Never would he have planned such a sordid situation, but since he’d been hoodwinked into it—deceived twice over— they’d play things out to the end. No one was going anywhere until he said so. The game was just beginning. He rolled to his side and gripped a feminine wrist. “Tell me yourself.” A challenge. While saloon noise filtered up through the floorboards, and the smell of sex filled his nostrils, Isaac waited for Joey to pick up the gauntlet. Waited for her to say 37
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goodbye, get lost, go to hell…whatever. Waited for her to answer something. She couldn’t. He read it in her eyes, wide and blue as the western sky, felt it in the way her lifeblood throbbed against his fingers. Her pulse pounded like a cattle stampede. Joey wanted to walk out the door about as much as Isaac intended to let her. Good. He had just enough presence of mind left to be grateful he wouldn’t be forcing her when he shoved Sal aside and claimed the young stud’s place between Joey’s legs. But the pent-up passion that made Isaac see red warned he’d ravage her, regardless. What else, for godssake, after the torment he’d suffered? The musky scents and lusty sounds. The clandestine view, through lowered lashes, of two figures humping, the heat of them pressed against his side…the carnal rocking of the bed…the taunting rasp of the blanket on his aching cock. A man could endure only so much. If he’d been smart, he’d have confronted these two when he first revived, demanded an accounting then and there. Except, he’d awoken, dizzy and distressed, as Joey confessed her secret, told a tale that explained much without Isaac having to ask. At the time, it seemed stupid to interrupt. He’d decided to listen a bit while he battled his temper, gathered his bearings—figured what to say, what to do. Damn, he should have guessed Joey had been raised by Comanche. She sure rode like one. Fought like one, too. She took shit off no one. Isaac had seen her flatten men twice her 38
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size. He’d expected her to stop Sal before the sex started, not after. When she hadn’t—heaven help him—the dreaded greeneyed monster who lurked within Isaac reared its ugly head. Now it was too late to stop anything. An iron control had snapped. A hated heritage held the reins. Something awful had happened to Celeste’s considerate, kindhearted boy. He’d vanished, metamorphosed. Isaac Strong the gentleman was nowhere to be seen. In his place panted an angry, lust-driven bastard as ferocious as the devil who sired him: Isaac Dubois, Henri’s son. Henri’s son growled, a savage, bestial growl drawn from deep in his chest. Joey’s breath hitched at the sound. Her eyes widened, as though staring at something she’d never before seen—which she hadn’t. By appearances, she realized she was in for it, about to be nailed to the mattress by a madman. Fucked deaf, dumb, and blind. She swallowed—hard—an audible gulp. But not entirely from fear. The madman wasn’t so mad that he couldn’t sense a sharp upsurge of desire, too. It rose off her, like smoke, compounding his own passion. They had a history together, after all. Cowboys often developed a close camaraderie while surviving as a team the rigors of the trail, and he and Joey had become closer than most. Or so Isaac Strong had thought. His evil twin, Isaac Dubois, knew nothing of the sort, and Dubois currently called the shots. All he knew was that somewhere along the drive up from Texas, amidst danger and dust and three thousand ornery longhorns, he’d lost his heart—and apparently his mind with 39
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it—to the person who lived inside Joey Parker. Damn him, he’d fallen in love without even knowing who that person was. Without even believing love existed. Granted, it was a relief to discover he hadn’t fallen for a boy. But a big, bitter pill now choked him. At long last, he understood why he’d never believed. Because he hadn’t wanted to. Love hurt like hell. Finally, he understood why Henri had raged whenever anyone ogled Celeste. He knew what his father had felt because he felt the same jealous fury—maybe more so. Henri had simply sold those he deemed rivals. Henri’s son wanted to castrate the one who lay on his girl. That Joey had let another man take her hit him like a fist to the gut. It seemed only fitting to return the blow. Especially since the man in question had also tried to take Isaac. And succeeded. Extremely well. Good God… He’d been sucked by a male—and enjoyed it. Knowing the truth now ought to churn his stomach, shrivel his club to a matchstick. Instead, an already massive erection swelled to painful new proportions at the memory of that recent oral act. Shit. Isaac winced—both of him, Strong and Dubois. Hadn’t he just suffered more than enough torturous revelations? Acknowledging this one was too, too much. Yes, maybe deep down in the scariest, darkest corner of his soul, he had sometimes hankered for a man’s touch. Sometimes, while 40
