Dangerous Men [Anthology]

DANGEROUS MEN

Dangerous Men By Carroll Mavis-Raine

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Carroll Mavis-Raine

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electro nic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Dangerous Men Anthology Copyright (c) 2005 by Carroll Mavis-Raine ISBN: 1-59836-061-2 Cover art and design (c) 2005 by Marianne LaCroix All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. Printed and bound in the United States of America. For information, you can find us on the web at www.VenusPress.com

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DANGEROUS MEN

Dedication:

To all the women who can't resist dangerous men.

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Contents

Italian Pastry Phantom Gray The Highwayman Sky Eyes The Captain’s Widow The Uninvited Wildspitze The Carriage Ride The Lady and the Traveler

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Italian Pastry

Tomas Marcolini saw the shapely blonde at Carrie Andrews' funeral. Who was she? In the six months he'd dated Carrie, he'd surely met every one of her large extended family. He remembered meeting one wrinkled face after another at that family reunion she'd dragged him to last summer. Except...hadn't she mentioned an older sister who was always off on some archeological dig in Egypt or Syria or some weird place? Who knew? Their romance had gone sour long before the egghead sister had shown up, and he'd had to break it off. It was really too bad about Carrie. She was a cute kid. Had been, anyway. Tomas still remembered the day he'd met her. It was in Norway during the Winter Olympics. He'd just won his second gold medal in the Men's Downhill. Still jubilant with victory, he'd gone over to see the women do their thing in the Giant Slalom. Carrie, an eighteen-year-old nobody from Colorado, blew away the competition and became America's newest media darling. He'd taken one good look at her long golden-brown hair, her clear green eyes, and pretty freckled face, and decided that America's media darling needed to meet Italy's media darling. He'd made his way through the crowd, which immediately parted for him as soon as they recognized him. Wearing his warmest smile, he introduced himself to Carrie, although an introduction was definitely not necessary. After all, one would have to be living on an ice floe in Antarctica not to have heard of the great downhill racer, Tomas Marcolini. Seducing America's newest celebrity had been remarkably easy. All it took was a couple of bottles of good French wine, an elegant dinner in one of Oslo's best restaurants and his undivided attention. He had it down pat--the constant eye contact that told her she was the only woman in the room, maybe the world, as far as he was concerned. He'd kept his voice low and intimate, and of course, his Italian accent hadn't hurt. American women swooned over it. 6

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After dinner Carrie had returned with him to his hotel room where he'd taken her virginity. Her innocence astonished him. Sure, she was only eighteen, but most girls, especially American ones, had experimented with sex earlier than that. But because Carrie had been so caught up in ski racing since the tender age of twelve, he supposed she hadn't had the time or the opportunity for romance. Tomas was glad about that. Teaching Carrie about love had been intoxicating--so much so that he'd stayed with her much longer than he did with most women, even following her to Colorado for the summer and moving into her house in Vail. That's where he'd met all her weird relatives. It was inevitable, though, that he'd become bored with Carrie's "apple-pie" wholesomeness, (although he had to admit she'd turned into quite the little wildcat in bed and wasn't averse to learning a few tricks--even flirted with S & M.) Still, Tomas was used to variety when it came to women; it was amazing, really, that he'd stayed with Carrie almost seven months. And in that time, he'd remained faithful, screwing only two other women, a barmaid and a stripper--just a couple of one-night stands. As summer ebbed into fall, Tomas' thoughts turned to Europe...to Celeste in Paris who could do amazing things with her tongue and dark sweet chocolate. To Shawna in London, a six-foot black model who craved back-door sex. Oh, and of course, Gina in Rome, who often invited another nymphet to join in on their bedroom games. Not to mention all the thousands of young nubile girls he'd yet to meet. Unfortunately, the break-up was uglier than he'd expected. Poor Carrie was crushed. It seemed that she'd thought he was in love with her. He'd tried to be gentle; he'd told her how sweet she was, how she'd someday make a wonderful wife for some lucky man. But not him. He couldn't see himself ever being husband material. He was too much of a wild spirit. Surely she could see that. But she hadn't. Yes, it was a damn shame about Carrie. What a waste! Her deterioration hadn't been sudden. She'd gone back to ski racing the following winter after the break-up, but it was obvious that something had gone out of her. Experts said it was her drive, her will to win that was missing. And then she'd had that horrible accident at Garmisch. Lost her concentration for a split second and careened down the mountain, smashing her leg in three places and her arm in two. That had been the beginning of her drug problem. The painkillers got her 7

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hooked. Nothing to do with him. Oh, sure, Tomas had got her to try a little coke once or twice, but she hadn't had a drug problem when he broke up with her. No fucking way. No one was going to blame him for her death. He'd heard the rumors. That before she'd gotten mixed up with him, she'd been a bright effervescent young woman, destined for greatness. Now, at nineteen, she was dead from an overdose of Phenobarbital and alcohol. But it wasn't his fault! Why was everyone here giving him such dirty looks? Tomas returned his attention to the shapely blonde sitting with Carrie's griefstricken parents, wondering again who she was. Could it possibly be the sister? If so, she wasn't anything like he'd imagined. Somehow, he'd thought she'd be an old hag with skin the texture of a sun-ripened raisin. The funeral ended and the immediate family stood up and began to make their way down the aisle toward the doors. The buxom blonde moved gracefully, almost felinely in a clinging black dress, exuding a sexuality that triggered an immediate reaction in Tomas. Sheer, unadulterated lust. A dark veil hid her face from view, but he could see that her hair was honey-colored, short and silky. And her breasts were gorgeous--firm and full beneath her rayon bodice. Who was she? As she reached the last pew, he felt her gaze, but of course, couldn't see her eyes. She hesitated for a split second and then passed by. Tomas released a deep, explosive breath, feeling his heart pounding like a piston. His prick had gone as hard as a block of cement...just because she'd looked at him. Christ! He'd never felt such an overwhelming sense of arousal. He had to find out who she was. He didn't see her again until he joined the mourners at the cemetery. After Carrie's coffin was lowered into the earth, each of her family members, including the woman in black, tossed a clump of soil into the grave. Tomas stared at her, unable to disguise his fascination. Her legs were gorgeous--long and slim. Could she be a model? She certainly had the body for it now that tits were back in style. As the mourners left the grave and headed back toward the long line of limousines nearby, Tomas stood still, staring down at Carrie's coffin and wondering how he could possibly approach the blond woman in black. But incredibly, it was she who approached him. Her fragrance wafted toward him, a heady Oriental scent. Sultry and sensuous. She stood only a few inches away, much closer than was socially acceptable. 8

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"I know you," she said in a husky Demi Moore-type voice. "You're Tomas Marcolini. Carrie told me a lot about you." "Really?" He felt vaguely uncomfortable. What had Carrie told her? "Oh, yes." Slowly, the woman lifted the veil and drew it back over her hat. He inhaled sharply, unprepared for her incredible beauty. Her eyes were smokeyblue and widely spaced, fringed with dark lashes. A perfect nose, a full sensuous mouth, creamy porcelain skin. And a tiny mole just to the left of her lower lip. But it was much more than that. It was her earthy sexuality, so powerful that he almost reeled from it. At her approach, his cock had again stirred and now was so hard, it felt like a hot brick had been placed in his pants. All because of her proximity. If she touched him...Christ...what would that do? She extended her gloved hand. "I'm Sharon, Carrie's sister." "I'm sorry about Carrie," he said, taking her hand. Even through her glove, he felt her warmth. His senses swam. Jesus Christ! What was happening to him? He looked into her eyes, and all he wanted to do was fuck her right there next to Carrie's grave...right then. She smiled, gazing deeply into his very soul, and somehow, he knew she was reading his mind. "Are you as good as my little sister said you were?" Her voice was so low, he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. But before he could respond, she turned and walked away. His eyes locked upon her swaying hips. "Wait!" he called out. She turned and looked him up and down, a slight smile of amusement on her lips. "Yes?" He swallowed hard, for once in his life, feeling out of his depth. Impossible! Tomas Marcolini out of his depth with a woman? It couldn't be happening. "Can we...you know...get together for a drink? Talk about Carrie?" Jesus, he was stammering. "I'm leaving for Central America tomorrow." He stared at her, his mouth slack with dismay. "For good? Please don't say for good." She smiled, her eyes penetrating. "For a few months. I have a study to complete." At his look of total bafflement, she went on, "I'm an anthropologist. I spend a lot of time in South America." "Do you ever get to Rome?" he asked eagerly. 9

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She lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. "You never know." His fingers trembled as he drew his business card out of his wallet. "Here is my address. If you do, call me." The Mona Lisa smile remained on her lips. Did she find him amusing? She took the card and tucked it into her purse. "Perhaps I will. Then again, maybe I won't." Two months passed, and Tomas didn't hear from her. Still, she was in his mind constantly. At night, his dreams were of her...erotic dreams beyond all imagining. The things she did to him...God...he'd wake in the middle of the night, his cock granite-hard and pulsing. He tried making love to other women, and for the first time in his life, he found himself impotent. It was as if Sharon had put some kind of curse on him. His cock wanted only her. What was she? Some kind of witch? Masturbating was his only relief. But even with that, the only way he could maintain an erection was to think of Sharon. Sleazy magazines, adult videos...none of them would do the trick. Only Sharon. And then, one afternoon three months after he'd met her, she turned up at his manager's office while they were in the middle of a meeting. Walked right in. She wore slim faded jeans, cowboy boots and a flesh-colored crocheted vest which did nothing to hide her round, luscious breasts. Both Tomas and his manager stopped talking in midsentence to stare at her. She gave them a cool smile and asked to speak to Tomas alone. He wasted no time in getting his manager out of the office, then turned back to Sharon, catching his breath as he noticed the tiny brown nubs of her nipples through the openings in the crocheted vest. Her short blond hair was slightly mussed by the wind. She gazed at him with her deep indigo eyes for a long moment without speaking. "About that drink," she said. "I'm staying at a friend's villa outside the city. Here's the directions. It's rather remote, so leave early. Be there at nine o'clock tonight." With that, she turned and left the office, leaving behind that alluring Eastern scent he'd noticed that day at the cemetery. The hours couldn't pass quickly enough for Tomas. He raced back to his apartment and after showering, dressed in casual pressed slacks and one of his favorite printed shirts. He brushed his dark brown hair and stared into the mirror, knowing he looked great as usual, but somehow, he still felt insecure. No other woman had ever made him feel insecure. What was it about Sharon? 10

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At nine o'clock sharp, he knocked on the elaborate front door of the villa. She opened it and stepped back. He stifled a gasp as he caught his first sight of her. She was dressed in a short, silk dress with a plunging satin neckline, which revealed her ample breasts. Silky black hose encased her long legs, made even longer by the four-inch strappy heels she wore. Her hair was pleasantly mussed, as if she'd just dragged herself out of bed after hours of long lazy lovemaking. But her make-up was flawless, her lips red and pouty. He stepped inside, his hands clammy with nerves. "I'm afraid I'm a bit underdressed." "No matter," she said, taking his hand and leading him into a huge drawing room. He tried to ignore the tingle her touch sent racing through him and instead, gazed around the room. It was decorated in a Middle-Eastern motif--big fluffy pillows, silken scarves and woven tapestries. Tapered candles burned in different places and spicy incense permeated the air. On a low table in front of a large L-shaped white leather sofa, a bottle of white wine chilled in an ice bucket. Two crystal goblets were half-filled. "I knew you'd be on time," she said, her eyes resting on the glasses. "Please, sit down." "You are very sure of yourself, are you not?" he said, trying to sound off-hand, but it came out awkwardly. Contrived. Her eyes sparkled as she met his gaze. Was she laughing at him, he wondered? "There are some things everyone should be sure of," she said, settling down next to him on the sofa and reaching for her wine glass. Her heat hit him like a blast from a furnace, yet, she hadn't touched him yet. As before, his cock had hardened the moment he saw her. Now, it lay rigid against his stomach. Could she see it? But how could she not? It bulged against his trousers, plainly outlined against the gabardine fabric. Yet, she appeared not to notice as she drained her glass. She placed it down on the table and turned to face him. Her gaze was direct. "I have two rules," she said huskily. "Do you want to hear them?" His heartbeat picked up. He knew exactly what she meant. "Yes," he said. "Okay. Number One. You can look, but you can't touch. Not until I give you permission." He swallowed hard and managed to answer. "And number two?" 11

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Her eyes hardened. "You can't come until I allow you to. If you do...you're out of here." He tried not to show his consternation. Still, he wasn't too worried. He was the kind of guy who could keep it up for hours if he wanted to. Looking at Sharon, he decided he wanted to. "That will not be a problem," he said. She nodded. Her hands went to her crossed leg and slowly slid up her nylons, her eyes watching him. He felt his breathing go shallow as his eyes followed the movement of her hands. They reached her thighs and moved upward, pushing the silk fabric of her dress higher. Finally, they slid up and under the skirt to the juncture of her thigh and belly. Slowly, still watching him, she uncrossed her leg. Her fingers moved between her parted legs, touching herself. Her mouth parted, and her tongue snaked out to lick her lips. A dazed expression had lodged in her eyes as she became lost in her own caress. His cock bucked against his zipper. He could feel the engorged blood coursing through it, demanding release. It was agony. Sharon's eyes had darkened as she continued to stroke herself. She turned slightly so he could get a better view, and for just a moment, she withdrew her hand so Tomas could clearly see she wore no panties, only a garter belt to hold up her nylons. She smiled lazily as he gazed hungrily at her revealed pussy, and then slowly, she slid two fingers in and began to fuck herself right in front of him. Tomas groaned and pressed a hand against his erection. "Uh uh..." she said softly, shaking her head. "No touching, remember." "But..." he gasped. "No touching you, you said." She shook her head again, still sliding her fingers in and out of her cunt. In the silence, he could hear the sucking moist sound of her wetness. It was making him crazy. "No touching, I said..." Her voice was soft, almost as if she were hypnotized. "Not even yourself." She pulled her fingers away from her pussy and leaned toward him, rubbing her juices over his lips. "You have my permission to lick my fingers." He reached for her hand, but she shook her head. "Just your tongue. No other touching." Avidly, he licked her pussy juices, and again, felt like he was going to explode. What was she doing to him? After he'd licked her fingers clean, she stood up and left the room. 12

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Quickly, Tomas unzipped his pants and slid his hand inside, closing on his rigid penis. He knew he was playing with fire, but he had to touch his cock. Nothing on earth could stop him. One...two strokes, and already, he was close to coming. He heard her footsteps coming down the hallway and quickly withdrew his hand and zipped up. He felt the hot color flood his face. Oh, man. She was driving him mad. She stepped into the room. He gasped at the sight of her. She stood before him, completely nude except for her black nylons, garter belt and high heels. Her breasts were large and supple; her nipples dark brown and hard. He saw immediately by the tawny color of her pubic hair that she was a natural blonde. She looked so good, Tomas almost creamed in his pants right then. "I had to get my toy," she said, smiling sweetly. In her hand, she held a huge dildo, veined and life-like. She smiled at him and slowly, began to lick it, her tongue swirling around it as if it were a Popsicle. Her eyes held his as she performed fellatio on the lifeless object, oh, so expertly. And it was almost as if she were doing it to him. He moaned as she flicked the tip with her tongue and then withdrew it from her mouth. She switched on a button and the thing began to buzz. Smiling, she settled down on two large pillows on the floor, parted her legs and began to fuck herself with the vibrator. Her other hand alternated between her breasts and her clitoris, and all the time, she gazed at him, right into his amazed eyes, a tiny smile on her lips. Oh, God! His cock was a live thing inside his pants, straining to get out, straining to plunge inside her like that dildo was doing this very moment. As her strokes intensified, she began to grunt in a soft sexy way, and Tomas felt his senses swim with each sound. He arched his pelvis and felt his cock rub against his zipper. He couldn't touch, but he could get a bit of friction that way. As she rose higher toward her peak, Tomas did the same. He began to moan in time with her grunts, his heart pounding against his chest wall. "Please, cara mia..." he gasped. "Let me touch...let me touch..." "No..." she mumbled, between grunts. "No...permission...ahhh..." She grimaced and shuddered as she came, grinding the dildo inside her frantically. Tomas thrust upward, rubbing himself against the fabric of his pants and suddenly, he was so close to coming, he knew it would only be a matter of seconds. Even in the middle of her orgasm, she realized what was happening to him. "Don't do it," she gasped. "Not if you want to stay!" 13

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He forced himself to stop grinding his pelvis. And he stopped himself right at the brink. His cock remained like a hot rod in his pants, just millimeters away from erupting. "Oh, Christ..." he murmured. "I cannot believe this...you are killing me..." "Think about something else," she said, rising gracefully to her feet. Tomas couldn't believe it. She wasn't even out of breath from her orgasm. She grabbed the wine bottle from the bucket. "More wine?" she whispered, smiling cat-like. He nodded, and she filled his glass. He gulped it frantically, trying to get his mind off his swollen prick. She sipped her wine daintily, her eyes amused as she watched him. After draining her glass, she stood up. "Why don't you bring your wine upstairs to my bedroom? This time, I might let you touch." His heart skipped a beat, and almost immediately, he felt his cock grow even harder. He'd never met a woman like Sharon before. She was a witch. A delicious, spellbinding witch. And if he didn't fuck her tonight, he'd surely die. Meekly, he stood up and followed her up the wide, curving marble stairs, his eyes fixed on her full curvaceous buttocks, a long smooth back and tapered waist. What a woman. All woman. He was practically drooling. Inside her spacious white-furnished bedroom, she placed the wine bucket and her glass onto the bureau, and turned to him. His eyes swept her body; she looked so incredible, clad only in that black garter belt, nylons and heels. What gorgeous breasts, full and firm. And that tawny thatch of hair, which guarded her honey-pot. Oh, how he wanted to sink his tongue into that crevice, make her cry out as she had when she'd fucked herself with the dildo. She lifted the two refilled glasses of wine from her bureau. "Drink up, and let's get started." Tomas took the wine glass and drained it in one swallow. She smiled. "Strip off your clothes. All of them. And lie down on the bed." Her tone brooked no argument. In her hands, she held two long silken scarves. Immediately, he did as ordered. He loved silk scarves. Gina used silk scarves in her sex-play. But compared to Sharon, Gina was about as sexy as flannel. He stretched out on the bed, his cock at full-mast. This time, he knew there would be skin to skin contact. If not, he'd surely lose his mind. 14

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She tied his hands to the bedposts in a tight but not uncomfortable knot. Still, he knew he wouldn't be able to release himself without considerable work. She'd done this before, and she knew how to do it right. For a moment, she stared down at him, her blue eyes cloudy with lust. His cock had been granite-like before he'd stripped down. Now, it reared hungrily, like an impatient animal, ready for the kill. Sharon gazed at it, and licked her lips sensuously. "Please..." he growled out. "Do not make me wait any longer." He was full, pulsating. It was as if he hadn't climaxed in years. She smiled and moved toward him in her feline way. She straddled him, her knees pressing on each side of his waist, but not touching him. Her eyes gazed into his. He arched his head enough so he could see her inviting pussy, just inches from his navel. "Oh, Christ..." he mumbled. "What are you waiting for, woman?" She grinned and slowly sank down, pressing her wet cunt against his stomach. He felt his cock rub against her buttocks and thrust toward her. Immediately, she moved away from him. He growled out in frustration, and she only smiled. Again, she lowered herself, rubbing her pussy against his stomach. He bucked against his ties, wanting nothing more than to be able to use his hands to grab her sexy buttocks and slam her down onto his rigid rod. As if reading his mind, she scrambled over him and positioned herself at his right side, making sure that none of her skin touched his. "Oh, cara..." he moaned. "Quit teasing me..." She laughed. A soft, sexy sound that made him even hornier. "Do you want me to suck you off, Tomas? Is that it?" "Yes...damn it. Yes!" "Okay...but remember Rule # 2. You can't come until I say so." He nodded frantically. "Just...do it!" She began at his chest, kissing and licking. He moaned and thrashed on the bed, wishing his hands weren't tied. He wanted to touch her, feel those breasts, slide his fingers inside her wet pussy. She inched her way down, swirling her tongue along his quivering stomach muscles, dipping it into his navel. God, her tongue was hot. Finally, her hand grasped his shaft and it jerked spasmodically at her touch. Her mouth closed over its head and slowly, oh, so very slowly, his hot tool slid down her throat. Oh, God...he thought he was dying. It had never felt like this...too fucking wonderful for 15

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words. Her tongue was magic as she sucked him, licking the length of him, her fingers stroking his scrotum, her mouth sliding up and down, tongue stroking in circular motions and finally, reaching his very tip where it flicked teasingly until he was near screaming. And then, just as he was about to explode in her mouth, she drew away. "No!" he grunted. "Please...don't stop." She laughed and strolled toward the door. His eyes feasted on her perfect body. Christ! He wanted her like he'd never wanted anyone. And she hadn't even let him touch her pussy yet! Not once. "I'll be back. I like my Italian pastry with chocolate on it." She was only gone for a few minutes, but it seemed like hours to Tomas...and his cock. It reared at the ceiling, pulsating and engorged. He closed his eyes, grimacing. How much longer would the torture go on before she allowed him the satisfying release? He heard her footfall and opened his eyes. She stood at the side of the bed, smiling down at him with those gorgeous indigo eyes. In one slim hand, she held a jar of thick, chocolate sauce. She dipped an index finger into the viscous goo, and slowly, her eyes fastened to his as she slid her finger into her mouth, sucking rhythmically. He almost creamed right there and then, and she knew it. She gave a delighted laugh and tilted the jar over his cock. The thick, dark chocolate covered the head of his cock and slithered languidly down its length, and the feel of its soft velvet warmth made him, incredibly enough, even hornier. "Oh, yeah..." he groaned. "Lick it off, baby. Lick it all off." "All in good time," she whispered. "There's just one more little extra I need to get out of the bathroom." What, he wondered? What more could she possibly need? Tomas closed his eyes, groaning. "Just hurry," he gasped. "I cannot take much more of this." He heard her walk into the adjoining bathroom. She seemed to be in there a long time. He felt the chocolate pooling stickily at the shaft of his cock. If she didn't hurry up, there wouldn't be any left on his flagpole to lick off. "Hey!" he called. "What is taking you so long, cara mia? I am going crazy in here!" "I'm coming!" she replied. "That is what I have been trying to do for the last fucking hour," he muttered. 16

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She stepped into the room. "It is about time," he said, and opened my eyes. "What the fuck?" She was completely dressed, wearing a pair of jeans and a sexy white silk blouse. In one hand, she held a suitcase, and in the other, a rectangular glass box. She smiled at Tomas apologetically. "I'm sorry, Tomas, but I just remembered I have a flight to Belmopan to catch. But I'll leave you something to keep you company." She placed the glass box on the bed next to his thigh, and carefully opened the cover. "What is that?" His eyes fastened upon the box. "Oh, this?" She gave a soft laugh. "Surely you've seen these before. It's an ant farm. Almost every young boy has one. But these ants..." She laughed again. "Oh, these ants are special. Because Tomas, you deserve nothing but the best. Nothing but the most unusual. Have you ever heard of the species solenopis? Oh, probably not. You're probably more familiar with its nickname. The fire-ant?" Her smile disappeared and her violet eyes grew icy. "Known for its particularly vicious bite." "Jesus Christ!" he blurted out as realization set in. "You cannot be serious!" She turned the box on its side, the open end of it facing his groin. "How can you know when I'm serious," she said, taking a step back from the bed. "You hardly know me at all. Just as you didn't know my sister. You didn't take the time to know her. You just fucked her and threw her out with the garbage." She was at the door, suitcase in hand. "You cannot leave me like this!” Tomas screamed. She paused, her brow furrowed. "I can't?" She appeared to think about it for a moment. Then she shook her head. "I don't see why not." Then she stepped through the bedroom door and closed it behind her. "Sharon! I am serious! You cannot do this!" He heard her footsteps as she descended the marble stairs. "Okay, okay! I am sorry for what I did to your sister! But it was not my fault she killed herself. Besides, we do not even know if it was a suicide!" He waited for a response. Nothing. His eyes darted to the open ant farm. A long line of the tiny black bodies were already trailing across the rumpled sheet toward his groin. "Sharon! This is not funny!" 17

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From downstairs, he heard the villa door close with a thud. The first of the ants began to climb onto Tomas' stomach, heading straight for his chocolate-covered cock that now lay listlessly against his leg. A blossom of pain exploded in needle-like pricks over his stomach and thighs as the swirling ants began to bite. Just before he opened his mouth to scream, he thought he heard Sharon's laugh from outside the villa. But maybe that was his imagination.

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Phantom Gray

As Lindsey exited Interstate 66, she noticed a dark blue Mazda following her. Her stomach muscles tightened. It looked just like Steve’s car. But how could he have found her so quickly? At the stop sign at the end of the ramp, she put on her left signal and turned toward The Plains. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as the blue car turned right and headed toward Marshall. It was just her imagination working overtime. Of course, it would be impossible for Steve to find her. She’d covered her tracks well. Still, the sight of the blue Mazda brought it all back. That last day with Steve. Her twenty-sixth birthday. She’d been in the kitchen of their home in Riverside, baking a cake for herself. No one else would do it. Certainly not Steve. He’d been so weird lately—with his sexual hang-ups and increasingly violent behavior. It was the drugs, of course. The coke was destroying him. But the last time she’d suggested he get professional help, she’d found herself on the floor with a split lip. He’d walked into the kitchen as she was taking the cake from the oven. The scent of cherry tobacco alerted her to his presence. She straightened and saw him staring at her, his brown eyes glittering oddly. Fear clutched at her insides. She’d seen him like that before, and knew what it meant. His grin was cruel. “What’s this? Susie Homemaker?” She turned away to place the cake pan on a wire rack. “It’s my birthday, remember? I thought this year I’d bake myself a cake.” His face had grown blank as if he’d tired of the conversation. “Well, you can finish it later. Right now, I’m going to give you your birthday present.” He began to unzip the fly of his Chinos. “Pull down your jeans and turn around.” Panic swept over her. “No, Steve! Not now, and not like that!” 19

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His face darkened at her refusal. He took a step toward her, his hand caressing his stiff penis, now released from his trousers. “Unzip those jeans before I have to do it for you.” Lindsey’s heart pounded. She knew it would go easier for her if she’d just obey him, but something inside her rebelled—finally. She took a step away from him…and then the phone rang. “Don’t answer it,” Steve said. “Just unzip your jeans.” “It’s my mother.” Lindsey reached for the phone, her hand trembling. “Oh, hi, Mom! I thought it might be you. Thank you. Yes, twenty-six today.” She listened while her mother told the annual story of how she’d gone into labor back in Texarkana, how she and Lindsey’s father had raced along narrow country roads to get to the hospital in Hot Springs, arriving just minutes before her birth. Lindsey felt Steve’s hostile gaze burning into her back. Mama, help me…if you only knew what your son-in-law is about to do to me. “Steve? He’s fine. He says hello. What are we doing tonight?” She swallowed hard, trying to push away the lump in her throat. “Oh, I don’t know. Nothing special, I guess. Okay, I’ll tell him to take me somewhere nice.” She glanced at Steve. His face was a mixture of impatience and lust. Quickly, she turned away, the photographic image of him caressing his erection imprinted on her mind. “Mom, don’t go yet. How’s Brenda? And the baby? Is he walking yet?” Hands grabbed her around the waist. She gasped. “Nothing, Mom. Go on.” Steve’s fingers fumbled at her zipper. She tried to push him away, but his hand grabbed her chin viciously. His eyes dug into hers. A silent warning. His hands went back to her zipper. Lindsey closed her eyes, still listening to her mother’s loving voice in her ear. His fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arms. “Hang up,” he growled, his lips like concrete against her free ear. Panic rushed over her. “Mom, I have to go. The cake is burning. Okay, thanks for calling.” The phone fell to the counter. “Good girl,” he sneered into her ear. He wrenched her jeans and panties down, then violently whirled her around, pressing her belly against the counter. I can’t take this anymore…I won’t take it anymore. Her panicked gaze fell on the butcher-block knife holder on the counter, and she knew then what she had to do. 20

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*** It had started to snow lightly just as Lindsey pulled into the gravel driveway and parked the car in front of the old Virginia farmhouse. Through a mist of fatigue, she gazed up at the foyer of the old house she’d inherited. Her haven. She spoke softly to the empty room. “Aunt Susie, you saved my life, you know. You gave me what I needed to get away from him.” It was true. This old house would be a retreat, a place where she could forget about her old life and immerse herself in her art. She’d spend the days painting…healing. “Thank you, Aunt Susie.” It was almost as if the old dusty walls were listening. She felt an incredible sense of welcome, a feeling that dear, plump Aunt Susie was standing right here, enveloping her in her apple-scented bosom. The thought of her favorite aunt reminded her of the inexplicable note the lawyer had given her. The envelope had been addressed to Lindsey in Aunt Susie’s sweeping handwriting. “Open in the event of my death.” The note had held only two lines: Enjoy Evan. He’s kept me young for many years. Love, Aunt Susie. So, who was Evan? A cat or dog? And if so, where was he? No one seemed to know. One thing was for sure. He wasn’t around here. The old house was as silent as a rock. With heavy steps, Lindsey went up the stairs leading to the bedrooms. She hoped one of them, at least, would be fit to sleep in. That was what she needed most— dreamless sleep and then perhaps something to eat. That, of course, would have to wait until morning when she could get out to The Plains for groceries. All five bedrooms were shrouded with dust covers. She chose the one with a fireplace. It was charmingly old-fashioned with its wallpaper of lavender ribbons garnished with sprigs of the same aromatic flower. A matching cotton comforter covered the huge four-poster cherry-wood bed over a skirt of eyelet. Lindsey felt for a switch to brighten the dusk-filled room, but nothing happened when she found it. Then, she remembered. The electricity hadn’t been turned on— something else she to do in town tomorrow. In the shadowy light, she saw a kerosene lantern on the bedside table. It was that or nothing. 21

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After lighting the lantern with matches she found in her purse, she started a fire in the hearth. Then she stripped out of her jeans and pullover sweater and slid between the somewhat musty sheets. Only a moment after she tugged the comforter up over her shoulders, her eyelids fluttered closed. *** It was a dream. What else could it be? But he was so real. He stood in the room staring at her. How she could see him, she didn’t know, for it was still dark. Outside, she could hear the moaning wind and the snow thudding softly against the window. Was that part of the dream, as well? She knew she should be afraid at the appearance of a strange man in her bedroom, but she wasn’t. After all, he was just a dream. The man stood at the side of her bed, tall and broad-shouldered. He had a Nordic face with high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Lindsey found herself mesmerized by his lips, sensuously full and kissable. Dark blond hair swept back from his face, just touching his shoulders. He appeared to be dressed in a pewter-gray uniform—one from another age. He moved toward her and still, Lindsey felt no fear. She waited for his touch, anticipating it. When it came, she was unprepared for her body’s volatile reaction. She trembled and quaked as his body slid onto hers, his hands slipping silkily under her bra to caress her bare flesh. They gently closed over her breasts, cupping them softly, his thumbs teasing her nipples until they stood like tiny erect soldiers. His voluptuous mouth covered hers in a deep, erotic kiss that left her breathless and begging for more. But his mouth moved down to her collarbone to where the buttons of her nightgown began. Quickly, his hands unsnapped the front closure of her bra. As soon as her breasts were exposed, his mouth nuzzled at one nipple, then the other, sucking them gently, almost tentatively. Lindsey’s fingernails dug into the sheets as the blood raced through her veins. She felt herself growing wet between her legs. Touch me…oh, please touch me now. It was almost as if he could read her thoughts. Her thighs parted as his searching fingers slid to her hot moist center, gently manipulating her clitoris until it was stiff and throbbing. She came quickly, gasping. As her heartbeat steadied, she reached for him, but at that moment, he disappeared into nothingness. And the dream was over. *** 22

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When Lindsey awoke, the eerie light from the night’s snowfall filled the room. Still half asleep, she stretched lazily, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips. The same dream had come to her over and over in the night, a little different each time, but always the same Nordic-looking man doing such wonderful things to her love-starved body. It was as if she could still feel his warm fingers on her bare nipples, his hot moist lips pressing against hers, his tongue searching the mysteries of her mouth. Over and over in the night, the blond stranger in her dreams had brought her to one shuddering climax after another. Lindsey’s eyes opened and vaguely, she looked around the room, not sure at first where she was. For a moment, she sensed a presence nearby, but then it was gone. She lay still, wondering if she could summon the strength to get out of bed. There were so many things she had to do, but she felt lethargic. Almost as if she hadn’t slept at all. Finally, she managed to swing her legs to the side of the bed and pull herself to a sitting position. When she stood and walked across the room to get dressed, she felt a deep aching inside her womb. It was a pulsating throb, unlike the painful rawness Steve’s lovemaking always left inside her, even before his sexual appetite had changed. It was almost as if she’d really been loved last night, loved thoroughly. *** “Lindsey! Where are you? We’ve been frantic!” Brenda’s voice was shrill in her ear. Lindsey felt a wave of guilt. She should’ve called home sooner, once she was safely out of the state. “It doesn’t matter where I am,” she said to her older sister. “I just want you to know I’m okay.” “But why did you leave like that? So suddenly—without telling anyone?” A vision of Steve flashed through Lindsey’s mind, his face a mask of animal lust. Brenda would never understand what it had been like. Not with a husband likes James who worshiped her. “I can’t talk about it now, Brenda. Have you heard from Steve? Is he looking for me?” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Brenda spoke, her voice strained. “Lindsey, tell me where you are. Jim and I will come and get you.” “No,” Lindsey said quickly. “It’s peaceful here. It’s just what I need right now.” “You’re at Aunt Susie’s house, aren’t you?” 23

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Lindsey’s pulse jumped. “Don’t tell Steve,” she said just before breaking the connection. She shouldn’t have called. If Steve had any idea that Brenda knew where she was, he’d find a way to get it out of her. When had things started going bad for them? Steve hadn’t always been a monster. It was his slide into the world of drugs that had changed him. Unwanted memories flooded her mind during the drive back to the farmhouse, and though she tried desperately, she couldn’t push them away. *** For three more nights, Lindsey slept dreamlessly. But on the fifth night in the Virginia farmhouse, the dreams returned. In her dream, she was lying asleep on her stomach. She felt the man’s hands sliding up her brushed cotton nightgown, lingering lovingly on her bare buttocks. Sighing, she allowed herself to move against his caress. His fingers slipped the nightgown upward, exposing her back. His breath was warm against her skin. Then she felt his lips moving along her spine, sending shivers of excitement along her nerve endings. His hands moved from her back to caress the side swells of her breasts as they pressed against the mattress. “Please,” she murmured, grinding into the mattress. Her legs parted slightly in silent invitation. “Touch me…” He did. One hand slipped between her stomach and the bed, sliding down expertly to her hot center. His fingers slid into her. She pressed against them, wanting, wanting…and almost immediately getting release. As she pulsated against his fingers, he moved them in her wetness, tenderly, lovingly. When her breathing slowed, she heard his voice, soft and deliciously Southern. “M’name is Evan, Ma’am, and you’re just the sweetest taste of a woman I’ve ever had. Here, this is for you.” Her eyes flashed open. His voice was so real! Heart pounding, she turned over, still feeling the wet release of her orgasm between her thighs. In the darkness, she saw a movement, a gray shadow moving away from her. She opened her mouth to scream, and then it was gone. “Imagination,” she murmured. “That’s all it is.” But then she felt something soft on the bed next to her. With shaking fingers, she reached out to switch on the bedside lamp that had replaced the lantern. 24

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And there it lay. A single red rose, fresh and perfect, its thorns removed. *** Lindsey found Aunt Susie’s diary later that day. And that was how she learned about Evan. The first entry was dated September 17, 1943. Lindsey calculated that Susie would’ve been twenty-two years old. She read: I can’t believe it’s been a year since Ted’s ship was torpedoed in the Pacific. I didn’t think I could go on, but somehow, I did. And I’ve made it through the first year. They say that’s the hardest. But it’s been lonely. And still, the war goes on. And the next night’s: It makes me blush to write this down, but I have to. Last night I had these…naughty dreams. I had a lover. And no, it wasn’t Ted. This man was totally different. So sweet and tender. I dreamed he told me his name was Evan. Oh, Lord, I’m so ashamed to say this, but I can hardly wait to go to bed again tonight. He told me he’d be back. Lindsey’s heart drummed as she read one entry after another. Evan came again tonight. He loved me so good. It’s almost as if he’s real. Lindsey flipped through the ink-stained pages. On and on it went, increasingly vivid descriptions of Evan’s lovemaking to her aunt. Her cheeks were burning. Then she came to the entry that made her heart stand still. Evan is real! Well, not like me. But he really comes at night. It isn’t my imagination. His name is Capt. Evanwood Jorgensen, an officer of the Confederate Army Calvary. I went to the town library and looked into the history of our house. During the Civil War, he and his new bride were on their way here to his family home when renegade Union soldiers ambushed them. They brutally raped his bride and shot Evan, leaving him for dead. But he remained conscious long enough for her to die in his arms. It didn’t say what she died of, shock, maybe. Anyway, Evan managed to drag himself the rest of the way to this house where he died in the front parlor. Yes, died. Evan is a ghost! And he has made love to me every night now for two years. Sometimes, in the midst of his passion, he calls me Suzanne. That was his virgin wife’s name. But I don’t care. I love him, and I know he loves me. He is spending eternity trying to make up for the pain and suffering his bride went through. To give me the love she was denied. 25

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Lindsey drew in a deep breath. Aunt Susie was crazy. Loony. Probably certifiable. But perhaps she wasn’t the only one. Hadn’t Lindsey had similar dreams? Last night especially, when he’d spoken, it had seemed so real. Was he real? Or was he a ghost? She was almost afraid to go to bed that night, yet, she had to admit, the nervousness she felt in her stomach wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It was a tingling anticipation; one that her conscious mind told her was absolutely ridiculous. Nothing was going to happen. Nothing that wasn’t in her imagination anyway. *** Lindsey tried to stay awake. To wait for him, to see if there was something to Aunt Susie’s bizarre story. But after an hour, she grew drowsy and finally, she had to give in to sleep. It was several hours later when she awoke and felt a definite presence in the room. Her heart raced. There was no sound, no movement, just a watchfulness. A scent. Yes, a heavy atmosphere of controlled sexuality. Goosebumps rose on Lindsey’s skin. She was afraid, yes, but the fear was mixed with something else. Excitement. She sensed he’d been in the room for some time. Just watching and waiting. For what? Lindsey kept her eyes closed and tried to maintain normal breathing. Something in the room atmosphere changed. Her pulse leaped. He was moving toward the bed! Then, incredibly, he spoke in the soft Southern accent of the night before. “Don’t pretend you’re asleep, Lindsey. I know better.” Her hands clutched the bed sheets, but she lay still, trying to carry on her charade. An amused chuckle came from the man. “All right, then. Have it your own way.” A sudden draft swept over her skin as the bed covers were pulled away. She stifled a gasp as his warm fingers brushed against her breasts. He was unbuttoning her nightgown. Oh, my God! He’s a ghost and I’m allowing him to undress me! But the fear she’d felt upon sensing his presence was quickly disappearing. Old-fashioned body heat was taking its place. She felt the cold air of the room on her bare flesh as he parted the bodice of the gown. The warmth of his mouth quickly replaced the cold as it captured one peaked nipple. Lindsey caught her breath. His tongue leisurely traced circles on one nipple and then the other before he drew away. “Open your eyes, Lindsey. You’ll see I’m not to be feared.” “I’m not afraid,” she whispered. And slowly, she opened her eyes. 26

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A pale moonlight spilled into the room, allowing enough illumination so she could see him clearly. He was perched on the bed, just inches away from her, so close she could feel his warmth. But he was flesh and blood, not a ghost at all! It was the same Nordic-looking man she’d seen the first night. His clear blue eyes gazed down at her. He smiled, revealing strong white teeth between full-bodied lips. He was dressed in the gray wool coat of a Confederate officer, and strangely enough, it looked brand-new. “How do you know my name?” she asked. He studied her. “I know everything about you, Lindsey.” His smile widened. “You may touch me, Ma’am, if you want to assure yourself I’m really here. You have my word I won’t disappear.” Tentatively, Lindsey reached out and touched the scratchy wool of his coat. He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his warm face. “Can you disappear?” she asked, her voice husky. “I surely can. Do you want me to?” Before she could speak, his image wavered. The warm flesh under her fingers grew cool and suddenly, it was as if she were touching nothing. “No! Don’t go!” Immediately, she felt the heat of life beneath her fingertips, and once again, he was flesh and blood. “Tell me to stay, then. Say ‘Evan, I want you to stay and love me like no man has ever done before.’” Her heart gave a jolt, and a heated lethargy swept through her body. A long breathy sigh came from her lips. “Oh, yes…stay, Evan. Stay and love me like no man has ever done before.” His mouth crushed down on hers, his tongue slipping inside easily, exploring, thrusting, then teasing and tasting. His hands kneaded her exposed breasts until they were aching and taut. Suddenly, he drew away and shrugged out of his wool jacket, dropping it casually to the floor. Beneath it, he wore a white lawn shirt. With lightning fingers, he unbuttoned it and took it off. His chest was muscular and covered with a light carpet of blond hair. Lindsey reached out and brushed both palms against his chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath them. Her eyes widened in amazement. “You’re so real. How can you feel so real?”