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fucking a woman, listening to her lustful moans, he’d wondered what it felt like to be on the receiving end of a hard cock. But he was damned if he’d ever admit it. Hell, he was damned already with his demonic Dubois side in control. His emotional side. Snorting steam, he released Joey and shoved to his knees, intent on grabbing Sal and hurling him across the room. At the same instant, Sal rolled to the side and landed neatly on his feet by the bed, looking watchful and wary, but somehow also amused. The hint of a grin twitched his lips as he stared at Isaac across Joey’s tousled, flushed form. Very aggravating. Sal had no idea how close he stood to a bloody dismemberment. Her breath coming in short gasps, Joey struggled to sit up. “Isaac, don’t—” “Hush! I’ll deal with you in a minute.” With one hand, Isaac pushed her flat again. On the way down, she bumped her noggin on the big bed’s headboard. Her quick temper flared and she hauled upright once more, scooting backward till her spine pressed against one of the corner bedposts. “All right, dang it. But if y’all are gonna fight, get the hell away from me. I don’t wanna be squashed between you!” “No?” Sal shot her a mischievous wink. “Why else are we here? Unless, of course, it’s my turn to be in the middle.” I’ll kill him. With a bellow like an angry bull, Isaac struck, lunging off 41
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the bed and aiming a sledgehammer fist at Sal’s grin. A lightning forearm blocked the blow. A steel grip shackled Isaac’s wrist. Oof! Splat! “Damn,” Joey cursed when the mattress bucked under her from the impact of a body slamming onto it. What the… How it happened, Isaac never knew. One second he was throwing a punch, and the next, he was thrown—swung around and flung forward. He landed face down, bent over the bed with his feet on the floor, his head between Joey’s knees, and a male pelvis snug against his rump as Sal leaned in, twisting Isaac’s arm up behind his back. Oh, shit. A rock solid erection, still slick with Joey’s cream, sandwiched itself lengthwise between Isaac’s ass cheeks. The weight on him ground his own engorged shaft into the mattress, giving pleasure and pain at once—and the pleasure hurt the worst. Sudden, strange hunger hit, hot and heavy, pinning him motionless, breathless. Isaac bit his tongue to keep from groaning. “You like this, don’t you?” Sal whispered, his voice a velvet purr. Slowly, he slid his cock up and down through Isaac’s crease, spreading the natural lubricant, stirring the embers of hidden desires into open flames. “You’ll like this even better.” With a quick move, he let go of Isaac’s arm and grabbed Joey’s ankles, lifted her legs and tugged at the same 42
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time. Off balanced, Joey squawked and fell flat, and Isaac released the groan he’d been biting back, because the tug maneuvered the underside of Joey’s thighs flush against his shoulders, brought her juicy cunt just a lick away from his mouth. Pungent perfume engulfed him—intoxicating, brainnumbing—the succulent aroma of freshly fucked female flesh. A split peach, rosy and ripe, ready to be eaten. Petal soft folds, swollen and glistening with dew. Lord have mercy… Twin torment. A man behind him and a woman in front. Trapped between them, held helpless by the need to both take and be taken, Isaac raised the white flag, toppled headfirst into the madness of loving and being loved. By two. His hands raked up over the mattress, gripped Joey’s hips and pulled her straight into a ravenous, deep tonguing. Whoever would have guessed surrender tasted so sweet? Love made a potent seasoning. Joey writhed and whimpered, dug her fingers into his scalp and opened her legs wider for him. Spurred on by her moans, Isaac buried his face in her slit, licked and sucked her into the madness with him. She never had a chance to escape. Neither did he. While Isaac’s mouth claimed Joey’s cunt, Sal’s cock claimed Isaac’s ass with a deft thrust that burned like a branding iron at the instant of entry, then blossomed into erotic bliss when penetration was complete. A sharp gasp from Sal merged with Isaac’s husky groan. Both, it seemed, had 43