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“Because I am real.” With a soft growl, he fell upon her again, his tongue moving down her neck to the swell of her breasts. She squirmed beneath him, trying to relieve the ache between her legs. Evan went from one nipple to the other, in no apparent rush as one hand caressed the tip of one unoccupied breast while his tongue worked the other. Finally, his mouth slipped down the lower swell to her stomach where his tongue dipped into her navel for a leisurely taste. The fire between her legs burned hotter. “Oh, please…” she murmured. “I want…” “I know what you want, ma’am,” he said softly, his mouth against her lower belly. “And you’ll get it. I’m a Southern gentleman, and we don’t take kindly to being rushed. You just be patient, honey. We have all night.” His hands were on her thighs now, stroking them lightly. He chuckled as a thumb brushed high against her inner leg and felt the wetness there. She flinched involuntarily as his touch sent an electric jolt through her. “Right sensitive there, aren’t you, sweetheart?” His fingers inched closer to her moist hot center, but not quite touching her there. She thrust her pelvis toward him and moaned. He dipped his head down to where she could feel his warm breath on her sex. “Do you want it, pretty lady? Just tell me you want it.” His voice was a low rumble, vibrating against her. She knew his tongue was only inches away, and God, yes, she wanted it. “I want it! Please, Evan, make me come.” She flinched again as his fingers parted the tiny hood that sheltered her nub. With the touch of his tongue, a cry escaped her lips. “Oh, yes!” With his lips and tongue, he began to work his magic. At the same time, he thrust two fingers into her, moving in and out slowly and expertly, each time moving a bit closer to where his tongue was busy. Once, he came too close. Lindsey began to shudder, climaxing in warm gushing waves. His tongue slowed and finally, he drew away, his head resting against her thigh. “Was that what you wanted, honey?” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Oh, yeah,” she murmured. “Come here.” He slid up to her, and lying on his side, took her into his arms. They shared a deep, drugging kiss. Lindsey’s hands moved down to the small of his back. Her fingers touched the waistband of his wool trousers and slid down over his 28

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firm buttocks. Down and over to his front. Her palm found the rock-hard outline of his erection. Very well endowed, indeed, she thought deliriously. God, she’d never in her life felt anything like that before. Oh, the talent he had with his mouth. Steve had never done that to her. It was dirty, he’d said. Yet, he’d always wanted her to do it to him. But soon enough, even that wasn’t enough to get him hard. She remembered the humiliation of taking his limp penis into her mouth, trying to turn him on. Once, in frustration, he’d slapped her away, snarling. “You don’t know how to do anything right, you ugly bitch.” “Don’t think about him,” Evan whispered into her ear. “The animal will never touch you again.” He pressed her hand to his rigid cock straining against his trousers. “But for now, we’ve got to do something about this.” She felt for a zipper, but of course, there was none. Only buttons. She undid them slowly, relishing the anticipation of touching his bare skin. Three buttons undone, she realized he was wearing no underwear. His huge shaft thrust through the opening. Her fingers explored him as he helped to push the trousers down past his buttocks. “It’s all yours, Lindsey, girl. Only for you.” Lindsey got up onto her knees and brought her lips down to him. When she began to nuzzle him, he gave a slight shudder and pushed himself against her impatiently. She opened her mouth and took him in, swirling her tongue around his shaft. Evan moved slowly, tantalizingly, in and out of her mouth. Her hands worked his cock, moving the wetness of her saliva up and down as he eased in and out. His breathing quickened and finally, he drew out, reaching down to pull her naked body against his. “I want to love you now,” he said softly. Gently, he pushed her down onto her stomach. With his hands, he maneuvered her up on her knees. His rigid length brushed against her buttocks and she gasped, her eyes filling with tears of disappointment. Oh, God! He was going to do it like Steve! “Don’t be afraid, love,” he said. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” His fingers slid into her burning center. She rocked against them, wanting him in spite of what he was going to do to her. But when she felt him prod against her, she was bathed with relief. He wasn’t like Steve, at all. Slowly, he pushed his cock into her vagina, thrusting gradually until he was in to the hilt. A wave of uncontrollable desire raced through her. She ground herself against him, clenching her hands into the sheets. “Oh, yes!” 29

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He began to thrust in and out slowly. With each inward thrust, she felt filled, almost to the point of explosion, and soon, it wasn’t enough. “Faster,” she murmured. “Please, do it to me faster.” His rhythm began to pick up. His hands slid to her breasts, pressing and squeezing. He slapped against her, hard and fast, his breath coming in gasping heaves. She moaned as the heat built up inside her, coming closer and closer with each thrust. And then, as he was pumping into her like a machine piston, she climaxed. It was even more powerful than the one he’d brought her to with his tongue. Growling, he gave one more powerful thrust and collapsed against her, shuddering. After a moment, he rolled over on his side, bringing her with him. She nestled against his lean body, spoon fashion. Her eyes closed. “For a ghost, you’re one hell of a good lover.” His hand played leisurely with her nipple. He leaned over and kissed her right shoulder. “For a ghost? Hmmmm. I just might want to think that one over. ‘Pears to me to be a backhanded compliment.” She shook her head, exhausted. “No. I didn’t mean it like that…” but she didn’t hear his answer. She had drifted off to sleep. *** When she awoke, Evan was gone. There was no evidence he’d been there at all, other than the well-loved feeling between her legs and the damp spot on the sheets. She fell asleep again and dreamed about her phantom soldier through the remaining hours of the night. A watery sunlight filtered through the curtains the next morning, awakening her. For a few moments, she lay in bed, thinking about Evan and the magical hours spent with him the night before. But then a new awareness crept into her mind, and she sat up, her eyes scanning the room in alarm. The entire room smelled of cherry tobacco! Her heart thudded. Had Evan left the scent? She hadn’t noticed it before. Then again, she’d been preoccupied with other things. It had to be Evan. That was the only explanation. But what a coincidence…that he smoked the same kind of tobacco Steve did. Lindsey spent the day in a mental fog, her mind refusing to let go of Evan and the sensual night they’d spent together. She tried to paint, but his face was the only image 30

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she saw. Over and over, she sketched it, and was disappointed that she couldn’t get it quite right. She thought of Aunt Susie. If Evan had done this to her every night, it was no wonder everyone thought she was spacey. But it was also no wonder the woman had been so happy. Why not? She had the most perfect of lovers, one who existed only for her pleasure. No need to worry about the anxieties of a relationship. No arguments over money, no worries over what kind of mood he was going to be in. No wondering if you’d end up slammed to the floor if you said the wrong thing. Oh, Evan, you are the perfect man. And being a ghost may be the reason why you’re so perfect. In the afternoon, she left her studio and drove into town for groceries and supplies. She moved dreamily through the aisles, wondering if it were possible for ghosts to eat. She wanted to do something for Evan to show her appreciation for the previous night. She settled on two steaks, russet potatoes and fixings for a salad. On the drive back to the house, she sang along with the radio, her heart light. The winter dusk was quickly approaching, and the thought made her smile with anticipation. The coming night would be magic, as would the rest of her nights, as long as Evan was around. She brought the groceries into the kitchen and switched on the oven. “Okay, Evan, if you can hear me, I want to invite you to dinner.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Say, in about an hour?” There was no response, but she hadn’t really expected one. He would show up whenever he felt like it. When the oiled potatoes were in the oven, Lindsey went into the dining room to set the table. Where had she seen those long tapers? They’d be perfect for a romantic dinner. She stepped into the parlor to look in Aunt Susie’s china cabinet. Immediately, she was overwhelmed by the scent of cherry tobacco. A sense of primal fear overwhelmed her. She clenched her fists and took a deep breath. It’s just Evan, she told herself. Yet, her thudding heart refused to believe it. “Evan,” she spoke into the empty room. “Don’t do this to me, darling. You don’t know what I’ve been through in the last months. I’m easily frightened.” There was only silence in the room, yet Lindsey felt a change. The air suddenly reeked of evil. She felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart began to race. Fearfully, she scanned the room, knowing she could no longer deny the malevolent 31

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presence. Her eyes stopped on a black object, half-hidden in the shadows near the heavy curtains. A whip, coiled and malignant—waiting… Evan’s? But why…? There was a sudden movement behind her—a rush of air, an indrawn breath. Lindsey whirled around, gasping, “Evan, is that you?” She saw no one, but her senses told her she wasn’t alone in the room. Hidden eyes watched her. She tried to summon a smile. “Please don’t play games with me, Evan. I like you the way you were last night—so gentle and protective.” It came from behind her. Soft laughter with an edge of hysteria. Lindsey drew in a sharp breath and turned. There was nothing behind her but the long velvet curtains. “Evan, please don’t tease me like this.” But even as she spoke, she knew she could no longer fool herself. Evan wasn’t her tormentor. A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Even through her sweater, she could feel that it was ice cold. She screamed. Unseen hands wrenched her around and an icy mouth clamped down onto hers, a frigid tongue forcing its way between her clenched lips. She struggled, but the man’s strength was too much for her. One icy hand pushed her sweater up above her breasts and expertly unhooked the front closure of her bra. Lindsey jerked her mouth away from her attacker’s and screamed. A hand closed upon her nipple, twisting violently. “Screaming won’t do you any good, Lindsey.” Lindsey stiffened. The voice! She began to shake her head. Oh, God—no! Not Steve! It was as if he could read her thoughts. “Oh, yes. It is me. And nothing can protect you this time.” Suddenly, Lindsey was free. She ran toward the door, thinking only of escape. But then, his voice came again. “Oh, you can’t leave now, baby. The fun’s just beginning.” As he spoke, the parlor doors slammed shut. Half crazed with fear, Lindsey flung herself against them, twisting at the doorknobs, but they refused to budge. “Turn around, Lindsey. Look what I have for you.” Slowly, Lindsey turned. Steve stood across the room. He held the whip, one hand caressing the ivory handle as if it were a lover. He wore a sneer on his cruelly handsome face. His hard brown eyes swept over her. 32

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“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you? That your Aunt Susie’s money would protect you?” He gave a cruel laugh. “You’re such a little idiot, aren’t you? You can’t escape from me. I’m your husband remember? I take my wedding vows seriously. You know, until death do us part? But I’d add a little something to that. Until death do us part…and beyond.” His eyes scanned her body and he smiled. “You’re looking real sexy, Lind. I get hot just looking at you. That old problem I had is gone. I’m hard all the time now.” The smile disappeared. “Undo your jeans, Lindsey. I want to put some bloody stripes on your perfect little ass before I fuck you.” He unzipped his fly and pulled out his erect penis. With one hand, he fondled himself as he came toward her. Lindsey flattened herself against the door. “Evan! Help me!” But she knew Evan wasn’t around to help. He was far away. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. “Okay. So you won’t cooperate. You never did, did you? You knew what I liked, but you never wanted to give it to me. You need to be taught a lesson, Lindsey. You need to learn how to satisfy your man.” He flung the whip aside and sprang at her. Lindsey slapped out at him, but one hand grabbed hers and pinned it against the door. The other grappled at her jeans. Lindsey felt the pop of the closure as it gave way. With inhuman strength, he unzipped her jeans and tugged them down, along with her wispy bikini panties. He shoved her onto her knees. “You remember the position, don’t you? You’re staying in it unless you want to feel that whip bite into your juicy flesh. You’re one stupid bitch, you know that? Did you think you were going to get away with it? You wouldn’t have to pay for what you did.” He fastened his hands upon her hips Suddenly Steve gave a sharp intake of breath and stiffened. Lindsey heard a soft thud as he dropped to the floor. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she fell to the carpet, curling herself into a fetal ball. Then, miraculously, she heard Evan’s voice. “I tried hon, but I just couldn’t get here quick enough.” Evan stood above her, his breathing ragged, eyes filled with remorse. “But it’s over now. He won’t ever hurt you again. That, you can be sure of.” Lindsey sat up and turned her head to stare at her husband and the widening pool of blood surrounding his body. A gleaming saber pierced through his back. She looked up at Evan. It was the first time she’d seen him in lamplight. He was tall, nearly six feet. His skin was lightly tanned and as flesh and blood as Steve had been 33

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a moment before. But Steve hadn’t been flesh and blood, had he? Lindsey began to tremble in delayed shock. “He was like you, wasn’t he?” Evan nodded and knelt down next to her. “Come here, hon.” With a soft sob, Lindsey flung herself into his reassuring arms. He pulled her onto his lap, gently pulling up her panties and jeans. Then he snuggled her close as if she were a wounded child. “I’d like to kill him again for all the years of suffering he’s put you through.” “Why…why did it take you so long to come?” “It’s hard to explain, Lindsey. A process we have to go through to get back to this world. So complicated I don’t rightly understand it myself. But that’s why it took that bastard so long to appear in the flesh. He’d tried several times before.” “You mean, you knew he was…coming back?” “It was the only way we could get rid of him for good.” Lindsey snuggled against him, inhaling the masculine scent that was nothing like cherry tobacco. “I get it,” she said softly. “It took a ghost to kill a ghost.” She stopped as a thought occurred to her. “But how did he die…the first time?” His arms tightened around her. He looked down at her, his eyes gentle. “You killed him six months ago. Self-defense. Even so, you couldn’t live with what you did. You blocked it out and came here to make a new life. Only problem was, he was bound to catch up with you sooner or later. I just wish I’d been here to protect you. I’ll never forgive myself for that.” Lindsey touched his lips to stop him. “You did protect me. You got here before he could…” Her voice cracked. He pulled her closer, his head lowering to kiss her. As his tongue delved into her mouth, Lindsey forgot Steve, forgot dinner, forgot everything. Evan swooped her up into his arms and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Gently, he placed her upon the bed, his eyes gazing into hers tenderly. Slowly, his hands moved up her thighs to the waist of her jeans. Sighing softly, she lifted her hips slightly as he tugged the jeans down and tossed them to the floor. Underneath her satin panties, Lindsey felt herself growing wet—just from the look in Evan’s brilliant blue eyes. Her breathing grew uneven, her mouth parted in anticipation. Their gazes locked. Finally, Evan’s fingers touched her between her legs, gently exploring her. She groaned 34

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softly, thrusting against him. Slowly, maddeningly, he drew her panties down, in no great hurry. But as he turned away to drop them to the floor, Lindsey saw the thrusting outline of his erection under the wool of his trousers. He bent down and kissed her quivering belly, his hands caressing her smooth hips. “I love you, Lindsey,” he whispered. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this again.” Lindsey moaned, parting her legs slightly. His hand slipped back to her center, delving into her wetness, opening her like a flower. Then his tongue slid into her— flicking, nuzzling, teasing. It was almost too much. And when it was too much, he placed his hands under her buttocks and drew her upward, as if she were an offering to his sweet mouth. He dove his tongue deeply inside her until she thrashed in delirium, and finally, went over the edge, moaning. Afterward, he climbed onto the bed beside her and gathered her into his arms. “I’ll never hurt you,” he said huskily. “I will always be a balm to your pain.” Lindsey clung to him, still gasping from her climax. He took her hand and pressed it against his rock-hard length, burning hot through wool. Lindsey fumbled to unbutton him. After a moment, he gently pushed her hands away and undid the stubborn buttons himself. His erection jutted out of the opening. As her hands closed around his steel-like shaft, he groaned, his eyes closing. She leaned over him, her tongue flickering over his lashes, then moving to his mouth. Her tongue caressed his full, sensuous lips. He opened to her and they kissed, tongues mingling. As her hand moved up and down his cock, he lifted his buttocks and pushed his trousers off his hips. Her eyes moved to his muscular chest. Quickly, she unbuttoned his lawn shirt and parted it. She slid both hands over his light carpet of blond hair, pressing her fingertips against his warm skin, relishing in the wonder of his reality. Of the life that pulsated under that warm body. He lay quietly under her touch, watching her. “Come here,” he whispered. And with his powerful hands, he pulled her on top of him, settling her down so her wet center pressed against his hard shaft. Lifting her slightly, he eased into her slowly. Lindsey looked into his deep, blue eyes. “You’re real,” she whispered. “I feel you. I feel all of you.” He gazed back, holding her still, his hands clamped upon her bottom. “Forever,” he said softly. “I’m yours.” Forever. What a lovely word. Hers. All hers. For as long as she lived, and…please, dear God…for eternity. 35

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He moved, thrusting deeper, and Lindsey closed her eyes, gasping at the sensations rioting through her. He pushed in to the hilt, and slowly, she began to ride him, easing up and down sensuously. It was a slow, sweet journey, the intensity of it rising steadily, leisurely. She climaxed first, slow and pulsating, hot and wet, as wave after wave of tiny shocks rippled through her. A moment later, Evan arched his back and gave one last shuddering thrust, and she felt his seed spilling into her. Later, when they descended the stairs, arm in arm, and paused by the parlor door, Lindsey couldn’t stop herself from looking into the room. But where Steve’s skewered body had been hours before, there was nothing but a clean carpet, a coiled whip—and a shining Civil War saber.

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The Highwayman

As the coach rumbled over the wagon-rutted dirt road, Shelaine pulled back the curtain and gazed out into the darkness. Above the towering pines, an orange harvest moon rose into the night sky, illuminating the countryside with its eerie glow. Shivering with anticipation, Shelaine sat back in the coach and closed her eyes. Any moment now, it would happen. Within seconds of that thought, she heard the high-pitched neigh of a horse, followed immediately by the coachman's panicked cry, and she knew he had arrived. The coach rolled to a stop, and Shelaine heard the rumble of feet as the coachman scrambled down from his seat. The cowardly man would now run for the woods, leaving her alone to face...him. Shelaine stared down at her hands in their delicate lace gloves resting calmly in her lap. But beneath the bodice of her low-cut taffeta ball-gown, her heart bumped painfully as she waited. The carriage door burst open, and Shelaine caught a glimpse of a black boot. It was replaced by a shining blond head of hair, tied back with a black velvet ribbon. Dark eyes stared at her through the slits of a black mask. Shelaine examined his face. Ah, yes. Just as she'd imagined. Fine high cheekbones, a strong chin, and sensuous, almost cruelly thin, lips. And the scar. A tiny scar on his bristled chin just to the left of his lower lip. "Ah, what have we here? A fine lady, is it?" He spoke with an Irish lilt, his voice languid and rich as golden honey. "And who are you?" She tried to speak in a normal tone, but couldn't hide the breathless catch in her voice. His lips twitched in a sardonic smile. "In these parts, I'm known as the Manchester Night Rider. But you, my dear, may call me Blayne." 37

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Shelaine brought her gloved hand to her mouth in a staged gasp. "You're the highwayman! I've heard there's a bounty of one-thousand pounds out on you." "Aye, that is so." Amused, his eyes flicked over her. "Are you thinking of taking me in, then?" She gave him a slow smile. "Perhaps. Is it true what they are saying? You steal from the rich and give to the poor? A modern-day Robin Hood?" His eyes grew serious. "I steal to put food into my starving countrymen's mouths. Or perhaps you haven't heard, there is a famine going on in my country. Not that the landowners care a whit!" Shelaine slipped a hand inside her cloak and drew out a small bag filled with gold coins. "I care." She held out the bag to him. "I have a few trinkets in this trunk, as well." Her foot nudged a trunk on the carriage floor. "Take it all, and go in peace." He blinked, hesitating a moment before taking the bag from her hand. Then in one swift motion, he swept up the trunk from the floor and disappeared from the carriage. Shelaine held her breath, waiting. From outside, she heard a muffled command, and then finally, the thunderous sound of horses galloping away. Her heartbeat accelerated as she fixed her gaze upon the open carriage door. Suddenly, the blond head appeared again. "Do you really want me to go?" She inhaled sharply at the caressing look in his dark eyes, visible by the light of the full moon. Before she could answer, he folded his tall length into the carriage and settled down next to her. He was so very close...so close Shelaine could breathe in his masculine scent of heather mingled with fragrant tobacco. He smiled at her. "Lovely Lady Shelaine..." he whispered. "Why has it taken you so long to come into my life?" "I have always been here," Shelaine murmured, her eyes hypnotized by his. He drew closer, his gaze locked upon her mouth. Her fingers touched the tiny scar on his chin, caressing it. His hand covered hers. With his eyes fixed upon hers, he brought her fingertips to his lips, kissing each leisurely. He took one finger and slipped it into his mouth to suck. Shelaine gasped, her heart racing. He wrenched her into his arms and kissed her, his mouth devouring hers. Moaning, Shelaine kissed him back, delighting in the rough texture of his tongue exploring her mouth. She felt his hand on her waist. It moved up the swell of her breast, and she ripened to his touch, moving against him wantonly, seeking...demanding... 38

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And then, he was gone. The carriage was gone. The moon was gone. Her gown, her curls, her lace gloves. All gone. Lt. Shelley Stearns blinked in disappointment as her senses adjusted to the new reality. She sat in a black cubicle, staring blankly at a montage of flashing electronic lights. "Damn!" The curse exploded from her. What had she done wrong in programming the Mirageodram? It had been so perfect up until the highwayman had touched her breast. And then—nothing! What was it? Some kind of glitch in the program? "Lights, please," she said curtly. The cubicle brightened. "How much time do I have left, Computer?" "The time is 1400 hours," the female computerized voice said in a monotone. "You have five minutes left in your Mirageodram hour." Not enough time to try and fix things. It would have to wait until her next chance to visit the Mirageodram. Shelley touched a button and with a soft hiss, the door to the cubicle slid open. She stepped out of the compartment and glanced around the empty room. Out of the fifty Mirageodram cubicles, only a few were in use. Mid-afternoon was a slow time for recreation on the Starship Admiral. Shelley wished she had time for another go, but she was due to report for duty on the bridge at 1500 hours. The thought filled her with depression. From early childhood, Shelley had immersed herself in history, and it hadn't taken her long to realize she'd been born two centuries too late. Because her parents had been officers on a starship, Shelley had never known life on a stationary planet. Even her schooling had been accomplished on a ship hurtling through space. Now, as a lieutenant on one of the most important starship missions in the galaxy, Shelley found herself spending more and more time in the Mirageodram, trying to perfect a way to live the life of centuries ago. With her programming skills, she'd created this dangerous but honorable man, a man who released all her romantic yearnings in a way no real man had ever been able to do. Yet, when she tried to go beyond a sensuous kiss, the program failed. Why? Shelley chewed on her bottom lip and ran a distracted hand through her short blond bob. There had to be an answer. Her fingers moved to her snug uniform top and 39

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touched the tiny vial attached just under the V-neckline, and that reminded her she had less than an hour to shower and get to the bridge. It wasn't fair! All she wanted to do was go back to the English countryside in 1847. "Shelley! I've been hoping to run into you.” A male voice spoke from behind her. Shelley whirled around to see a handsome young man stepping out of one of the Mirageodram cubicles. "Oh, hello, Tony." The dark-haired Italian smiled at her. "I was wondering if you'd like to meet in the Pulsar Lounge for a drink after you get off duty tonight." Shelley tried to hold in a sigh. Dr. Anthony Marinelli was the most persistent man she'd ever met. And she'd given him absolutely no encouragement. "Sorry, Tony. I think I'll be exhausted by the time I get off. Maybe some other time." She walked to the door and pressed a button. The door hissed open. As she moved down the corridor towards her quarters, she could still feel Tony's dark brown gaze following her. *** Again and again, Shelley worked on the program, but it always had the same result. She would get to a certain point in her fantasy, always just as she was about to be swept away by her handsome highwayman, and pop! It would end. Frustrated tears filled her eyes as Shelley's fingers swept across the computer board, readjusting, analyzing. There had to be a way she could live out this fantasy to its fulfilling end. She hit a panel that read Begin Mirageodram and suddenly, she was transported back to the rumbling carriage. The scenario unfolded as before, and again Blayne entered the carriage and seated himself beside her. This time, as her lips clung to his, her gloved fingers dug into the shoulders of his waistcoat. "Don't leave me Blayne...not this time." She stiffened. What was that she'd said? She hadn't programmed that. Where had it come from? But as he began to kiss her face, her eyelids, her exposed throat, she forgot her confusion, and allowed her senses to take over. Her limbs grew heavy as a delicious sensation swept through her body, unlike anything she'd ever known before. 40

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His warm fingers pressed against the swell of her breasts, bulging above her tight bodice, and she held her breath. It was at this point that the fantasy had ended every other time before. He stroked her flesh softly, murmuring endearments in Gaelic into her ear. His fingers dipped into her cleavage, and she gasped, her mouth half-opened against his. "What is this?" he asked, drawing back from her to peer at an object in his hand. Shelley stared at the tiny glass vial. "But that's my security potion. What is it doing here?" Confused, she shook her head, feeling her thick blond curls brush against her cheekbone. Something weird was going on. She hadn't programmed any of this. "What is this potion for?" the highwayman asked. "If we should get captured by our enemies, it is to prevent us from revealing classified information during torture." An understanding light appeared in his eyes. "Ah, so it is a poison." Shelley took the vial out of his hand and fastened it inside her bodice. "Why are we talking about this? This conversation wasn't programmed." "I know not what this 'program' means. But something is preventing us from fulfilling our destiny. Every time we meet, I go away throbbing with desire for you. I cannot take this much longer, lass." Shelley stared at him. "Go away where? Don't you see, you're not real! You're a figment of my imagination, brought to life by a computer. How can you possibly go away throbbing with desire for me?" "Believe me, love, I know of what I speak." He grasped her hand and pressed it against his swollen manhood. "Is this not throbbing? Can you not feel it?" Shelley felt a wave of dizzy desire. "I just don't get this," she murmured. "How can you say these things when I didn't program them?" A thoughtful expression crossed his lean handsome face. "You say I am part of your imagination? If that is so...our actions are limited by what you know and have experienced." His eyes scrutinized her face. "Tell me, my love, is your maidenhead intact?" Her mouth fell open. "My maidenhead? You mean..." She felt heat flood her face. "You're asking me if I'm a virgin? Well, yes, I am. I...there has been no one who has interested me in that way." 41

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He gave her a lazy smile. "Well, there it is. That is why we cannot move our destiny along. If you have not experienced something, how can you recreate it?" "You mean, I have to...make love with someone on the starship?" His eyes caressed her. "Surely you can find someone in your world who would be thrilled to deflower such a lovely colleen as yourself. Alas, if only I could be the lucky man, but it is not possible." An image of Dr. Tony Marinelli's face swam through her mind. "Yes, I think I can find someone." Blayne grasped her hand and peeled back the lace glove so that the tender skin of her inner wrist was exposed. Softly, he kissed her there, his lips lingering moistly on her skin. She shivered with desire. "Until next time," he murmured, his eyes drilling into hers. *** "Hi, Tony," Shelaine said. Tony Marinelli looked up from his table near the porthole where he'd been gazing out at the billions of stars carpeting the heavens. She gave him a slow, seductive smile. "I've decided to take you up on that drink," she said. "How about a Constellation 16 Fizz?" She tried hard not to laugh as Tony almost tripped over his feet in his haste to get to the bar. When he returned, he held two fizzing drinks the color of sea foam. Shelley downed hers quickly. She looked him straight in his admiring eyes. "Make love to me, Tony," she said softly. "In your quarters. Right now." *** Shelley lay naked on Tony's bed, gazing up at him through half-closed eyes. He too, had shed his clothes. His body was hard, muscular, and tanned from his sessions in the retro-sunroom. A gorgeous man really, but one that meant nothing to her. He would serve his purpose today though, as stud. He smiled lazily at her, his hand caressing his huge erection. "Are you ready for the Italian Stallion?" His voice was a silky caress. Shelley stretched her body like an elegant cat and parted her legs. "More than ready," she whispered. "Come here." 42

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His warm length covered hers, his mouth grinding against hers in a deep, searching kiss. She closed her eyes, kissing him back. His hand slid between her legs, dipping into her wetness. She sighed and pumped against him. But for Shelley, it wasn't Tony who was stroking her senses into this quivering mass of desire. It was Blayne, her sensuous highwayman. As Tony thrust his cock deep inside her, she kept her eyes closed...imagining. Soon, very soon, her imagination would become reality. *** The carriage door burst open, and the boot appeared. Then slowly, the blond head, the black mask, the dark penetrating eyes. Shelley's heart beat madly. The moment was at hand. "Ah, a lady, is it?" The highwayman said in his Irish lilt. "Give me your jewels, madam, and you'll be on your way unharmed." Shelley gasped and shrank back. "You're the Manchester Night Rider. I know about you! You steal from the rich and give to your starving people in Ireland." "Aye, that is so. And do you have something of value to give me, milady?" Shelley smiled and reached into her cloak. "Oh, yes. I certainly do." And she withdrew the small bag of gold coins. Her foot nudged the trunk on the floor. "And this, as well. It is filled with trinkets and a few jewels. Take them." As he bent over to grab the trunk, her hand reached out and stroked his smooth blond hair. He looked up and their eyes met. "Hasten back," she said. "For I have something else for you." "That, I will." He gave her a slow smile and withdrew from the carriage. Moments later, Shelley heard the beat of hooves against the dirt road, and it was as if her accelerated heartbeat kept cadence with the drum of the horses as Blayne's men departed. Blayne reappeared at the door of the carriage. His eyes burned into hers as he climbed in. For a long moment, they stared at each other, barely breathing. Finally he spoke "Is it done?" She smiled. "It is." She no longer questioned the changes in her program. It no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but this reality—this time with Blayne. "And did you enjoy it?" he asked, his blue eyes amused. "Yes, I did. But only because I imagined him to be you." 43

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His eyes dropped to her full breasts, rising and falling with excitement. His gloved hand reached out and caressed one luscious swell. "Then prepare yourself for reality." She caught her breath as he grabbed her. Groaning softly, his mouth covered hers. Shelley strained against him, her fingernails digging into his waistcoat. Finally, coming up for air, she gasped, “I've waited so long for this." Her hands moved to the ribbon that secured his shining blond hair. She untied it and tossed it to the floor. Her hands threaded through his golden locks falling in shimmering ripples to his broad shoulders. He gave her an intimate smile and then moved toward her, his lips teasing hers, his tongue dipping into her mouth, tasting sweetly for a brief, tantalizing moment. His mouth left hers and followed a burning trail down her throat and onto the swell of her breasts. At the same time, his hand slid under her voluminous skirts and traveled sensuously up her thigh. Through his trousers, she felt his hard manhood thicken and grow as she stroked it. Quickly, his fingers unbuttoned her gown and parted the bodice of her corset, spilling her lovely breasts out to his warm gaze. "Ah," he whispered. "My woman of the stars. You're everything I've been waiting for." And dipping his head, he kissed first one breast and then the other. She inhaled sharply, her hands pressing into his shoulders. He began to nip and suck gently at her nipples, his tongue circling in tantalizing rings. He undressed her slowly, his dark eyes showing his appreciation. He pulled her naked body onto his lap, his mouth locked onto a taut nipple. She fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, finally drawing out his rigid manhood. She caressed its smooth length with her lace-gloved hand. He moaned. She drew away slightly to look into his eyes. "I want to show you something Tony taught me." He nodded, his eyes glazed with desire. She slid off his lap and knelt on the floor of the carriage. Taking his shaft firmly in hand, she opened her mouth and slid the tip in, sucking gently. Slowly she took more and more of his length into her mouth. Blayne groaned, grinding against her. Finally, he gasped, "Enough! I cannot take any more!" Abruptly he withdrew from her, and she looked up at him, startled. "But Tony taught me to...you know...do it until he came. He really seemed to enjoy that..." 44

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"I'm...sure...he did...” His chest rose and fell with his staggered breathing. "But if you do that, I'll be no good for you...not for quite a while, anyway." He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her up to where she was again nestled in his lap. "Not that I don't appreciate the thought, love, but I want to give you pleasure." Slowly he removed his gloves. One hand slid between her thighs. Shelley drew in a sharp breath as his fingertips teased her clitoris, dipping into her wet center and up again. "You're so womanly," he whispered, his mouth teasing hers, imitating what his fingers were doing. She arched against him, inviting him deeper penetration, and he accepted the invitation, thrusting his fingers deep inside her, pumping and releasing until she was mad with desire. "Please!" she cried out. "I need...I need..." "More?" he whispered. "You need this?" His free hand guided hers to his rigid penis. "Then you shall have it." He eased her onto her back, parting her legs with his hands. He gazed down into her eyes and slowly thrust into her. She gasped, arching toward him. He stroked her, riding her slowly and sensuously until she was bucking against him madly, demanding release. But he wasn't to be hurried. He continued to fuck her slowly, thoroughly, growing maddeningly still when he sensed she was close to the edge, holding her back, making her wait. But finally, when he could no longer hold back his own wild desire, he let go, pumping into her, out of control. “Blayne!” she cried out. “Oh…my…God!” The orgasm quaked through her with the force of a volcano eruption. A second later, with one deep final thrust, Blayne climaxed, groaning out her name, Afterwards, Shelley clung to him, tears cascading down her face. "Oh, my highwayman...why can't you be real? Why can't this be real?" Blayne kissed her tears away, his hands gentle as he cradled her in his arms. "I do not understand, love. What is not real?" She drew back to stare at him. "No, you don't understand, Blayne. This is not my world. You...this...is just my fantasy. But I want more than that. I don't want to go back to that cold sterile world up there. It's alien to me. Don't you see, Blayne, I was born in the wrong time!" He kissed her softly. "Aye...I understand more than you think. Tell me what it is you want, lass. If you could have anything...do anything...what would it be?" 45

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She gazed at him forlornly. Her finger touched the scar on his chin. And the wonder and magic of the technology that had created him slammed into her. He felt so real! And moments before, what they'd done together had been beyond real. She could still feel the warm, tingly feeling in her womanly parts from his thorough lovemaking. "I would ride with you," she said softly. "We would make the countryside our home. We would take from the privileged and give to the hungry. And at night, we'd make love under that harvest moon...and grow old together." He gazed at her solemnly. "But love, don't you see? There's an excellent chance that we wouldn't be allowed to grow old together. Aye, you'll ride with me, steal with me, but will you also be willing to hang with me? For that is what will happen someday...unless we are very lucky." Shelley took a deep breath. "To have just a little while with you would be better than an entire lifetime up there. Yes, Blayne, I'd hang with you." Then she shook her head. "But what are we talking about? It's impossible. Here I am discussing my dreams with a figment of my imagination. I must be insane!" His hands clenched hers. "But it isn't impossible! Do you trust me, love? For I believe I know a way for us to be together...forever. You'll never have to go back." "How? How can it be possible?" "This." His hand touched the tiny vial of poison inside her bodice. "If you drink this, you can be with me forever." Her heart lurched. "Blayne! This is poison! If I drink it, I'll die." He stared at her sadly. "I don't believe you will die. But there is that chance, I suppose. Of course. How can I ask you to make such a sacrifice? No one can love that strongly. Except me." And with his thumb, he snapped the neck of the glass vial and in one abrupt movement, drank the contents. Shelley cried out and reached for the vial, but it was too late. He'd taken the poison. "Blayne! What have you done?" He stared at her, his eyes as bright and alert as before. "You see, it has not harmed me. If you still want to come with me, kiss me now and we'll be gone." Her eyes fell to his lips, still shiny from the oily poison. It was decision time. Go back to the starship or stay with him...and probably die.

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But what did she have up there? A job she hated, a cloying man who now thought he owned her because he'd taken her virginity, and year after endless year of traveling through the heavens. A place where she was never meant to be. Her eyes closed and slowly she swayed toward him. She felt him draw near, and then, at last, his mouth settled upon hers and she drifted away on his kiss, unmindful of the bitter taste that seeped into her mouth. Finally, after a long moment, Blayne pulled away. "Get dressed, love." As if she were a child, he helped her dress, and then opened the carriage door. "Come, my love. Let us find shelter for the night." Outside, a cold wind whipped off the moor, and Shelley shivered. She looked up into the night sky and saw the dark clouds scudding over the face of the full moon. It seemed a lonely place...the moon. She wondered what it was made of? Blayne smiled down at her and tightened the cloak around her shoulders. Then he bent his head and kissed her softly. "I love you, milady. And whatever the future brings for us, remember, I'll always love you." In the moonlit night, his horse snickered from the shadows, knowing his master was at hand. Blayne mounted and extended a hand to Shelley, swinging her up easily behind him. Shelley leaned her head against Blayne's broad shoulders, her hands clasped around his mid-section. With the light of the moon guiding them, they rode off into the valley.

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Sky Eyes

She was not a lady given to swooning. She was not a lady, at all. As the wife of an immigrant Norwegian, Solveig hadn’t had an easy life. They’d come to America in 1844 and settled on the plains in Minnesota, reaping out a scant living from the fickle land, some years doing well, others barely getting by. Her husband, Bjorn, had been a hard-working pioneer, an eternally optimistic man whom she loved dearly and would've followed to the ends of this earth. But his optimism had not saved him from the deadly scourge of tuberculosis that took him and their three children the winter of '49. For reasons she had yet to discover, she’d been left unscathed by the horrid disease. Heartbroken with the loss of her family, she knew she had to leave Minnesota and start a new life elsewhere. Then she’d heard about the gold rush in California, and decided that was where her destiny lay. As their wagon train crossed a mountain pass in the Sierras, they were set upon by Indians. Before Solveig’s horrified eyes, the men were butchered and the women and children taken hostage. As the band of Indians surrounded her and the five other women, Solveig was the only one who looked them in the eye, her chin high and defiant as she awaited her fate. The others slumped to the ground in dead faints, or screamed hysterically until slapped across the face by one of the warriors. It wasn't that Solveig was not afraid; on the contrary, she was terrified. But as a descendant of Vikings, she had been taught strength and stoicism in the face of adversity. She would not show her fear. The warriors appeared to be fascinated by Solveig’s flaxen hair and blue eyes. They yanked her hair and pinched her skin brutally. She withstood the punishment without issuing a sound, hoping and praying they would tire of their abuse in short order. They did, and soon, she and the other women were trussed up like turkeys, flung into a rickety wagon, and their journey to the Indian's camp commenced. 48

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They reached the camp at nightfall. Solveig’s body was sore and bruised from the harsh handling, and when a warrior roughly pulled her from the wagon, her legs were so weakened, she immediately fell to the ground. He yanked her up, marched her to a post in the middle of the camp and tied her hands to it with a slim length of rawhide. Her heart began to beat faster. What were they to do to me? The warrior who had tied her up moved away, and several females drew toward her, their dark eyes hard and curious. She began to breathe easier. As long as the men stayed away, how bad could it be? She was to find out. They poked at her with long sharpened sticks—jabbing here and there with malicious glee sparkling in their black eyes while the warriors stood around in a circle, laughing at their antics. Solvieg looked around for the other white women, but they were nowhere in sight. She bit my bottom lip, still refusing to cry out, knowing instinctively if she showed any sign of weakness, it would go worse for her. After long agonizing moments, one unusually tall squaw with glossy black hair and liquid brown eyes approached Solvieg, her mouth hard and angry. Solveig stared at her, trying to keep her face expressionless. The squaw stood a few inches away, her eyes drilling into Solveig’s. Then the Indian sneered and pulled an evil-looking knife from her soft leather cloak, brandishing it under Solvieg’s chin. She kept herself from flinching, and this appeared to make the squaw furious. She grabbed the bodice of Solveig’s calico dress, and in a lightning movement, slashed the knife through the material, parting it as if it were warm butter. When Solveig gasped, the Indian woman smiled, pleased she had initiated a response. Her knife flashed and its sharpened point cut into the laces of Solveig’s camisole, and her bare breasts spilled out for all to see. The squaw laughed, and with the tip of her knife, pushed the ruined garment back, exposing Solveig’s nakedness even more to the rude gazes of the Indian tribe—gazes that clearly became looks of lust. She nearly swooned then, knowing she would rather die than be brutally raped. The squaw reached out and with her thumb and forefinger gave Solveig’s nipple a savage pinch. She cried out and lurched as far from the Indian as her ropes would allow. The squaw growled and slapped her hard across the face. As blackness swirled through her brain, Solveig heard a voice call out in a guttural language. Vision returned to her and through the crowd, a man came forward. A thrill of hope surged through her. Although he was dressed in fringed leather like the 49

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Indians, he was a white man. His long golden-brown hair rippled over his shoulders, and even from a distance, Solveig could see his eyes were a blazing shade of blue. His tanned cheekbones were high, his lips thin and sensual, and she wondered if he were perhaps a half-breed. He stood six-feet tall, towering over the Indians, his body lean, yet, well muscled. A beautiful man, Solveig thought, rugged like a Viking. Somehow, she sensed vulnerability about him...and something else. He did not belong with these Indians. He stopped in front of a grizzled Indian festooned with feathers and strange markings over his face. They conversed, and although she could understand nothing, Solveig had the feeling they were haggling over a price. The white man turned away and swept through the crowd of Indians. Her heart beat faster. Was he leaving her to her fate, after all? But the Indians only stared at her, no longer abusing her. The white man returned, carrying an armful of furs. He dumped them onto the ground. The old man frowned at the furs and finally gave a stiff nod. The white man turned away and strode toward Solveig, his blue eyes imperturbable. She felt a weak relief. If he had bought her from the Indians, whatever her fate was, it would have to be a better to be with this white man than to stay with the savages. The white man cut her ropes. She pulled the sliced edges of my bodice together to hide her breasts from the still hungry eyes fixed upon her. Her rescuer fastened a hand around her upper arm and marched her through the staring crowd until they had reached a black stallion standing patiently at the edges of the camp. The white man turned to her, his face expressionless. "I am called Sky Eyes," he said in stilted English. "I have bought you from the Apaches. You will be my slave." He placed two hands around her waist and effortlessly swung her upon the unsaddled horse. "We have a long journey ahead of us." He jumped upon the horse, positioning himself behind Solveig. "Hold tight." Her hands entwined in the horse's mane, and she wondered how on earth she was supposed to hold tight when there was nothing to hold onto. But the man's knees held her fast as he nudged the horse into a gallop. As they left the Indian camp behind and moved toward the snow-capped Sierras, she did not look back. She did not know what to expect of her future, but for the moment, she felt only relief to have her fate in the hands of this man called Sky Eyes. *** 50

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In the weeks that followed their arrival in a tiny hut tucked in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, Solveig was to discover that Sky Eyes had sincerely meant what he'd said about buying her to be his slave. Luckily, she was a woman who was accustomed to hard work, and fell into the chores of running his home as if she had been doing it always. Up at daybreak to chop wood for the fire that was kept blazing at all hours. Skinning and cooking the game the mountain man brought back from his hunting treks through the forests. Grinding corn for meal. Scouring the tiny hut until it sparkled with such cleanliness that even her hard-to-please mother back in Stavanger would be impressed. And in the evenings, heating the water over the hearth for Sky Eyes' nightly bath. Ah, his bath. On the first night he bade Solveig to heat the water, and began to undress in front of her, she turned away, her face growing hot with embarrassment. Bjorn had been the only man she had ever seen unclothed. And what a man he had been! Oh, how he had made her blood boil! He had been only a youth of fifteen when she had met him while walking along the fjord, and from that moment on, there had been no other man for her. They had wed when he turned seventeen, and for the eight years of their blissful marriage, he had delighted her with the pleasures of the night, until sometimes, she had thought herself perversely wicked and decadent for her enjoyment of his body. When she had said these things to Bjorn, he had laughed heartily and in his booming Norwegian replied, "You're a real woman, Solveig! A woman who likes her man, and is not afraid to show it. This is good." After Bjorn died, she had thought all those feelings had died with him, but as Sky Eyes commanded her to wash his lean, brown back night after night, she found a glow tingling inside her, and soon, as he undressed for his bath, she could not make herself turn away from his naked body. She had been there a fortnight before he caught her gazing at him. His back had been turned toward her as he undressed in front of the blazing fire in the hearth. She was at the big tub, which she had lugged in from outdoors, pouring a smaller bucket of hot water into the cooler water so it would be of a comfortable temperature for his bath. Her gaze swept down Sky Eyes’s body, admiring his long, lean back, muscled buttocks and finely-shaped hairy legs. A lovely specimen of a man, indeed! And then, as she stared at him, he turned unexpectedly, and a soft gasp escaped her. He stared at her in his usual expressionless way, and if she had been thinking straight, she would have turned away as a demure lady should, but she found she could only gaze at him in amazed appreciation. 51

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With Bjorn, every time she had admired his manliness, which was nearly every night, he always became aroused at the mere look in her eyes. But this man, Sky Eyes, had no reaction to her esteem. His manhood didn't stir at all. Was there something wrong with her, she wondered? Or was something wrong with him? Solveig was aware of her Nordic beauty. Many men had wanted her, but she had wanted only Bjorn. Until now. As she stared at Sky Eyes, her womanly parts grew warm and moist, and she thought of those cold winter nights when Bjorn had thrust into her, bringing her to the heights of physical pleasure, and she so wanted to feel those emotions again...and with this man. Sky Eyes. But he had absolutely no reaction to me—almost as if she were invisible. Sky Eyes stepped into the tub and sank down into the warm water. Methodically, he washed himself. Finally, he dropped the rag into the water and bade Solveig to wash his back. She approached him, her heart beating like an Apache tom-tom in her chest. She knew he had to have seen the desire in her eyes. Did he realize how she would feel when she touched him? She sank to her knees at the tub and reached around his waist for the rag that had disappeared into the soapy water. Her fingers brushed against the skin of his stomach. No reaction. Not even a sharp intake of breath. And then, a horrible thought occurred to her. Was he one of those peculiar men who loved his own sex? Bjorn had told her there were men like that, but she hadn't really believed it. If Sky Eyes were one of those, it seemed a dreadful waste. Slowly, she began to wash his back, soaping it with the tips of her fingers and then rinsing it off with the rag. She took her time, allowing her imagination to soar, and all the time, her breathing became more erratic. She leaned closer to him, inhaling the scent of the soap and his vibrant male body. And for the second time in her life, she felt close to swooning. Her eyes fastened on a tiny brown mole on his right shoulder. Her index finger touched it gently, and suddenly, she was overwhelmed with a need to brush her lips against it. To taste its texture with the tip of her tongue. She drew closer to him, dipping her head toward the mole as her heart pounded harder inside her rib-cage. She parted her lips and dipped toward him, but just before she touched him, he moved away abruptly, growling, "That is enough." And it was over. She retired to her mat in front of the fireplace, and he to his slender bed in the corner of the one-room hut. And there, as the firelight flickered, 52