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gotten a surprise, more than they’d expected. For a sizzling second, neither moved. Time stopped; temperatures spiked. Then Sal started the action, the sensual rhythm of slide out and slice in. Isaac matched his tongue strokes to the tempo of a smoothpumping shaft—pushed back to receive, and forward to give. Good God almighty… The experience was indescribable. Molten warmth flooded him, filled his belly and flowed out through his limbs. He paused, panting hot steam on Joey, as his body absorbed giddy, new sensations—carnal heat, the crackle of escalating arousal—things he’d felt before, yes, but never with this intensity. Two lovers at once took arousal to a whole different level. Two lovers, and one of them a man, for godssake. It ought to feel dirty and degrading, evil as hell. Instead, it felt…right. The simple act of facing an inner demon, and seeing it wasn’t the monster he’d feared, unchained a shackled soul from the self-imposed slavery of rigid control, sent body and mind soaring to heavenly heights. An emancipation of emotion. Somewhere in the middle of it Isaac Strong made peace with Isaac Dubois. Hating his father didn’t mean he had to hate himself, after all. For that matter, he might not hate Henri as much as he’d thought. Even Celeste had told him not to judge the man too harshly. She may have cared for Henri more than she’d dared to admit. But since her religion said fornication without wedlock was a sin, and a wealthy white man couldn’t marry his black slave, she couldn’t go to his bed willingly. In her 44
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mind, she’d been honor bound to make it a battle every night. To give the devil his due, Henri had never married anyone else. He’d officially freed his son, and would have freed Celeste if he hadn’t feared losing her in the process. Against protocol, he’d educated Isaac, and on his deathbed had scandalized the local gentry by naming a mulatto bastard as his heir—an inheritance Isaac had rejected and been running from ever since. But maybe he’d run far enough? “Isaac…” Sal sounded like a man laboring to roll a boulder uphill. “Your attention is wavering. What am I doing wrong? We’re supposed to be making love—and you’re thinking?” “He does that a lot,” Joey strained out, pushing a boulder of her own. “I keep tellin’ him he needs to loosen up on his reins. On the other hand, since you mentioned love—” She broke off on a ragged exhale as Isaac’s tongue teased a small, pink nub. The magic spot. Simultaneously, he clenched rear muscles, pulling a guttural grunt from Sal. Wavering attention, huh? Like a person couldn’t think and fuck at the same time? “Hey, I’m tryin’ to talk.” Joey thumped a fist on Isaac’s shoulder. Sal collapsed forward onto Isaac’s back. “Oh, please, not you, too. Can’t we talk later?” “No! ’Cause I ain’t sure there’ll be a later. That’s why I need to say this now.” Wriggling and squirming, Joey struggled to scoot away, as though she honestly expected Isaac to let her go. 45
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Never. It had damn near gutted him to discover he loved her, but now that Isaac knew, there was only one way to handle the matter. His way. Not very gentlemanly perhaps, but there was no escaping that—no escaping him. Joey was his, would stay his, and like it. He’d make sure of the last point in particular. She could consider it a consolation to help ease any sting caused by his newly unleashed possessiveness. Hell, if nothing else, it would help console him. “Hush!” he ordered. Whatever Joey had to say about love, Isaac didn’t want to hear. He doubted it was anything positive. No “later”? Shit, that’s what she thought. He firmed his grip on her and zeroed in on The Spot. Joey quivered. Her spine arched. She’d been teetering so close to a climax, it took little to finish the job. A few good licks, a tiny nibble, a suck…and like a lit powder keg, she exploded in Isaac’s mouth. He nearly exploded with her. Fiery shivers shot through him, making muscles contract. He felt the blast that rocked her almost as if it were his own. Which meant Sal felt it, too, since he was fastened onto and into Isaac’s body, and some of the contracted muscles squeezed his rod. His breath wheezed out on a harsh rasp. Small wonder. Cowboys, as a general rule, had powerful buttocks and thighs by virtue of living in the saddle. Even while he savored the sensation of being penetrated, Isaac imagined what Sal was experiencing. Damn, now he wanted a cowboy, too. Fortunately, he knew just where to find one. 46
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Bringing Sal with him, Isaac climbed all the way onto the bed—crawled straight up Joey’s body till he lay atop her, face to face, sword to sheath. Deadly determined, he positioned his cock for entry—no easy feat with another cock making wicked, little half thrusts while its owner panted hot breath on the nape of his neck. Isaac froze, gritting his teeth, collecting needed control before the inward push. Loosening the reins didn’t mean losing them; he understood that now. He’d bind Joey to him, but with love, not pain. He refused to slam into her like a cyclone. Joey stared at him, her eyes glowing like blue coals in the lamplight. Lord, she seared his soul. Panic flickered in her gaze, yet beneath it, lurked more. Desire. But for whom? “Dang,” she gasped. “With you both on me, I’m gonna suffocate.” Bull feathers. Isaac had already considered that possibility and was taking care to keep the full impact of the double weight off Joey by bracing up a bit on his forearms. She was just grabbing for excuses to deter him—and the nervous shift of her gaze to something over his shoulder suggested why. Looking at Sal? Remembering how quickly she’d accepted his shaft? And seemed to enjoy it. Maybe wishing it was Sal’s skin next to hers instead of Isaac’s? Shit. The fact that Isaac had accepted the same shaft even quicker, and was also enjoying it, was a point he couldn’t ignore. Warm hands gripped his biceps; warm lips blazed a smoky trail of kisses across his back—the same hands and lips 47
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that had pleasured him when he’d thought they were feminine. Hands and lips that felt no less seductive for being a man’s. How could he blame Joey if she desired Sal? Isaac desired him, too. Hell, he even admired him. It took guts to live life on your own terms, and intelligence to do it with aplomb. Sal was a maverick but a very attractive one. So was Joey—and Isaac, in his own convoluted way. No wonder they’d ended up in a three-way tangle. Birds of a feather flocked together. The big question was where they went from here. Joey was staying with him, of that Isaac was certain, even if Joey didn’t know it yet. He’d make her a wealthy woman, in money as well as love, once he claimed his inheritance. They’d have their choice of living in America or the Dubois lands in France. But what about Sal? Isaac thought fast, then grinned at his answer. If Sal joined them, it wouldn’t really be a cause for jealousy, not like sharing Joey with another man. Because the man in question would be sharing Isaac, too. If Joey could handle that, Isaac decided he could. The only hitch might be Sal himself; intuition warned he wasn’t one for lengthy liaisons. But then, Sal had probably never before met anyone like his current conquests. If Isaac and Joey wanted Sal, they’d go after him come hell or high water—and they both happened to be experts with a lasso. In truth, there’d be no place on God’s green Earth he could hide from them. “Isaac,” Sal hissed. “You’re thinking again.” He punctuated the complaint with a sharp drive in, no 48
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teasing half-stroke but a full, solid impalement. The force of the thrust shoved Isaac into Joey. Deep in. All the way to paradise and beyond. Good glory halleluiah… Wet, womanly heat, and hard, hot man—and between them, Isaac, caught coming and going. A second thrust nailed him in place, and the third began a sensual, synchronized motion like the undulation of ocean waves. An exotic, erotic dance in the horizontal, three bodies moving as one. Three throaty groans, Isaac’s husky bass, Sal’s sultry tenor, and Joey’s alto all blended together in perfect harmony—the sound of ecstasy exploding. Lost in the throes of orgasmic release, blinded by the rapture of the moment, Isaac almost missed Joey’s breathy whisper. “I love you, Isaac Strong. That’s what I wanted to say before, even though you probably don’t wanna hear it. But it’s the truth, so I figured you oughta know. Just don’t go thinkin’ I expect it to mean anything. I’m tellin’ you to get it off my chest, that’s all. I know you ain’t the kind to stick in any one place too long. And I…I ain’t the kind to tie a man down.” “That so?” Lord have mercy. Isaac’s heart swelled so big, he marveled it didn’t burst his ribs. “And what if the man wants to be tied down? What if I said I love you, too, Joey Parker?” Joey’s jaw dropped. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Well, I’ll be danged,” was all she could answer. “Very sweet,” Sal panted out. “Now, if anyone cares for my opinion, I’d say it appears I’ve done my good deed for the day. I was hoping to bring you two together. I’ll feel better 49