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Solveig lay listening to Sky Eyes’s deep, even breathing and allowed her imagination to take her where reality could not. Months passed, and night after night, she had erotic dreams about her captor— dreams where he'd kiss every inch of her naked body, his tongue bringing her to the heights of desire over and over. She knew she could not go on like this. Somehow, she had fallen in love—or in lust—with this silent stranger—a man she knew nothing about. A man who thought of her as nothing but his slave. Oh, he had not harmed her in any way. He had never been cruel or had even spoken harshly to her. On the contrary, he barely spoke to her, at all. It was almost as if he felt nothing—as if he were living life through a fog. What had turned him into such a withdrawn, brooding man? Was it possible to make him feel again? To wake him from his self-imposed prison? Could she do it? Solveig didn't know. But she knew it was a challenge she couldn't turn from. Late one afternoon in early April, it began to snow furiously, and Solveig knew it was the right time to offer herself to this impassive man who so obsessed her. She did not know what made her decide this would be the day—there was something almost primitive about the shrieking wind that shook the tiny hut, the drifts of snow which slowly built up around the door, shutting them off from everything—outdoor work, hunting, chopping wood. It was just the two of them now, a man and a woman, and it was time to do what was natural for a man and a woman living like husband and wife. For Solveig no longer felt like a slave to this man, and she was determined to make him no longer think of her in that way, as well. For the last few weeks, she had begun to notice a slight change in Sky Eyes's reaction to her as she bathed him. It was subtle, and it was because she was so attuned to his every nuance that she realized it at all. A slight flexing of a muscle as her fingertips brushed against his skin. An almost inaudible intake of breath as a lock of her hair fell onto his shoulder, as she leaned forward to search for the washrag. She had taken to wearing her hair down at night, instead of the prim bun she wore in the daytime during her chores. And she had noticed a different look in his blazing blue eyes as he glanced at her. Her heart had lifted. He is not indifferent to me! He so rarely spoke to her, only giving her instructions in a curt, disinterested way. He never complimented her on the meals she prepared for him, but ate them silently with great gusto. Her curiosity about him was almost as intense as her desire for him. Why was he living here in the mountains in seclusion? How had he become so close to the 53

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Apache tribe that he could barter his furs for their captive? And why had he chosen to rescue her? Surely, not to just become his slave. Could it be that he needed a companion as much as she did? This, Solveig was determined to find out. But more than that, she was determined to make him love her. The wind screamed outside, battering against the fragile walls of the hut and shuddering the structure with its force. Her fingertips were blue as she dipped her hand into the water to reach for the washrag. The heavy weight of her hair covered her back and shoulders, giving her some relief from the drafty air of the hut. She leaned toward Sky Eyes, feeling the heat emanating from his body. Her hand slipped around his stomach, seeking the washrag. Suddenly his hand grabbed hers, and he lifted it out of the water, staring at her puckered purplish fingertips for a moment. Then he spoke gruffly, "It is cold in here. Just quickly wash off my back, and be done with it." Solveig slumped in disappointment. Despite the cold, she had so looked forward to taking her time, sliding her hands over Sky Eyes’s smooth back, soaping it up and rinsing it. His nightly baths had become the highlight of her bleak days. And suddenly, she knew she could no longer go on like this. Bjorn had taught her about love—about how a woman could make a man crazy with desire. Suddenly she leaned against Sky Eyes, and pressed her lips to the mole on his back, kissing it hungrily as she had longed to do many times before. He stiffened at her touch, but did not pull away. She began moving her lips along his shoulders, using her tongue to lick his skin as a cat laps up his milk. Sky Eyes sat in the tub, his muscles tensed, his head turned away from her. She reached his neck and licked it in long, wet strokes up toward his ear. A soft sigh broke from his lips. Solveig didn't hesitate in what she was doing, but took his ear lobe into her mouth, tugging and suckling gently. Her hand brushed his long golden-brown hair away from his strong neck, and after dipping her tongue into his ear, swirling it around briefly, she continued her tasting journey with her lips and tongue along his jaw-line. Meanwhile, her hands had slid around to his chest, splaying against his carpet of wet hair. She could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat under her palms, and she knew he was no longer indifferent to her. Her mouth had traveled up to his ear and down again and now moved along his bristled jaw. Suddenly he turned his face toward her, and his hand came out of the water 54

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and fastened on the back of her head. His mouth ground savagely against hers and for an exultant moment, their tongues mingled in a deep, passionate kiss that sent her blood boiling. She moaned softly, and her breasts tingled, straining against the low-cut bodice of her gown. With a soft growl, he tore his mouth away from hers, and turning slightly, buried his face in the crevice of her breasts, his wet hands pressing against them, crushing them together as his lips hungrily devoured their sweet thrust. Gasping for air, Solveig threw back her head as her hands pressed against his head, holding him to her. Beneath her skirts, her womanly core burned in a way she had never experienced before, not even with Bjorn. Sky Eyes pulled away from her in so violent a movement that she found herself upon the floor, staring up at him. His eyes blazed a blue fire as he gazed down at her, his chest heaving. Slowly, he stood up in the tub. Her eyes fastened upon his proud maleness and she gasped in admiration at his erect manhood. Unsmiling, he stepped out of the tub and reached his hands down to her, pulling her to my feet in one powerful wrench. She cried out, not in fear or anguish, but in passion, locking herself against his wet naked body as naturally as a nut nestles in its shell. Again, his mouth clamped down on hers, his tongue searching and thrusting. Solveig wrenched away and sank to her knees in front of him. Bjorn had taught her how his mouth, tongue and lips could bring her to a fever pitch of passion, and she, in turn, had done the same for him. Remembering, she took Sky Eyes’s rock-hard manhood into her mouth and began to suck slowly and sensuously. He groaned, straining against her as his hands fastened on the back of her head, guiding her to his pleasure. Suddenly, he cried out in a ragged, unrecognizable voice and dragged her to her feet as if he couldn't stand a moment more of the exquisite pleasure brought about by the lessons she had learned from Bjorn. His eyes glazed, he stared down at her, his bottom lip white where he'd bitten down onto it. "Nordic vixen!" he whispered in a strangled voice. His movements were anything but subtle as he reached both hands up under her skirts and wrenched down her pantaloons. Solveig’s heart raced as she stepped out of them and kicked them away. For just a moment, they stared into each other's eyes. His were stormy and wild with desire. She smiled at him naughtily. 55

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With another ragged groan, he grabbed her and pulled her against him. He swept her up in his brawny arms and strode over to his bed, placing her upon it gently. For a long moment, he stared down at her, a look of indecision in his blue eyes. "Sky Eyes," Solveig whispered, holding out a beseeching arm to him. He released a long, shuddering sigh and dropped to the bed, sliding one warm hand between her naked limbs, and sinking his fingers into her womanly core. "Oh, yes. Det god," she murmured in Norwegian. That's good. She squeezed her eyes shut, gasping in delight. His mouth covered hers, shutting off her cries of tormented delirium. She wanted him so badly—needed him inside her. She dragged her mouth away from his. "Now!" She cried out as tears of frustration blinded her. "Now, Sky Eyes!" Staring deeply into her eyes, Sky Eyes plunged into her slowly, filling her so deeply and completely that she felt she would surely explode immediately. But sensing this, he paused, waiting for her blood to calm, and then, after an endless moment, he began to thrust into her slowly...oh, so slowly and exquisitely. She stared into his tumultuous eyes. His tempo quickened imperceptibly, and as they climbed the peak of their climax, his beautiful blue eyes darkened into deep violet pools. And then, suddenly, all restraint left him, and they rocked together in mindless rhythm, finally, exploding together, shuddering in an earthquake of pleasure. For a long, long moment, they stayed in that position, his head lolling against her damp shoulder, her legs wrapped around his naked waist. Their hearts pounded in time with each other, and their shallow breathing slowly steadied. Then, very gently, he withdrew from her. He stared at her for a long moment, and she realized he was searching for words. Her hand caressed his bristled jaw as she waited, knowing she was about to discover who this mystery man was—this man whom she had fallen in love with. Suddenly, Sky Eyes pulled away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up and reached for his deerskin trousers. Solveig reached out for him. "Darling..." She spoke the endearment in Norwegian. "Where are you going?" But he didn't answer. Slowly, he drew on his furs and with unbelieving eyes, Solveig watched him cross the tiny room to the door of the hut. Flakes of snow whipped 56

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into the room, but before she could say another word, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Moments later, she heard the thud of his horse's hooves as he rode away. *** Three long days and nights passed without word of him. Mechanically, Solveig went about her usual chores, dry-eyed and dazed. What had gone wrong? He had made love to her so sweetly, and she had been so sure he loved her as she loved him. But she must have been wrong. Somehow, she had forced him to do something he had not wanted to do, and now, he regretted it, and hated her for it. On the fourth day, the sun returned along with a balmy spring breeze. And Solveig knew she would have to leave the hut. If Sky Eyes had gone away for good, she would starve here alone. Besides, it was obvious he wanted nothing to do with her. Even if he did return, how could she stay with a man who would look at her with revulsion because she had coerced him into intimacies he hadn't wanted? She packed her meager belongings in a deerskin and left the hut at first light of the fifth day. Although the air was warm, snow still covered the ground in most places as she headed toward the mountains that stretched toward the west. California. That's where I will go. As she had originally planned. But she had forgotten the roughness of the Sierra terrain, and by the time the sun began to sink, she realized she had not traveled very far at all. Weary and depressed, she sank to the sodden ground and began to weep. It was the first time she had given into tears since just after she had lost her family a year before. But she knew her tears were not just because of her predicament. She cried because she loved a man who didn't love her. Who, for some reason of his own, wouldn't allow himself to love her. A twig snapped behind her. Solveig stiffened. Indians? She turned and her blood ran cold. Just a few feet away, on two clawed feet stood a massive brown bear, his tiny, beady eyes gleaming at me. A grizzly! Trying to hold in a scream, Solveig scrambled backwards, intending to run. The bear grunted and stepped toward her. This time, she could not stop herself from shrieking. Scrambling to her feet, she ran. It was the wrong thing to do. Behind her, she heard a massive roar, and imagined she could feel the scald of the bear's hot breath on her back as she ran frantically through the trees. Climb a tree, she thought. It was her only chance.

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Suddenly, a gunshot rang out. And then another. Solveig stopped in her tracks and looked behind her just in time to see the huge grizzly topple to the ground. And there, among the trees, she saw Sky Eyes. He slipped the strap of his smoking gun onto his shoulder and ran toward her. With a cry, Solveig met him. His arms folded around her, snuggling her against his warmth. His heart drummed against her chest. "Oh, my love," he whispered, his mouth traveling over her face, kissing her lovingly. "Do you know how close...”? His voice trailed away, and his mouth fastened on hers. Solveig kissed him back eagerly, just happy to be alive and in his arms again. "I came back to the hut to give you your freedom," he said, his fingers smoothing back her unruly golden hair. "But when I found you gone, I was heartsick. I knew I could not let you go. Please tell me you want to stay. Live with me until we are very old." Her fingers brushed against his face. "I think you know the answer to that, Sky Eyes." Later, as the firelight flickered over them, they lay contentedly in each other's arms in the afterglow of lovemaking. "Tell me who you are," Solveig whispered. "I am nobody," he said softly. "Just a man who prefers to live away from my fellow white man, and the havoc he is bringing with him from the Old World." His gaze moved across her face and softened. "And now that I have you, I want nothing else." "But how did you end up here? I want to know everything about you." He sighed and turned away, staring up at the carpet of stars in the sky. "I prefer to forget my past, but I will tell you. And then, we must never speak of it again. My name is Andrew MacLachlan. I was a cavalryman with the United States Army, sent out west to fight the Indians. I saw, first-hand, how my fellow white man butchered peace-loving tribes, redskins who wanted nothing more than to live off the land—their land that the white man had stolen. I saved the life of an Apache brave, killing a drunken, barbarous white soldier to do it, and I was a wanted man. The Apache took me into their tribe, and protected me." His eyes veered away suddenly, and his cheekbones reddened. "I took one of their squaws as wife, and she gave birth to a son. But when he was just a young lad, the cavalry attacked while the men were away on a hunting party. Every woman and child was found butchered when we returned. That was when I left the tribe and built this 58

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hut here halfway to nowhere. I wanted nothing more to do with anyone. I just wanted to be left alone." "If that is so, why did you buy me?" Solveig whispered. His eyes met hers. He stared at her, a puzzled look on his face. "I do not know," he said softly. "I just knew I had to have you. I could not bear thinking of what those squaws would do to such a lovely, fair creature as you." Solveig leaned against him and kissed his lips softly and tenderly. "Sky Eyes," she murmured. "You will not ever be alone again. Not as long as you want me." "That will be forever," he said. His lips closed upon hers, and she knew that fate had brought her to a place where she belonged.

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The Captain's Widow

"We're going aground! Save yourselves or prepare to die!" Leif Johnansen heard the boson’s panicked voice just before the Norwegian trawler gave a violent lurch which tumbled him onto the floor of his berth. He scrambled up and headed deck side, grateful he hadn't undressed for the night. If the boson’s warning was true, Leif's mother had been right. She'd wept when her youngest son had told her he was joining The Hammerfest as galley boy, claiming she'd never see him alive again. But seventeen-year-old Leif had been headstrong and determined to see the world. That afternoon, New Year's Eve, 1888, the Norwegian vessel had sailed into North American waters heading for Boston. But in early evening, a Northeaster slammed into the area and the trawler began to toss on the ocean as if it were no more than a toy. Leif had spent most of the next few hours in his cabin, seasick for the first time in his life. He burst onto the deck, his stomach still heaving. The force of the gale winds knocked him back against the bulkhead. He fought to catch his breath. Rain slashed into his face, blinding him. Through the din of the storm, he heard the mournful foghorn of a lighthouse. They were close to land. Too close. A flash of lightning lit the night sky, and in that second, Leif saw the jagged rocks just meters from the bow of the ship. He knew they were only seconds away from impact. Tomorrow is my birthday. I want to live to be eighteen. Leif jumped overboard. A prayer was still on his lips when he hit the icy waters. *** He felt cool fingers upon his face and struggled to open his eyes. An angel with green eyes and ebony hair stared down at him. She was the most beautiful woman Leif had ever seen. "Hvor er jeg?" Leif mumbled. 60

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A confused look crossed her porcelain face. "I'm sorry. I don't understand. Do you not speak English?" Leif bit his lip. Of course. He was in America now. He struggled to remember the basic English the American cook onboard The Hammerfest had taught him. He'd found he'd been able to understand it better than speak it. "Where...am I?" The beautiful young woman brought a cool cloth to his forehead and gently blotted the sweat from his face. "You are in Courtney's Cove. The province of Maine. I found you on the beach by the lighthouse. There were others, too, but you were the only one still living. Will you take some water?" He nodded. She reached a rose-scented arm around him to help him sit up. He inhaled her fragrance and immediately felt his loins stir. His eyes fixed upon her bulging breasts barely concealed by the thin muslin of her bodice. He'd never been with a woman before, but there had been many nights in his cabin when he'd fantasized about it to the point where he'd been near bursting with desire. There had never been a face on the woman of his dreams—only a silky body promising endless pleasure. "What is your name?" Leif asked haltingly. "Shandeigh," she said, bringing a tin of cool water to his lips. He drank deeply and then lay back onto the pillows, his eyes scanning the small room. It appeared to be a two-room cottage. A fire burned brightly in a grate near a small cooking area in the corner. On the opposite side of the room, a curtained doorway obscured the view into the next room. Was that where she slept? "You have been very ill," Shandeigh said. "I believe the night you spent on the beach gave you the pneumonia. But I nursed you with herbs I gathered from the forest— and potions I prepared." Leif felt his heart lurch. "Are you a heks...a witch?" Her perfect mouth curved in a mysterious smile. "I saved your life. Would a witch do that?" He breathed a bit easier. "No, I think not." His eyes swept the room. "Do you live here alone?" A shadow appeared in her clear green eyes. "I do now. My husband sailed to the Old World four years hence, and has never returned. I have had word that his ship went down off the coast of Africa and all hands were lost." 61

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"I am sorry," Leif murmured. She shrugged and turned away. "I do not believe he is dead. That's why I stay here in Courtney's Cove. I know he will come back to me. He is the only man I will ever love, and if I do not meet him again in this life, I will wait for him in the next." Her eyes returned to his. One hand touched his face gently. "You are just a youth. So very beautiful you are, with your golden hair and child-like blue eyes. How is it that your family allowed you to go away at such a tender age?" Leif shivered at her touch. Immediately, he felt his body react in an embarrassing way. But embarrassment wasn't the only thing he felt. A ripple of irritation had shot through him at her words. A youth? Indeed! For a moment, he was tempted to throw back the covers to show her just how un-youthful he was. But good manners stopped him. His chin lifted. "They had no choice. I do as I wish. Besides, I am a man. Eighteen winters." Her eyes glinted with amusement. "Ah, so you are. Well, perhaps now you will wish for some supper. I have a pot of hearty stew over the fire. Do you not think you can eat?" Leif nodded. She smiled and gave his right shoulder a pat. He adjusted himself into a sitting position, feeling a bit light-headed as he did so. Shandeigh didn't notice. She'd turned away and was walking across the room toward the cooking pot. Leif's eyes fastened upon her rounded hips swaying beneath her homespun gown. He groaned inwardly. Tonight, after the candles were extinguished, he would have more than enough food for fantasy. What was more, the object of his fantasy would be just a few steps away with only a flimsy curtain separating them. *** The days slipped into weeks. Leif grew stronger and began to help Shandeigh with her daily chores. She was a hard-working woman, he found. She cared for a cow, a goat, and a flock of chickens. After those chores were done, she churned butter and made cheese, which she sold in the town square once a week. During the long cold evenings, she weaved baskets at the fireside. On mild days, Leif did repairs around the small cottage and helped Shandeigh with the livestock.

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There was never a mention of Leif leaving, although he often wondered what the villagers thought of Shandeigh harboring a young foreigner in her cottage. Surely, it wasn't a seemly thing to do here in America. Still, he had no desire to leave. As the days passed, he found himself growing more and more entranced with his hostess. Since the day he'd regained consciousness, she hadn't touched him again. But whenever she looked at him, Leif saw something in her eyes...something tender and desirous. It had been four years since her husband had left—a husband she'd been very much in love with. Surely, she missed the touch of a man. But Leif was afraid. He'd had no experience in such things. Still, there were times he came so close to losing control. One afternoon a week before, he had gone out into the woods to cut trees for firewood. It was a cold, blustery day in early March, yet the sun was shining, promising the hint of spring. Leif had taken along Shandeigh’s rifle because she'd warned of the possibility of bears awakening early from hibernation, hungry and disgruntled from their long sleep. But instead of running into a bear, Leif had come across a wild turkey. With one clean shot, he’d felled it, and mouth watering, ran to get it. Wouldn't Shandeigh be surprised when he brought home dinner? He was so excited about his kill, he knew he had to rush back to the cottage to show her. Besides, the sooner they dressed the fowl and prepared it for the pot, the sooner they'd be able to feast. With a grin, he burst into the cottage, his hand holding the dead turkey behind his back. A totally unexpected sight met his astonished eyes. Shandeigh stood at the scarred oak table, clad only in a pair of white pantaloons, her bare breasts glistening with water and thrusting pertly in his direction. In the moment before she grabbed a cloth to cover herself, Leif's eyes fastened upon her round brown nipples, hardening now into taut nubs. Shandeigh's face was pale, her full-bodied lips open in an astonished "o." Leif's body reacted immediately to her nudity, and his face grew crimson. He gave thanks that her husband's old woolen coat hid his rigid hardness from her eyes. She grabbed a cloth and covered her breasts as best she could, but he could still see their heaving bulge peeking above the small protection. "Unnskyld. Jeg har vondt." Flustered and confused, he apologized in Norwegian. Quickly, he turned and hurried back outside. He headed towards the woods, having dropped the turkey outside the door. "Leif!" 63

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She was at the door, a robe wrapped around her. "What is it? Is something wrong?" He stopped but refused to look back at her. "I brought dinner," he said, motioning toward the turkey's carcass. "How do you say...”? He gave a shrug. "Overraske..." "Surprise?" she asked quietly. "How wonderful! I'll see it's prepared for tonight." As he turned to go, she added "Thank you, Leif. Be careful now." He took off for the woods at a run. As soon as he'd put enough distance between them, he found a tree and leaned against it, breathing heavily. His eyes closed as he fumbled at his trousers. A moment later, his hand closed upon his hot rigid manhood. In his mind, he saw Shandeigh's naked breasts...and he was lost. *** Leif heard her crying in the middle of the night. It had happened before, but tonight it was different. She was sobbing as if her heart would break. He could hear it even over the savage beat of the rain on the roof. Thunder rumbled and lightning lit up the interior of the cottage. Her sobbing grew louder. He could take it no more. Throwing back the covers, he slipped out of bed and walked across the room to the curtained doorway. He hesitated a moment, and then brushed the curtain aside. Lightning flickered, briefly illuminating her tiny cubicle. Shandeigh was lying on her stomach, sobbing into her pillow. She wore a long white nightdress but it was tangled and bunched up, revealing her slender white legs. Trembling, Leif walked toward her. It was dark again, but in his mind, he still saw her shapely limbs and the thrust of her rounded buttocks. "Don't cry, Shandeigh," he whispered, his hand reaching toward her silky black hair. "Please stop crying..." At his touch, her sobs stopped. He felt her body stiffen with tension. His hand stroked her hair. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. A soft sigh escaped her lips. "John?" she whispered. His hand stilled. John. That was her husband's name. Det Gott! She thought he was her husband—come back from the dead! Leif pulled his hand away from her and took a step backward. She moaned and turned over on her side, reaching for him. "Don't go," she murmured. "Stay with me. Love me." 64

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Leif's manhood stirred. Lightning flashed and he saw her lovely white hands reaching toward him. His senses swam. Everything ceased to matter. He moved toward her and felt her hands touch his nightshirt. A moment later, he sank onto the bed next to her. Her lips pressed soft kisses against his neck as her hand found his and directed it to her full warm breast. Even through the cotton, he could feel its taut nub thrusting against his palm. He groaned, pressing his rigid manhood against her stomach. If she touched him, he would... Her mouth found his. Her tiny pointed tongue gained entry, seeking and searching. His hand left her breast and moved downward along her waist and to her thigh. He wanted to touch her under her nightdress. Had to feel her bare skin against his hand. The nightdress was still bunched up around her thighs. He slid his hand under and moved upward, over the swell of her hip and up her ribcage. It stopped just under the full swell of her breast. He kissed her, working his tongue inside her sweet mouth, savoring the moment. Then his hand closed upon her bare breast. He squeezed, his eyes closed, and held his breath, feeling very close to losing control. Suddenly, Shandeigh wrenched away from him and turned onto her back. Her hand reached for his and directed it down over her smooth flat belly. He groaned and whispered a plea in Norwegian. She understood. Her hands pushed his nightshirt up around his waist. "Come to me now, my love," she whispered, and gently drew him on top of her. He slid into her easily, and at that moment, he thought he would die. Die happily. She took him in, thrusting up toward him, her fingernails digging into his flesh. Groaning, he arched against her. Once, twice. And it was over. He grew still. After a moment, he collapsed at her side, his heart pounding wildly. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know it was not good for you." She drew him into her arms, her fingers smoothing his long blond hair back from his face. "Oh, but it was," she said. "It has been so long, Leif." Leif? But he'd thought she'd mistaken him for her long-lost husband. "I know I called you John before, but I knew it was you all along." With her uncanny intuition, she had again read his mind. Was she a witch after all? She touched his lips with a finger. "Perhaps I was trying to convince myself that you were my husband. I have been wanting you for so long, Leif. Even though I knew it was wrong." 65

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"How can it be wrong," he whispered against her damp neck. "When it felt so right?" She turned in his arms, her hands cupping his face. "You're so young. A man but still a boy. But from the first moment I found you on the beach, I could not stop thinking about how much I wanted you. In the days when you were so ill, when I bathed you, I would touch you, knowing it was wrong, hating myself for it. But you responded, even ill as you were. You would grow hard and I wanted to...oh, I am so ashamed. So wanton..." “No. Do not be ashamed,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her mouth. “You are a woman with a woman’s desires. You have been without your husband for so long…” Shandeigh drew slightly away from him, her fingertips stroking his cheekbone. “I lied to you before, my sweet boy. I stopped believing some time ago that my dear husband will ever come home. But I did not lie about my love for him. He is my one true love.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, and her green shimmered. “But you have taught me to feel again. And now…now I am wondering if it is possible to love another. Or is it simply the loving that makes me feel thus?” Her silken words brought an instantaneous reaction to his manhood. It stirred and hardened, nudging gently against her soft belly. He pulled her closer against him, confident now in his newfound masculinity. His mouth sought hers. As it opened pliantly beneath his, he felt her hand enclose his manhood. Leif dragged his mouth away from hers, relishing in the delightful sensation racing through him at her rhythmical touch. The feeling built up in him, and he knew it wouldn't be long before he exploded. "Det god...det god," he whispered over and over. It's good, so good. And then, he could stand it no longer. He plunged into her and she accepted him eagerly, and again, their passion exploded like a fiery volcano. With his hands guiding her buttocks, Leif began to move. He drew her upward on his shaft, inching out, and then slowly thrusting back in. He was learning. Learning very quickly what she liked. Drawing out almost all the way, his fingers touched her swollen button, and she writhed on the bed, her eyes squeezed closed, her nails digging into the flesh of his buttocks. Sweet and slow. Tormenting, teasing. As his tempo quickened, Shandeigh moaned frantically. 66

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He stopped in mid-thrust, knowing she was close. Knowing he didn’t want it to end yet. He held himself motionless, gazing down at her. She squirmed on his rod, biting her bottom lip. His hands tightened on her, holding her still. Finally, she regained control. Only then did he begin to move again, rocking against her. Twice more he slowly thrust into her, and out again until only his tip was inside her. She chewed on her lower lip, staring into his eyes. "Hard, now,” she whispered. "Please, Leif, do not hold back." The restraint he'd shown so far had taken its toll on him. He needed no further encouragement. He slammed into her to the hilt. Only his urgent mouth saved her from screaming out. His hands guided her buttocks, at a pace now that was quickly taking him to the edge. But just as he neared the point of no return, Leif grew still, holding her tightly so she couldn't move. Then, incredibly, he withdrew from her. She looked at him, shocked. Guided by instinct, he turned her over on the bed, and without speaking, he urged her onto her hands and knees. His fingers parted her glistening lips, and the tip of his cock nudged against her. She rocked backward, grinding. He thrust into her slowly, his hands reaching for her breasts, squeezing and teasing her nipples under the soft Muslim of her nightdress. His thrusts quickened just a bit. "Leif..." she groaned. "Now, Leif, please!" All restraint left him. He pummeled into her. The slap of his skin against hers was loud in the quiet room, but soon their grunts and cries of pleasure took over. She released a soft cry and trembled hard, her nails digging into him. With one final thrust, Leif climaxed in hot gushing waves. They collapsed on the bed, gasping. He curled up behind her, pressing his front to her back, his hand wrapping around to caress her hard button-like nipple. His lips nuzzled her neck. "You are so sweet, Leif...so very sweet,” she murmured. "I never knew..." he spoke hoarsely. Then his English deserted him completely. Outside, there was only the sound of a steady rain. Shandeigh didn't speak again. And soon, Leif realized she was sleeping. His eyes grew heavy, and he, too, slept. *** Leif wanted to marry her. But of course, it wasn't possible. Not until seven years had passed and her husband could be proclaimed officially dead. 67

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The months passed. Summer arrived, bringing days of glorious sunshine and romantic moonlit nights. Leif was so in love he couldn't think straight. In the daylight hours, they worked the tiny farm together, harvesting the vegetables and caring for the livestock. The nights in Shandeigh's arms were magical. Leif knew he'd never return to Norway. He had no desire to go anywhere but here. One hot night as they sat on the front porch together, Shandeigh reached over and took his hand. "My love, I believe I am with child." Leif caught his breath. "Are you sure?" She nodded. "I am as sure as I can be. I am very pleased. Especially if you feel the same way." He hesitated. "I do, of course. But what will the villagers say? We cannot marry for another three years." "I have been thinking about that," she said slowly. "Perhaps we should go west. We will live as man and wife, and no one will know that it is not true." Leif's heart leapt. It was all he wanted—to be Shandeigh's husband. Even if it was only a pretense. "Ja. We shall do it. When shall we leave?" "After harvest. We'll need all the money my garden can bring for our journey. We'll go into the great state of New York. I hear it is beautiful around a village called Syracuse." Summer passed. One beautiful morning in early September, a knock came at the door of the cottage while Leif was shaving at a discolored old mirror hung on the wall. Shandeigh was out in the back, washing clothes in a tub. The vegetables had been harvested and sold. And within the week, they would be leaving for Syracuse. Leif strode to the door, whistling a Norwegian tune, his mind upon their departure. A man from the village stood on the threshold, a nervous look on his weatherbeaten face. "Is Mrs. Shandeigh around?" Shandeigh appeared around the side of the house. "Jasper! What brings you here?" He dipped his tattered hat at her. "Missus, there's a ship coming into the harbor." He took a deep breath and added, "Old Jack up in the lighthouse says it's the Shandeigh." Her face whitened. Leif dropped his razor. He caught Shandeigh in his arms just as she fainted. *** 68

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Tears sparkled in Shandeigh's green eyes as she packed Leif's small parcel of belongings. Things that weren't really his, but items he would need for his travels. "I do love you," she said, passing him the bundle. She looked deeply into his eyes. “You do know that, yes? But I loved him first. I pledged myself to him until life do us part. I cannot change that, and truth be told, I do not know if I would if I had the choice. A woman cannot love two men, even if it is true. Society will not allow that. You understand it has to be this way, do you not?" He nodded, swallowing hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. "What about the child?" he asked, his voice strangled with emotion. "It is early yet," she whispered, tears tracking down her beautiful face. "John will think it is his own. But I will know, Leif, every time I look at him or her, I will think of you. And our love." Leif could control himself no longer. "Why does it have to be this way, Shandeigh? I love you. And you love me. Why must you send me away? Why?" "Because he is my husband. And I belong to him." She pressed her lips against his gently. "I'll never forget you, my young Norwegian. As you will not forget me." That, he knew, was true. He would never forget her. Tears streaked down his face as he walked down the lane from her cottage. Several times, he almost turned back, giving into the impulse to go back and fight for his fair lady, his love. But each time, he remembered the sorrow in her green eyes and heard her soft voice pleading with him. I loved him first. I pledged myself to him until death do us part. His tears had dried by the time he reached the main road, and there, striding toward him, he saw a tall dark-haired bearded man. Leif’s heart lurched as he realized who it was. The man grew closer, and as they came abreast each other, the stranger nodded and flashed him a dazzling smile. “Good day, young man. Is it not the most beautiful morning you have ever seen?” Before Leif could respond, the man had passed him by, whistling a jaunty tune as he sauntered down the road. Leif released a shuddering sigh. Up ahead, he saw a sign pointing south. Courtney's Cove. He turned and headed in the opposite direction.

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The Uninvited

When the stranger first appeared on her front stoop in the cold drizzle, Meg wasn't alarmed. "My car has bummed out," he said. "I was thinking to use your telephone." His accent was different from the local Irish of Donegal. In the months since she'd taken refuge in this rugged coastal area in the west of Ireland, she'd come to know the nuances of their speech, and immediately she identified this man as an outsider. Yet, he looked pleasant enough. He was young, mid-thirties with unruly dark hair and clear intelligent blue eyes. An attractive man, Meg thought. And was surprised at herself. It had been a long time since she'd noticed a man was attractive. His lips twisting in a sheepish smile, and a shaft of pain speared through Meg. Something about the smile had reminded her of Peter. He looked nothing like him, of course. He wasn't even the same age as her tall blue-eyed, blond husband, but a good eight years younger. The stranger was waiting patiently for her reply, yet his eyes roved beyond her shoulders as if expecting to see someone else. Meg took a step backwards and motioned for him to come in. He moved swiftly on the balls of his feet, reminding her of a sleek black cat, cautious, yet graceful. He was hunched in a black woolen jacket beaded with rain. Over one shoulder, he carried a worn knapsack. "The phone is in the kitchen," she said, indicating the way. Eyebrows lifted as his face took on an expression of surprise. It was her accent, she knew. He hadn't been prepared to hear the voice of an American. But he made no response and headed toward the kitchen. While she waited for him to call for help, Meg glanced out the window at the dark drizzly afternoon. There wouldn't be much light left in the November day. She hoped he'd have no problems getting someone out this late. The nearest village was over twenty kilometers away, and even so, everything closed up early this time of year. 70

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She felt his eyes upon her and turned around. His thoughtful stare sent the first wave of uneasiness through her. Not because she thought he might be a rapist or a psychotic. It was something else. Something in his stance, or perhaps the expression in his eyes. A hunted wariness. He shrugged. "Phone's out." "What? Are you sure?" Flustered, Meg strode into the kitchen and picked up the phone receiver. She tapped the button, but nothing happened. It was dead. When she returned to the living room, the man was peering out the window, his body tense and watchful. She stared at him a moment and then returned to the kitchen. At the stove, she put on a pot of water for tea and stood there twisting her wedding ring as she waited for it to boil. Up until a year ago, Meg had prided herself upon her strength. She'd always believed in the philosophy of dealing with troubles head-on, confident that when tested, she would survive. That was before the biggest test of her life—Peter’s death. And she'd failed miserably. Yet, her years of practice at remaining calm still helped in moments of anxiety. Most of the time. The teakettle whistled, startling her. She poured the hot water into a china teapot and allowed it to steep. No doubt, she was allowing her imagination to get the best of her. Ireland seemed to do that to a person, with all the talk of faeries and banshees out here in the country. The man was just what he said he was—a stranded traveler. Meg placed the teapot and cups onto a tray and brought them into the living room. In the gloom of the dusk, she could barely see the man standing tensely at the window. She placed the tray on the coffee table and switched on the lamp near the sofa. Startled, he turned to stare at her. Meg's heart skipped a beat at the trapped-animal wariness of his expression. She tried to smile. "I thought you might like some tea." His face relaxed and for the first time, she noticed the lines of fatigue around his azure eyes. The dark stubble of beard on his face sent out another message to her, adding up to something her brain didn't want to accept. He was on the run from something. She motioned to the teapot. "Please, sit down and have some tea." He almost smiled as he moved toward the sofa. "Indeed, but a good cuppa would hit the spot." 71

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Her hands trembled as she poured the hot, fragrant liquid into cups. She hoped he wouldn't notice. He watched her, his hands hanging loosely between his knees. She handed him the cup. When he took his first sip, his eyes closed briefly as if he were relishing the taste. Meg stared at him. Sensing her gaze, he opened his eyes. They pierced into her like miniature blue daggers. "Why are you here?" he asked bluntly. I should be asking that question, Meg thought. She took a quick sip of tea and tried to look composed. There was something about this man that made her edgy. "It's a long story." He shrugged. "It looks as if we have plenty of time." Another wave of uneasiness washed over her. She crossed her legs and cleared her throat, her fingers working at her wedding ring. "Well, I suppose you could say I needed some time away from my life back in Massachusetts. Away from the pressure and..." Her voice trailed away. Why was she volunteering this information to a stranger? His eyes centered on the wedding ring she twisted on her left hand. "Away from your husband?" Meg stood up. "I think I have some cookies in the kitchen." When she returned with the tin of cookies, he was at the window again, peering into the drizzly black evening. He dropped the curtain and walked back to the sofa. "Thought I heard something out there." Meg's lips tightened as she placed the tin on the coffee table and sat down. He reached into it and grabbed a handful of cookies. Popping one into his mouth, he mumbled, "Matter of fact, I could use something a bit more substantial, if it's no great trouble." "What are you on the run from?" The man stopped munching. The question hung in the air between them for a long moment. He brushed a crumb off his somewhat grubby jeans and then looked at her. "You don't want to know anything about me," he murmured. "Just let me stay 'til daybreak. Then I'll be on my way." It was too late to go back. "There is no broken down car, is there?" He was silent. "And the telephone? Are the lines really down or did you cut them?" Nothing. No response. 72

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Meg stood up. "So, are you holding me hostage here? Am I your prisoner?" He sighed and the lines of fatigue on his face intensified. "Look, I just need a safe place to sleep for the night. That's all." "I see," Meg took a step toward the front door. "So, you won't mind if I leave you here for the night? I'll just drive over to the parishioners and stay there." He moved, cat-like, onto his feet and grabbed her arm. Their eyes met, his blue, vivid and watchful, hers brown and frightened. "I can't let you do that." His voice was soft and deadly serious. "Please...can you get me a bit of supper? I am famished." Meg stared at him and then nodded. "I'll see what I can find in the kitchen." He released her arm and moved back to the sofa. Meg turned to the kitchen, but before she went in, she paused to look back at him. Icy fingers of fear crept along her skin, raising the hair on the back of her neck. In his curiously well-shaped hands, the man held a snub-nosed steel-blue revolver. He was caressing it as if it were a lover. *** Except for the glowing fire in the hearth, the room was dark. Outside, the rain slashed down in a musical symphony punctuated by occasional drum rolls of thunder. The man had settled into a frayed recliner by the fire and was resting quietly, his eyes half-closed. Yet, Meg knew he was alert to any movement she made on the sofa nearby. The remains of his supper of scrambled eggs and toast had been cleared away, but a cup of hot tea sat cooling on the table near him. Although the gun had disappeared, it had accomplished its mission. Meg knew he had it. She took a sip of her tea. It was going to be a long night. She wondered what it would bring? Was he telling her the truth? Would he leave in the morning? Without harming her? A loud pop from a burning log startled him out of his somnolent state, and his eyes fastened on her, glimmering in the light of the fire. Meg shifted in her chair and spoke, "What's your name?" A perplexed expression crossed his face. "Sean MacCauley." He eyed her as if expecting a reaction. When there was none, he visibly relaxed, his eyelids cloaking the gleam in his eyes. "You didn't really tell me before. What's an American like yourself 73

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doing living here in the West Country?" His lips twisted in a tired smile. "And don't be telling me it's a long story. I'm not going anywhere." Indeed, that was true. Meg had resigned herself to having the mysterious stranger as her guest, at least until morning. Perhaps conversation would help to pass the time. She took a deep breath. "Okay. You want to know why I'm here? Over a year ago, my husband was murdered by a punk in a convenience store." Her hands trembled as she lifted the teacup to her lips and took a sip. The man remained silent, but his eyes had softened. Compassion, Meg wondered? Somehow, it encouraged her to go on. She'd never really talked about it. Hadn't been able to. If she had, would things be different now? Would she be ready to go back to America and get on with her life? "I was making manicotti for dinner. But the last egg slipped out of my hand and cracked on the floor. I knew Peter would be leaving the office soon, so I phoned him to ask him to stop at the store for eggs. While he was there, a teenager came in, held him and another customer at gunpoint and demanded the contents of the cash register from the only employee. After he had the money, he shot each of them in the head and walked out. He was caught about two blocks away with two hundred and four dollars." Her voice died away into silence. Sean MacCauley stood and walked over to the window, his hands in the pockets of his wool jacket. He gazed out for a moment and then abruptly turned and stared at her. "Bloody bastard!" It made her cry. She fumbled in the pocket of her jeans for a tissue. He crossed the room on swift feet, dropped to the sofa beside her and handed her an immaculately pressed handkerchief. It seemed inconsistent with his somewhat bedraggled appearance. She wiped the tears away, but still they flowed. Sean sat quietly at her side. She moved away from him to reach for her teacup. When she brought it to her lips, she found the drink cold and bitter. "I was going to leave him," she said. "I'd planned to tell him that night. Everything in my life seemed wrong, and I thought the marriage was the cause of it. I thought we needed some time apart, to think about how we could work it out. But when he left for work that morning, I didn't realize it would be the last time I'd see him. I'd talked to him on the phone just a few minutes before he died. How is it possible I didn't sense it would be the last time I'd hear his voice?" 74

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Of course, she expected no answer and got none. Sean sat motionless. After a moment, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He offered her one and after a second's hesitation, she took it. With a cheap plastic lighter, he lit their cigarettes. Meg took a deep draw on hers, closing her eyes as the tobacco sent a familiar pleasurable sensation through her. It had been three months since she'd given up smoking. "I thought I wanted some time away from him," she said. "But I didn't mean forever." She gave a harsh laugh. "For some time, I felt like I'd caused it to happen. The ultimate guilt complex. Finally, I became angry. Furious. I wanted to break into the prison and kill that murderous bastard. Now, even that's gone. I don't feel anything. Just numb." Sean's blue eyes turned toward her. "How did you end up here?" Meg took another draw from her cigarette and exhaled a ribbon of smoke. "My great-grandparents were born in County Donegal and I'd always wanted to see the land of my ancestors. After Peter died, I emptied my savings account and came here. I never intended to stay, but there was something so...healing about Ireland. I arranged to rent this house and well, right now, I'm almost content again." "How do you support yourself?" A wry smile flickered on her lips. "I live off Peter’s life insurance and sell an occasional painting. I'm an artist," she added. "Since I've been here, I've done a lot of landscapes of the Donegal coast." He nodded and then said,"Sure, that's safe." Before Meg could reply to this puzzling statement, he went on, "You look like an artist." "Really? How many have you met?" He grinned, somewhat abashed. "Not that many. What I mean is...you look the way I've always pictured an artist would look. A bit 'other worldly,' if you don't mind my saying so. Like you're living on a different plane from the rest of us ordinary souls." Meg smiled. "I'm not sure if that's complimentary or not." "Oh, but I mean it so," he said, a note of urgency in his voice. His eyes took on a faraway look. "I once thought I had an artist's soul. But that was before..." His voice trailed away. He seems so harmless, Meg was thinking. Hard to believe he was virtually holding her prisoner in her own home. She opened her mouth and the words came out 75

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before she could stop them. "What side are you on, Sean? The IRA or a Protestant terrorist group?" He blinked in astonishment. His mouth grew grim. "I'm surprised an American like you even knows the difference. Most of you are appallingly ignorant about the situation in the North." "So which is it? My guess is the IRA." He sneered. "I'm no fucking Ulster Volunteer, but I'm not IRA either. Not yet, at any rate. But let's talk about you. How do you know so much about the UVF and the IRA?" "My great-grandfather grew up in this country. I have an interest in my heritage." "And what's your opinion of the situation up north?" "I'd like to see the British out of Northern Ireland, but I don't think the IRA's tactics will help get it done." He gave a humorless smile. "And I suppose you have another solution?" "No, I don't. But I don't think violence is the answer. What did you do, Sean? Who's after you, the British?" He flinched, his muscles tightening. "I killed a man. A Protestant extremist. I hunted him down and killed him as if he were a dog. It was revenge, you see. And I thought I'd feel good afterward. But instead, I was sickened. Yet, I don't regret doing it." Meg was silent, waiting for him to go on. He jumped up from the sofa and paced the room, raking his hands through his dark brown hair. "Sure, it was totally justified, you see. This...this monster beat down my parents' door and slaughtered them in cold blood while they lay sleeping!" He turned and stared at her, blue eyes blazing. "Why? Because so-called informers had accused them of running a safe house for the IRA. It wasn't true." His breathing quickened. His eyes were glazed with the pain of memory. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a jerky puff. Then he looked at her again. "I told you I'm not IRA, but I have half a mind to join The Cause now." He paused, tears glittering in his eyes. Another draw on the cigarette. Exhale. "Ma and Da never did anything to anyone. Da was too afraid, you see. He just wanted to live his life in peace. That's all he ever wanted. Yeh, I will join the resistance. I have to do what I can to help my people." He blinked and brushed the tears away. His face grew hard. "There will be no peace in Northern Ireland until we get the Brits out." 76