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when I leave, knowing you’ll have each other.” Hell, Sal didn’t know half as much as he thought he did. Isaac stared at Joey. Joey stared back. From her expression, Isaac deduced she was thinking the same thing he was. She was also worried he might not like it. He shot her a wink to assure her he understood, that he didn’t want to see Sal leave any more than she did. Then, without a second’s warning, he rolled off her and onto his back, pinning the lighter weight man under an immovable mass of solid muscle. Fancy defense moves like Sal’s took a person only so far, especially when one’s cock was imbedded in an iron ass. Sal was well and truly trapped. Isaac had the upper hand and they all knew it. “You’re not going anywhere,” he told Sal. “You’ve been captured.” “Uh-uh.” Joey braced up on an elbow. “He looks relieved to me. I betcha he’s just been waitin’ for someone to care enough to hang on to him. Which means”—she chuckled— “this ain’t a capture. It’s a rescue. We’re savin’ him.” “From what?” Sal grunted. Stupid question. “A life of loneliness,” Isaac replied. And the best part was the rescuers got rescued, too. Damn, he felt good.
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M IMI RISER
Mimi Riser has been an actress, model, clown, belly-dancer, jewelry designer, editor and publisher, but her first and foremost love is writing. She specializes in offbeat tales where laughter reigns and good always triumphs—but she makes her characters really work for their happy endings. Her books have been said to read like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering size and speed as it goes. But if you think her stories are crazy, you should see her life. Once devout city people, she and her husband exchanged the hustle and bustle of Philadelphia a lifetime or two ago for the natural, rugged splendor of the rural southwest. They were looking for a simpler way of life. They got it. It ended up being so “natural and rugged,” they spent their first six and a half years there in a hand-built house with dirt floors, no electricity and no plumbing. This has proved helpful for her historicals as she can now write about the “olden days” from personal experience. They have since rejoined the 21st century and enjoy life on the open range with a house full of eccentric cats and a large, wacky dog who thinks she’s a cat, too. Mimi has had five novels published to date along with numerous articles and short stories. Her historical romance, I Do, was a “Top Ten Finisher” in the mammoth Preditors & Editors Readers Poll of 2003, and her contemporary comedy, Every Jack Needs His Jil, won the poll the following year for the “Best Mainstream Novel of 2004.” Samantha White and The Seven
Dwarves is her first erotic-romance and was one of the winners in Amber Quill’s 2007 Heat Wave contest. To learn more about Mimi and her writing, please visit her website: http://www.mimiriser.com *
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Don’t miss My Knightly Adventures: Just Another Lonely Knight, by Mimi Riser available at AmberHeat.com!
What happens when the fairytale finishes and one’s happy ending goes awry? The very contemporary Dorothy “Dee” Day has found the romance of a lifetime with Sir Wolfred of Camelot. Together they’ve survived the dangers of a fantasyland adventure and made it back to the real world to live out the rest of their earthly existence in each other’s arms. This should be their happily-ever-after. So, why isn’t it? Why has Wolfred suddenly become so silent and sullen? Has Dee done something wrong? More importantly, can she fix it? With their communication lines
hanging in shreds, how will she and Wolfred ever recapture the magic between them? Wait a minute…did someone say magic? Enter Sir Glendel Goodfellow, fey-kin Gate Guardian of the Astral Realms, armed with sizzling bisexuality and a love spell that just may save Ms. Day and her knight. Now all he has to do is convince them to let him use it. A bit tricky, since the spell involves a three-way carnal joining with him. Even trickier, will a lonely fey-kin be able to guard his own heart if the spell ensnares him, too? Wolfred and Dee aren’t the sort to open their relationship to a third member, after all… Or are they?
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