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Meg trembled at the rage in his voice. Once again, he was the criminal on the run. Dangerous, unpredictable. "I can understand your anger at your parents' murders," Meg said. "It's horrible. But don't you see that violence only feeds upon itself? As long as you people keep killing each other, there's no hope for Ulster." He stared at her a moment. Then his upper lip twisted in a sneer. "And I thought maybe you were different from all the other Yanks. Sure, but I'm a bleeding fool! How could you know what it's like for us in the North? You've never had to worry about soldiers beating down your door in the middle of the night. Or bombs going off outside your house. Have you ever been turned down for a job because you're Catholic? Our situation in the North is no different from the blacks in South Africa under the apartheid policy. And the world cried out against that! Yet, when we fight back, try to gain human rights for our people, we are condemned. Why do you suppose that is?" He wearily rubbed a hand across his eyes and dropped into a chair. The room was quiet except for the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. He stared morosely into the fire. "You're right," Meg murmured. "I can't imagine a life like that. But I don't have to imagine losing my husband because some cocky kid decided to play executioner. I lived through it. And it's not that I don't understand why you killed the guy. I told you, I wanted to murder that low-life who killed Peter. But there's a difference between us...I didn't act on my feelings. It doesn't matter why you break the law or how noble the cause is...killing is killing and violence is violence." He stared back steadily. "Laws are made by man. For some of us, there are higher laws." The clock ticked loudly in the quiet room as Meg searched for a response. None came. She met the stranger's gaze. Something passed between them. A current of electricity. It was subtle, but undeniable. It scared the hell out of Meg. What was happening here? She swallowed hard. "Still, I still can't condone what you did." A shuttered look of fatigue closed over his face. "I didn't ask you to condone it, did I now? I don't want anything from you except shelter for the night." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "It's late. Perhaps we should be getting some sleep. A blanket and pillow will do nicely out here." 77

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Without a word, Meg stood. She was trembling, but it was no longer caused by fear. The lightning flash of attraction between them had disappeared, but Meg couldn't deny its existence. What was wrong with her? Was she so starved for male attention she would send out sexual signals to any desperate fugitive who turned up on her doorstep? But immediately, she rejected this notion. Sean was special. She didn't know how or why; she just knew he was. She walked to the linen closet and pulled out the sheets and blanket. When she turned, he was behind her. Too close. Again, she felt his overwhelming sexuality...the heat of his body; the heat in his eyes. He reached for the linens, his gaze locked on hers. "I'm a light sleeper," he said. "Don't you be trying to get out of the house." He stared at her. "I don't want to have to hurt you, Margaret. But I'm a desperate man." He turned away. Only then could Meg move. At the door of her bedroom, she paused and looked back. "How did you know my name?" A smiled flickered across his lips. "It's on your door above the post box." "Oh. Well, call me Meg. I don't feel like a Margaret." She turned and walked into her room, closing the door behind her. *** The drumming of the rain upon the roof woke Meg in the middle of the night. For a moment, she was disoriented, knowing it was an unusual night, but not remembering why. Then it came to her. Sean MacCauley. And she was wide-awake. The illuminated arms of the clock were positioned at one-thirty. She'd slept for only a half-hour. She flung back the covers and slipped out of bed. The floorboards under her feet were icy; she tugged on the pair of thick woolen socks she'd discarded earlier. There was no need to draw on a robe because she hadn't changed from her sweater and jeans. She stepped into the hallway and crept toward the living room. At the threshold, she peered in. The dying light of the fire revealed Sean McCauley's dark shape curled on the sofa. She wondered if he truly was a light sleeper. If she could get past him to the door, the rain would drown out the sound of the car starting up. Then she would go...where? The constable? And tell him what? Sean hadn't hurt her, and she didn't think he would. But he'd killed a man. Wasn't it her duty to turn him in? She took a cautious step forward. The creak of a floorboard ripped through the room like a crash of thunder. Sean MacCauley jumped up from the sofa, eyes wild, his 78

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hand clutching the revolver. Meg stared at him, her heart hammering. His bare chest heaved with his startled breathing. "What are ya up to, Meggie?" She swallowed. "I was just...going to get a glass of water." Her eyes focused on his lean chest where a mat of wiry black hair narrowed down to disappear beneath the waist of his jeans. "I was thirsty." "The kitchen is in the other direction." He stared at her. And again, a current of electricity reached out from him and wrapped itself around her like a charged snake. His eyes still locked on hers, he placed the gun on the end table and came toward her. Meg took a step backward and shook her head. He kept coming. When he reached her, he held out his hand. Like a puppet being manipulated, she allowed him to draw her into the room and over to the fireplace. His blue eyes swept over her face, reading her expression, analyzing the information he found there. Meg bit her lip as his hands reached out and tangled in her rumpled brown hair. His mouth clamped down on hers, plundering. She groaned, greedily kissing him back. She tucked herself against him as if it were a place she'd always belonged. Against her breasts, she could feel the rapid thump of his heart. Her mouth opened beneath the pressure of his. She wanted to draw him in, to taste and savor him. The kiss deepened, became molten lava that began in the deep recesses of her belly and spread out along blood vessels, muscles and tissue until her body was suddenly, incredibly alive, as it hadn't been in over a year. He pulled away, staring into her eyes as if she were a book that absorbed him. Her sharp intake of air punctured the silence as his hand slipped beneath her sweater and unhooked her bra. His breathing quickened. Meg's fingernails dug into his shoulders as his hand found her bare breast. She groaned. Her legs buckled. Sean nudged her down to the floor in front of the fireplace, his mouth fused with hers, his tongue searching. His hand fumbled at her jeans, searching for the zipper. Meg, overwhelmed with need, helped him as he slid her jeans down her slim hips. His eyes darkened as he stared down at her in the firelight. Meg reached for the zipper of his jeans. Moments later, he was nude. He poised above her, savoring the moment, communicating without words. The firelight flickered upon his skin, the eager thrust of him. Meg released a shuddering sigh. "Now..." she whispered. 79

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He pushed her sweater up above her breasts. His hands splayed across them, the tips of his thumbs touching her nipples. He bent down to nuzzle one of them. Meg chewed her lower lip, barely breathing. His hand found its way between her legs and parted her with gentle fingers. She moaned and thrust against his touch, wanting him beyond anything she'd ever felt in her life. He drew away from her nipple, watching the expression on her face as his fingers moved inside her. "You're so lovely," he whispered. "I want to taste every inch of you." A cry of pleasure escaped her lips. "Sean...please..." He closed his eyes as he inched into her. Meg held her breath, relishing in the unfamiliar fullness of him. She'd been empty too long. He opened his eyes and stared down at her. "Love me, Sean..." His mouth found hers in wet consuming exploration. Slowly, so very slowly, he began to move inside her, rocking back and forth. She was burning, burning. So close, too close. He stopped, his eyes searching hers. He withdrew slightly and waited. Meg's heartbeat slowed. After a moment, he thrust into her slowly and withdrew again. With the next slow thrust, the fire was back and out of control. Her fingers clenched into his skin. "Now, Sean, now!" He let go, slamming into her. Meg gasped as the waves of her orgasm flooded through her. Sean thrust again and shuddered against her, groaning. Moments afterward, she clutched him, unwilling to let him go. He was a stranger, a criminal. Why, then, did it seem as if he were a part of her? A missing piece. He rolled over on his side, pulling her with him. His lips sought hers. "Meggie," he whispered afterwards. "We have a few hours left until daybreak. I want to spend them making love to you." *** They sat in front of the fireplace, facing each other. The firelight flickered over their nude bodies, casting a burnished glow upon their skin. Sean's eyes held her gaze. His hands touched her breasts. Meg was shaken by the feeling that rocketed through her. It was as if he were touching them for the first time. He leaned forward and took one nipple into his mouth. Meg's fingernails bit into his back. Her hand went between his legs. He was erect again. 80

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She caressed him until he groaned and pulled away from her breast. Their mouths met in a grinding kiss. His hands fastened upon her buttocks, slamming her up against his groin. She rocked against him, her hands clenched upon his arms. "Meggie..." Sean whispered, his voice strangled with emotion. "You're so sweet, love. I could fuck you forever." She closed her eyes. That word had always sounded so ugly to her, but in his voice, it was a word of love. Her nails dug into his arms. "Then do it." He lifted her slightly. She sank down upon him with a soft moan. He filled her completely. It was as if she'd never been empty—as if she never would be again. Slowly, so very slowly, he guided her back and forth, thrusting and releasing, his eyes gazing into hers. His pupils were huge and dark. She stared at his face, this face of a man who, only hours before had been a stranger. Now, she was sharing the most intimate of experiences with him. Why did it feel so right? Why did he make her feel so complete? Their tempo quickened. Her eyes closed as she neared orgasm. She knew if she kept looking at him, the fire in his eyes would send her over. "Now, Meggie...now!" He drove into her again and again. Meggie gasped. Behind her eyelids, a prism of light exploded into a thousand shards. He held her tight against him, shuddering with his own climax. The peat fire crackled in the grate. Outside, the rain fell. Meg slumped against him. She could feel the rapid beating of his heart against hers. How much longer did they have? *** Meg sat up and groggily looked around her. A pale watery light streamed in through the damask curtains of the bedroom. Beside her in the bed, Sean was still sleeping, his face relaxed and boyish, slightly flushed. It was a sleep of exhaustion. She wondered how long he'd been on the run. Meg stared at him a moment, thinking back over the hours of love she'd shared with this stranger. She had been parched, and he had been the water that slaked her thirst. Still, she felt like a desert. Her eyes roamed over his naked body. He was too thin. How many days had he gone without eating? Her hand reached toward him, gliding over his chest. She loved touching him. 81

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Her fingers whispered down his stomach, skimming the thatch of dark hair above his groin. He sighed in his sleep, twitching slightly. Meg caught her breath. She felt herself growing wet. There wasn't much time left. And she wanted him once more. One last time. Because she knew he would be leaving soon. Her hand brushed against his penis and went on to stroke his thighs. He gave a soft moan. She kissed his chest, tonguing his nipples until they hardened. She reached down and enclosed his thickened penis in her hand, stroking him. His breathing changed. She continued to work her way down his chest, dipping her tongue into his navel for a taste. With her back to him, she straddled his waist and bent down to take him into her mouth. He groaned. "Jesus, Meggie...what are ya doing to me…" Suddenly, he took over, withdrawing from her, and rolling her onto her back. His tongue dove into her, greedily taking what she was giving so freely. Her orgasm came quickly. As she exploded in tiny spasms, he continued to nuzzle her. But it wasn't enough. She wanted him inside her. He understood her silent request. His entry was full and forceful. She took his length, her legs wrapped around his lean waist. Pleasure merged into exquisitely sweet pain, and too soon, it was over. They lay in each other’s arms, not speaking. Everything had been said the night before. And the rest of their conversation had been with their bodies. But that was last night. Meg knew their time was up. He'd fallen asleep again. She bent over him and placed a soft kiss along his bristled jaw. His skin was warm, almost feverish. Her eyes scanned him. He was too thin, way too thin. He needed a good breakfast before he left. The thought of his leaving brought a pang to her heart. But it was inevitable. He was a wanted man. If he stayed, he'd be caught. She'd just reached the kitchen when the knock came at the front door. Her heart jumped. She stood frozen, her hand clutched on the skillet handle she'd grabbed from the cupboard. The knock came again, more forceful. She tightened the belt of her robe and went to the door. A man in uniform stood on the stoop. Gardai! The Irish police. Meg's hand clenched on the doorknob. She hoped he hadn't seen her look of shock and dismay. 82

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He doffed his cap. "Good morning, missus. Sorry to be disturbing you so early, but we have a wee problem." His voice was friendly, but his eyes were sharp. "I don't mean to alarm you, but we've had a report of a wanted man being seen in this area, and I was wondering if perhaps you'd seen or heard anything unusual in the last twenty-four hours or so?" Meg swallowed hard. "No, I don't think so." He continued to stare at her as if trying to read her mind. "Is...is this guy dangerous?" Meg asked. If he asked to come inside, what would she say? Sean's clothes were still on the floor in front of the fireplace. Everyone in the village knew she lived alone. At her question, his eyes lost their predatory look. "He could be. He's a desperate man." The policeman gave her a card. "If you should see anyone that doesn't belong around here, give me a call, okay, love?" "Sure." Meg took the card and started to close the door. "Wait!" His hand stopped it from closing. Meg felt the blood drain from her face. "Yes?" "I forgot. When I walked past your car, I noticed the sticker of registration expires in a few days. Be sure now to get it renewed. There's been a crackdown on those sorts of things lately. I wouldn't want to have to ticket you," he added with a sheepish grin. "I'll get it done," Meg said. "Thank you." With a wave, the policeman turned and walked down the path toward his car. Meg waited until he was gone before she closed the door. Finally, she was able to breathe again. A movement in the dim room caught her eye. Sean stood at the entrance to the living room, a sheet wrapped around his midriff. He stared at her, but didn't speak. She made a helpless gesture with her hand. "I think he believed me." "He'll be back," Sean said. "No matter what happens, stick to your story. They can't prove I was here." He walked to the fireplace and dropped the sheet. His nude body was pale in the dim light of the room. Meg's eyes scanned his lean flanks and flat belly. That body had brought her to life last night. How could she bear to see him go now? He pulled on his jeans and zipped them up. "Sean..." She moved toward him. 83

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He stared at her, his eyes unsmiling. "Don't say anything, love. It will only make it harder." "But..." His hand touched her mouth, silencing her. He scanned her face as if he were memorizing it. "I'll never forget last night," he whispered. "If only..." Meg's eyes blurred with tears. He leaned toward her, and cupping her face in his hands, kissed each cheek, then her forehead. Finally, his mouth settled on hers. Meg kissed him back urgently. Even now, the fire was burning through her body. Tears spilled down her face as she drank him in, knowing it would be the last time. He pulled away and grabbed his shirt. Without speaking, he pulled it on. In one quick movement, he slipped into his jacket and grabbed his knapsack. Before Meg could say a word, he was at the door. But just before opening it, he turned and looked back at her. "You don't belong out here in the country, Meggie. Go back to America, and start living again. For a long time Ireland has been your retreat. Don't let it become your crutch." His eyes blazed into her. He opened his mouth as if to say more but then closed it, shaking his head. "Be well," he said abruptly and walked out. The door closed behind him. For a long moment, Meg stood staring at it. She couldn't believe he was really gone. Surely, he was standing outside, perhaps wrestling with himself, convincing himself to come back in. But when she opened the door, the front stoop was empty. It was as if he'd never been there at all. Meg was just about to close the door when she heard the sound of a car's motor. She turned to look at the road in front of the house. A Gardai car was moving slowly past. She couldn't see the policeman inside but she could imagine his eyes. Sharp, predatory. Searching.

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Wildspitze

Jennifer leaned back in the soothing heat of the hot tub and closed her eyes. Finally, she was here at Wildspitze, and she could stay as long as she wanted. How long, she wondered, would it take for a wounded animal to heal? The train journey from Vienna had been exhausting because she hadn’t flown in her father’s jet. A storm front moving in from the west had made it too dangerous to fly over the Otztal Alps, and she'd had no choice but to land in Vienna and take the train to Langenfeld. Wildspitze Chalet, her father's winter home, was located midway between Innsbruck and Wildspitze Mountain near the Italian border. She'd left for the chalet directly after Jean-Philippe’s funeral, telling no one her plans. Jennifer's father, Lennard Kristiansen, was one of the richest men in England, owner of Tempo Computer Software, Inc. He'd offered her the use of his beach house in Maui, knowing she needed time and seclusion to deal with her husband's sudden death. But her father hadn't considered the fact that blue skies and balmy weather wasn't the atmosphere she craved right now. That's why she'd chosen Wildspitze. The mountain peaks, even the threatening blizzard, was balm to her bruised soul. She opened her eyes and gazed dreamily at the billows of steam rising from the bubbling hot water. Already, the first flakes of snow were falling. Still, Jennifer didn't move to get out of the tub. She wanted to stay here forever. Would forever be long enough to get over Jean-Philippe’s death? But was that really what she was getting over? His fiery death in the racecar? Or the fact that he'd stopped loving her? She frowned. Face it, Jenny, he never loved you. From the very beginning, it was your father's money he loved. Jean-Philippe Gueret, the up and coming Grand Prix driver, had loved only two things in his relatively short life—racing and sex. He'd received plenty of both. Racing as a career, and sex with every willing bimbo he'd encountered. But when Jennifer first 85

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met him and fell so completely in love, she'd had no idea he'd considered her one of those bimbos. Until he discovered how much her father was worth. Then she'd become his wife. Jennifer adjusted herself in the tub, trying to stop the flood of memories sweeping through her. That awful moment when she'd flown to Paris to surprise Jean-Philippe after he won the French Grand Prix—and found him in bed with...oh God! Not one, but two nubile girls barely out of their teens. She'd flown back to London and into her father's arms, hysterical with grief. As usual, he'd been unsympathetic, reminding her that he'd been against the marriage in the first place. Within days, she'd gone to the solicitors to file for divorce. But in the end, that hadn't been necessary. A week later, Jean-Philippe’s racecar hit the wall at the South African Grand Prix and exploded. His body had been burned beyond recognition. The snow was falling harder now, big fat flakes dropping into the tub, sizzling on contact with the heated water. They landed on Jennifer's eyelashes and slid down her cheeks like slushy tears. She sighed and reached for her towel on the redwood platform beside her. A moment later, she stood before the French doors of the chalet, and froze. There was someone inside! It was a man, and he was standing in front of the hearth staring pensively down into the flames. In his right hand, he held a glass of wine. Apparently, he'd helped himself to the bottle chilling in the bucket on the bar. Whoever he was, he'd obviously made himself right at home. Her heart began to pound. She was here all alone. The chalet was tucked into the mountains, miles away from any villages, and accessible only by a treacherous winding road. Mindy, the concierge who lived in the gatehouse, had let Jennifer into the chalet earlier in the afternoon, but had left immediately for Innsbruck. And as far as Jennifer knew, there was no one else around for miles. A stone wall rose for eight feet behind the hot tub, effectively cutting off any escape from outside. She could either stay out here and freeze or confront the stranger who looked so at ease in her father's home. And then it hit her. The man had to be someone who was acquainted with her father, of course. Father was always offering his various homes up to his friends and business associates. This must be the case. How stupid of her not to have checked with him first before coming here. Jennifer opened the door. "Excuse me. Can I help you?" 86

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The man turned. Jennifer stared at him, trying hard not to reveal her breathless reaction to his good looks. He was tall, nearly six-foot, dark-haired and brown-eyed. His face was classically molded—high cheekbones, aquiline nose, sensuous lips. He wore a white turtleneck under a tweed jacket and black slacks. Expensive and well-cut clothing. Yes, most definitely a business associate of her father's. She knew the type. He gazed at her a long moment, and Jennifer imagined a speculative light in his piercing brown eyes. It was as if he could see right through the thick velvet of her robe— her body naked and vulnerable. She pulled it tighter around her and stared back, her chin jutting up at his sharp appraisal. "I said can I help you?" "I'm sorry," he said slowly. "I wasn't aware this chalet was occupied." British. Jennifer felt her tension ease a bit. It didn't make sense, but knowing he was a fellow countryman made her feel more secure. "Well, it is. May I ask who you are?" His eyes veered away from her and over to an attaché case on the floor next to the sofa. "My name is Loc McMatthews. I'm a business associate of Len Kristiansen. He told me I could use the chalet for a few days." Jennifer released a deep sigh. "Well, it figures! I'm Len's daughter. He doesn't know I decided to come here. It's my fault. I should've checked with him first." He smiled, and Jennifer's heart skipped a beat. It was a gorgeous smile, and if only it would reach his eyes, it would be devastating. "No, I'm the intruder here. I'll go." "Did you drive in?" He nodded. "Perhaps if I get going now, the roads won't be too horrid." Jennifer shook her head. "It would be suicide. These mountain roads are coated with ice." She paused, and then made up her mind. "You'll have to stay here. The nearest village is Langenfeld, and that's nearly seventy kilometers away." "I couldn't impose." "You have no choice." Then she smiled. "And honestly, you're not imposing." That was a lie, of course. She'd come here seeking solitude. But how could she turn away someone in weather like this? Besides, by tomorrow the storm would probably blow over, and he could go. "Sit down and drink your wine. I'll just go change into some warm clothing." 87

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He nodded, and she turned to climb the winding stairs to the loft bedroom. "Excuse me," he said. "What's your name?" She looked back at him. "Jennifer." He gazed at her, and again, she saw that speculative look in his brown eyes. "Thank you, Jennifer." She nodded and began to climb the stairs. *** "I wasn't there when it happened." Jennifer took a sip of wine and gazed into the fire, blinking quickly to dislodge the tears in her eyes. "It's so silly of me to feel such pain at his death. After what he did to me, you'd think I would have no feelings left for him. Bloody stupid of me, isn't it?" "Not at all. You're a very sensitive woman." She could feel Loc's eyes upon her, but couldn't make herself look at him. For hours now, they'd been talking here in front of fireplace. Well, she had been talking. Loc had been listening. She had no idea why she'd opened up to him so easily. If she didn't know better, she'd swear the man was a psychologist. But if he were a friend of her father's, there was no chance of that. Lennard Kristiansen abhorred the profession. The therapist her mother had been seeing all those years had done nothing to prevent her suicide when Jennifer was twelve. "I don't get it," Loc said, his voice soft. "How could any man be married to a woman like you...and want someone else?" Jennifer felt a blush rise upon her cheeks as his eyes drilled into her. He sat, only inches away on the sofa, so close she could breathe in his sandalwood after-shave. Even though she'd pulled on a pair of jeans and a thick hand knit sweater, she again felt naked and exposed under his gaze. But even more disconcerting, she felt fluid and sexual—an emotion that had been dead during the last few months of Jean-Philippe’s cold indifference. "Look at me," he whispered. Something in his voice made it impossible not to do as he asked, and almost as if she were hypnotized, she turned and met his gaze. Her heart gave a jolt. He stared at her, his brown eyes tender—no longer the cool implacable gaze he'd worn upon their meeting. He reached out a hand and touched her shoulder-length brown hair. 88

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"Like cinnamon," he said. "Such an unusual shade." His eyes met hers, yet his hand remained entwined in a lock of her hair. "And your eyes? They're almost amber, aren't they? Good God, you're beautiful!" Beneath her sweater, Jennifer felt her breasts swell and tingle. He was making love to her with his eyes! She stood abruptly. "Want more wine?" He leaned back against the sofa, extending his arm along the back, and smiled up at her. "Why not? Listen to that wind out there. If this keeps up, you may have to put up with an unexpected guest longer than you wish to. I imagine it will be drifting." Jennifer took the wine bottle over to him and refilled his glass. "Well, at least Mindy always keeps this place well-stocked with food. Nothing perishable, of course, because she didn't know I was arriving. But there's meat in the freezer and lots of tinned foods and...anyway, I don't expect we'll starve." She knew she was babbling, and what was worse, he knew it too, judging by the amused look in his eyes. He nodded. "And I saw when I came in that there's a good supply of firewood outside, so we won't freeze." Jennifer gave a self-conscious laugh. "No, I don't think so. We do have a furnace, you know." She hadn't returned to her seat on the sofa. It was dangerous to be too close to this man. She wasn't ready to jump into another relationship—not even if it was just the quick sex he wanted. And what else could he possibly want? He was a stranger. After the storm was over, he'd go away, and she'd never see him again. "I've told you all about me," she said, standing at the hearth and allowing the blazing fire to warm the front of her body. "Now, it's your turn. Tell me about yourself." "I'm afraid there's not much to tell," he said. "I grew up a London street urchin. Orphaned at the age of eight. I lived with an alcoholic aunt until I was twelve and then struck out on my own. I learned how to get by anyway I could—stealing, scamming...other things. And then I met your father. I guess you could say he rescued me from that life of petty thievery. He educated me, both academically and socially. Set me up in a business, and now I owe a great deal to him." His lips twisted in a bitter smile. "A debt I can never re-pay." Jennifer stared at him. "I...didn't realize you were that close to my father." "Oh, yes," he said. "We're very close."

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Was that irony she heard in his voice? She opened her mouth to ask another question, but he forestalled her by saying, "I prefer not to talk about myself. I'm really a very boring person." Jennifer didn't believe that for a moment, but she knew and understood when someone didn't want to talk. She decided it was her cue to end the evening. "Well, I'm quite tired. And I'm sure you are, as well. I'll get you some blankets and fix up the sofa for you. I'm sorry, but there's just the one bedroom." "No problem." He stood. "I'm used to sleeping in worse places than a sofa in front of a warm fireplace." What an odd thing to say, Jennifer thought as she walked toward the linen closet near the foyer and pulled out several thick blankets and a pillow. She turned and drew in a sharp breath. "Oh! You startled me!" Loc stood right behind her, only inches away. Her heartbeat accelerated. She hadn't heard him following her. "Yes, I can see that." He stared down into her eyes. "You look like a frightened doe." His voice softened. "Are you afraid of me, Jennifer? Because you shouldn't be." "N...no!" she stammered. "Of course not. It's just that...I didn't know you were behind me." He took the blankets and pillow out of her hands. "I would understand if you were. After all, I'm a stranger to you. And you've taken me in out of the kindness of your heart, not knowing anything about me. But I assure you, Jennifer, you'll be safe with me. I promise." Disconcerted, Jennifer moved around him. "I'm not afraid of you. After all, you're a friend of my father's. And it wouldn't be wise of you to do anything that might jeopardize your friendship, would it? I'm sure you know my father is a very powerful person." "Oh, yes," Loc said in that ironic tone he'd used earlier. "I'm quite aware of that." "Well, then." Jennifer smiled. "Goodnight, Loc. I hope you sleep well." "Thank you." His eyes glowed with that appraising look she'd noticed earlier. "And you...sleep well." Jennifer turned and climbed the stairs to the loft. Sleep. How could she sleep with him in the chalet? And even if she did manage to, she was afraid of the dreams she'd have. Even now, she couldn't block out that moment from her mind...the moment 90

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when he'd touched her hair. In another few seconds, he would've kissed her. She knew it. What would it have been like? And even more beguiling...what would it have led to? *** Jennifer awoke shivering, even though a blanket and a thick down comforter covered her. It was dark, but she didn't know if it was because of the blizzard or if it was still the middle of the night. Disoriented, she reached for her alarm clock and found it was only two-thirty. But something was wrong! Why was it so cold? She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the cedar floor and she flinched from its icy contact. "Bollocks!" The furnace had stopped working! She knew it. Her hand reached for the lamp on the bedside table, but when she touched the switch nothing happened. So that was the problem with the furnace. The electricity had gone out. In the darkness, Jennifer searched for her slippers, her teeth chattering. She had to get down to the fireplace before she froze to death. If it hadn't gone out. But when she reached the main floor of the chalet, she was relieved to see the fire still blazing brightly. She stood in front of the hearth, hugging a blanket around her body, still cold even though she'd pulled on her velvet robe over her thin nightdress. Almost immediately, she felt the warmth of the fire enveloping her. "I just put another log on the fire." She started at his voice, and her heart began to pound. Slowly, she turned and saw him huddled on the sofa, wrapped in his blanket. The firelight flickered on his face, his eyes like dark stones as they stared at her. "Oh, I didn't realize you were awake," she said. "The cold woke me about a half-hour ago." Jennifer sighed and turned back to the fireplace. "Yes, I'm afraid the electricity is out. This fireplace is all we have until it comes back on." "It must be very bitter outside. It's frigid in here." Jennifer looked back at him. "Yes. Why don't you wrap yourself up in that blanket and come over here? If we stay right in front of the fireplace, we shouldn't be too uncomfortable." As she spoke, she settled down on the Oriental rug and gazed into the fire. "I don't think I'll sleep anymore tonight, at any rate." "Nor I." He sat down next to her, way too close for her peace of mind. She felt his eyes upon her. "The fireplace isn't all we have, you know. To stay warm, I mean." 91

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"Look, Loc, you're a very attractive man, but..." She turned to look at him, and her sentence died away. Her heartbeat grew erratic as she saw the hungry expression in his eyes. "Oh, God..." she whispered. "Please don't do this to me. I'm not in any emotional shape to…" His mouth covered hers, smothering her protest. As his warm tongue explored the tender flesh of her lips, she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders, ostensibly to push him away, but instead, clutching him to her. Her blood had become liquid fire— molten lava—and between her legs, her sex had awakened, moistening with arousal. Her protest forgotten, Jennifer kissed him back, urging him on as his hands slipped under her blanket, searching for a rounded breast through the silk of her nightgown. Her nipple peaked under his touch, and she unconsciously pushed it against his hand, drawing her mouth away from his to drag in a ragged breath. His mouth slid down the side of her neck, his tongue tasting leisurely. "You taste so good, love," he murmured. "Just like I knew you would. I wanted to make love to you from the moment you walked into the house tonight. Please let me love you, Jenny. I'll make you forget you ever knew that bastard." Jennifer bit her lip as his hand slid down to the hem of her nightdress and slowly pushed it up along her thigh. He dipped his head down and slowly moved his lips along the bodice edge of her gown. She gasped, her hands moving up to his neck, grasping handfuls of his dark disheveled hair. He drew his mouth away from her breasts and lifted his head, staring intently into her eyes. Without removing his gaze, his hands worked her nightgown up, his palms sliding along her smooth thighs. "So perfect," he whispered. "You are a work of art." She stared into his eyes as if hypnotized. He made her feel so cherished, so womanly. Jean-Philippe had always taken her abruptly, fulfilling his need and leaving her feeling cheap and used. Loc's eyes grew sharp. "You're thinking of him." His voice was flat, unemotional. "Don't. I won't compete with a dead man." He pushed the nightgown up and eased her back. Gently, he parted her legs, his thumbs caressing her inner thighs. "Relax," he whispered. "We have all night." She shuddered, her hands entangling in his hair. It was as if she were a virgin—as if she'd never been with a man before. He made her feel so shy and awkward, so untried. "Please..." she whispered. "Please..." 92

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He slid her nightgown above her waist and kissed her sensuously on her stomach. His hands moved the material even higher until her breasts were exposed, and his mouth enveloped a nipple, suckling tenderly. She moaned, closing her eyes in sweet delirium. After a long moment, he drew away from her breast and his mouth closed upon hers in another drugging kiss. Her hands slid under his sweater to press against the warm carpet of hair on his muscled chest. He eased her down upon the blanket, his eyes staring into hers. In the flickering firelight, he undressed. Jennifer saw the proud thrust of him, and couldn't wait to feel him inside her. But he wasn't in a hurry. He dipped his head to one breast and took her taut nipple into his mouth. He worked on it slowly, sucking and nipping until Jennifer thought she'd surely die with the sweet agony of it. Finally, he drew away from her breasts, pressing wet kisses on her flat stomach, moving slowly below her navel. She tensed as his hand moved between her thighs, urging her legs apart. "Don't be afraid to let me in," he whispered. A shiver skittered through her body as she felt his warm, moist breath on her most intimate parts. Then she felt his tongue flicking gently at her, curling around the distended kernel of her clitoris, and she gasped as a white-hot heat suffused her groin. Her hands clutched convulsively in his dark hair as her hips rotated instinctively, allowing him better access to her inner sanctum. He pulled away slightly, murmuring, “That's it, love. Don't hold back." He dipped his head and his mouth and tongue returned to her clit. She moaned softly, thrusting her pelvis forward. He sucked tenderly, enthusiastically, and she cried out with the intensity of the sensation he was arousing. And then, without warning, she felt the orgasm shudder through her. She groaned, writhing, and still, he wouldn't stop his sensuous assault upon her sex. Finally, her body went limp, rag-like, and he pulled himself up so his mouth was level with hers. He kissed her deeply, and she tasted herself on his lips. "Oh, God..." she whispered. Over and over. "Oh, God..." Against her thigh, she felt his erection, and she ached for him. "Please...now...please..." Slowly, his mouth settled upon hers, his tongue exploring intimately. His kiss deepened as he entered her, his mouth silencing her sharp intake of breath. Jennifer thrust against him, urging him on to completion, but he refused to quicken his pace. His 93

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eyes gazed into hers as he rocked into her slowly and sensuously, bringing her higher and higher with each stroke. Drawing out almost all the way, Loc paused. He stared down at her, and his hand slid between their warm bodies, moving down to her clit. He caressed it with his thumb, watching her. She closed her eyes, her mouth parting in astonishment. So close...so close. She was at fever pitch. He removed his hand and plunged into her. Sweet and slow. She moaned, urging him on. "No..." he whispered, stopping in mid-thrust. She squirmed, knowing he was right,. His hands tightened on her, holding her still. After a moment of exquisite near-pain, he began to rock against her, immediately igniting her blood. She knew she couldn't last much longer. It was too much. Again, he thrust into her. She chewed on her lower lip, staring into his eyes. "Please..." she whispered. His eyes were turbulent. He thrust deeply, his urgent mouth covering hers, smothering her cries of passion. Jennifer's eyes widened, and she gasped as she reached her peak and cascaded into oblivion, shuddering with the earthquake that tremored inside her. As she trembled in his arms, Loc grew still, and with a soft groan, climaxed. After a long moment, he turned on his side, still imbedded inside her, weaving his hands through her hair, his eyes locked upon her startled gaze. "Oh," he whispered. "I could fall in love with you...if only..." "If only what?" she asked, still breathless from their lovemaking. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "If only the circumstances were different." Jennifer wanted to ask what he meant, but she didn't. Instinct told her that the moment was too special for conversation. His arms were warm, so sweet and protective. She wanted to sleep. Just sleep and dream about him making love to her. And when she woke up, they could make the dream a reality. *** Jennifer poured the steaming tea into two mugs and placed them on a tray to carry into the great room. It was wonderful to have something hot to drink now that the electricity was back on. It had been out for over twelve hours. Strangely enough, Jennifer felt a bit disappointed with the return of heat and light. The hours of darkness 94

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and cold had been so romantic with Loc's warm body and the hours of sweet lovemaking they'd indulged in. No other man had ever made her feel so desired, so beautiful and sexual. Yet, she still didn't know any more about him than she had when they'd first met. She walked into the great room and saw bright sunlight breaking through the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking Wildspitze Mountain. Huge drifts kept them imprisoned in the chalet, but it wouldn't be long before the afternoon sun melted the snow. Then what would happen? Would Loc go away? Would she ever see him again? But she wouldn't think of that now. They still had at least a few days together. Jennifer's eyes swept the room, but Loc wasn't there. In the bathroom, she supposed. She placed the tray on the coffee table and moved across the room to open the doors of the entertainment center. Maybe she could get some news of the outside world. Wouldn't it be wonderful if a new storm were heading in? One that would keep them cocooned here for a few months? She switched on the television set and saw herself staring at a sketch of Loc's face. It was him. There was no doubt about it. After the last hours, she knew his face better than her own. When the initial shock passed, Jennifer drew her attention to the voice of the newscaster. "The alleged assassin goes by many aliases. Sean Butler. Clive Nichols. Loc McMatthews. He is believed to still be in the vicinity of Innsbruck, heading west into Switzerland or perhaps south to Italy. It's very likely that because of the blizzard, he is holed up somewhere in an isolated area of the mountains. If you have any information about this wanted criminal, please call 5222-7463217. But use caution. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Funeral services for Ian Conneff will be held in London on Saturday." Jennifer's eyes remained fixed on the TV as it moved on to other news. Her heart raced in her chest; her arms and legs felt ice-cold. It couldn't be true. Oh, please, God, let me have imagined the whole thing!. She heard a step behind her. "Well, are you going to call the number or not?" The cold she felt in her limbs radiated out and settled into the pit of her stomach. Slowly, she turned to him, her face bloodless. He stared at her grimly. "Please don't look at me like that. I can't bear it." "It's true?" she whispered. "You killed somebody?" 95

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He closed his eyes and turned away. "Yes. Oh, Christ! You don't know how much I wanted to tell you. But I knew if I did, I'd see that horror on your face—the expression you're wearing right now." He looked back at her. "And how can I blame you for it? What kind of woman could love a man who is a professional killer?" Jennifer heard herself gasp, and a veil of blackness dropped before her eyes. Just before she fell, she felt his strong arms catch her and ease her down to the sofa. The dark curtain parted and she found herself staring up into his concerned brown eyes. "You..." she whispered. "You're an assassin?" He didn't flinch. "Yes. I've been working for your father in that capacity since I was seventeen years old." Her heart jolted. "My father?" A look of puzzlement crossed his face. "Yes, of course. But surely, you realized that. I told you how he rescued me from a life of poverty. He set me up in what he calls Special Services. I take care of his business problems, things like company heads that tread upon what he considers his turf—people like Ian Conneff, for example. And I also do jobs for him that are no more than revenge-motivated." Jennifer had listened to this with mounting horror. Suddenly, she gave him a savage push. "Liar! You're a bloody liar! How can you say such horrid things about my father?" Unruffled, he gazed back at her. "You can't be serious? Surely you know the kind of man he is? No one can be that naïve!" Jennifer pushed him again. "You're telling me my father puts out contracts on people he doesn't like? On other businessmen? You're mad!" "Am I?" His eyes burned into hers. "Have you ever asked yourself why your husband's race car exploded before it hit the wall? Have you?" She stared at him. "What are you saying?" His hands dug into her shoulders. "Do you want me to spell it out, Jennifer? I killed your husband—on your father's orders. He was furious when he found out JeanPhilippe was cheating on you. I planted a bomb in his racecar. Why do you think there was nothing suspicious found at the inquest? Because your father owns the authorities, just as he owns me and everyone else who works for him. Your father is a ruthless bastard, Jennifer." 96

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Jennifer jerked away from him and buried her face into a sofa pillow. "And what does that make you? Oh, God, I wish I'd never let you touch me. What was I thinking of? Giving myself to a psycho? I'm as horrible as you!" "A psycho, is it?" He grabbed her chin and turned her so she was forced to look at him. His eyes glimmered with pain, and she knew then, he was telling the truth. She began to cry. He spoke softly. "Yes, perhaps you're right. I've often thought how daft it is to continue doing your father's bidding. Once, I tried to tell him I wanted out, but he let me know in no uncertain terms that if I left the business, I'd be a dead man before the sun set. So, is it a psycho I am, or is it a coward? It doesn't really matter. Your father owns me. I'll never be free of him. Not in this lifetime." His thumbs wiped away the tears streaming down her cheeks. "But Jennifer, you have to believe this. I never expected to fall in love. Not ever. In my line of work, things like that don't happen. Men like me are supposed to be emotionless. And until Tuesday night, I thought I was. But you taught me I have feelings in here somewhere." He tapped his chest. "You awakened something in me that I never knew existed. And though I know there's no future for us, I'll never forget you." Jennifer stared into his wounded eyes, and a new fear shot through her. "You have to kill me, don't you? Because I know who you are. Because you've admitted everything to me." A weary expression crossed his face. "I could no more kill you than I could cut off my hand." He looked away from her. "Oh, Christ! How can you think that of me...after last night?" Jennifer felt near to tears again. She wanted to reach out and take him into her arms, hold him and give him the love he'd been deprived of throughout his life. How was it possible—that a cold-blooded murderer could look so vulnerable, so little boy lost? He turned back to her, and suddenly, it was as if a mask had dropped over his face. It was no longer tender, but impassive. His eyes were those of what he was—an assassin. "There was a moment when I thought I would have to kill you." She drew in a sharp, pained breath. His strong hands fastened onto her upper arms. "Don’t look at me like that. Just listen. When you first walked in from the hot tub and caught me unaware, I'd just completed the operation in Innsbruck. Your father arranged for me to hide away here in the chalet for a few days before he helicoptered me out. He had no idea you would be 97

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here. And when you walked in, I didn't know who you were.” His turbulent eyes held hers. “I thought perhaps you were the concierge, and I was under orders to kill her if she discovered my presence. I thought it was rather odd that the place was ready for me. A fire burning. The wine on ice. But then, it's not unusual for your father to arrange little touches like that.” He released her and turned away, rifling his fingers through his hair. “He's a strange man, your father. Totally merciless, yet, thoughtful, at times. Anyway, when you walked in, my first thought was to get to my attaché case where my automatic was stored, but it was all the way across the room. Then I realized I'd have to use my bare hands.” He turned back to her, and Jennifer saw the pain ravaging his rugged face, an for a moment, she could glimpse the lost little boy he’d been when her father found him. “I'd never killed anyone like that before—especially a beautiful woman. But then, you told me who you were. You can't imagine my relief when I knew you wouldn't have to die." "You really would have killed me?" Jennifer whispered. He nodded, a muscle tightening in his jaw. "With regret. I would've done it. If you hadn't been Len's daughter. But if an order had come in for me to kill you after we made love, I couldn't have done it. You have to believe that, Jennifer." She stared at him a long moment. "I do...I think I do believe it." "Thank you." He nodded, his eyes tender. "I can leave with that, at least." "Leave? What do you mean? The drifts...you can't..." He sat down on a chair and reached for his boots. "I saw a shovel in the utility room. With the sun beating down like this, I should be able to dig my way out." He stood up and pulled on his coat. "But what about the helicopter? They're looking for you. You'll get caught!" His eyes met hers, and she flinched from the ravaged pain she saw there. "I have to get away from you," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Don't you see, Jenny? If I stay another moment, we'll both end up on the run from your father. He'd never let me live if he knew his precious daughter had taken up with the hired help. And a life on the run is a screwed-up way to live. I won't put you through that." He turned and disappeared into the utility room. *** In a trance-like state, Jennifer listened to the scraping of the snow shovel on the walk outside. She had no idea how much time had passed when Loc came back inside, 98

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his high cheekbones reddened by the cold. Without speaking, he took the shovel back to the utility room and returned to the great room carrying his attaché case. He stared at her a long moment as if waiting for her to speak. She couldn't. "Well...I don't know what to say," he said finally. "Just...take care of yourself." Jennifer didn't respond. He waited a moment, and then turned and walked to the door. Reality hit her. He was leaving! She jumped up and ran over to him. "Wait!" He turned and gazed at her, his eyes brooding. She looked at him through a film of tears. "Make love to me again," she said, her voice trembling. "One more time." "No," he said softly. "It'll only make it more difficult." Jennifer flung herself at him, her hands unbuttoning his coat. "Please, Loc! I need this. I need to know you. The real you." She slid her hands inside his coat. Her left hand pressed against his cock. It hardened immediately. She stroked him, pressing her head against his chest. Beneath his sweater, she heard the rapid thud of his heart. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall in defeat. He moved then, like a poisonous snake lashing out to strike. He untied her robe, and in one abrupt movement, slid it off her shoulders. She stood naked in front of him, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. He grabbed her shoulders and whirled her around, pressing her against the wall. His mouth crushed down on hers, his tongue plunging and seeking. She felt his hand fumble at his zipper, and a moment later, his erect cock pressed against her stomach. His hands encircled her buttocks and hoisted her up. Her legs curled around his haunches. "Yes," she cried out, her eyes closed in exultation. "Yes, Loc!" He plunged into her, his cock was like a hot, hard blade cleaving into her, burning her, imprinting himself upon her. He fucked her ruthlessly, and she cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders as tears streamed down her face. His own rhythmic moans mingled with hers, until finally, they exploded simultaneously, and dropped, satiated to the carpeted floor, arms and legs entwined. They held each other, and Jennifer felt his own tears on his face, and gently, she licked them away. She held him, rocking him as if he were a young boy.

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After a long time, he moved in her arms and pulled away. Silently, he stood and adjusted his trousers. He gazed down upon her, his eyes brimming with pain. She couldn't speak either. Instead, she reached for her robe and slipped it on. He buttoned his coat, and stared down at her again, still silent. After a moment, he turned and walked out. An icy wind swirled into the chalet, chilling the air. Without looking back, Loc left the chalet. The door closed behind him. The shadows lengthened inside the room as afternoon turned to evening.

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The Carriage Ride

Veronica Whitby-Harris was spending her lunch break at the National Gallery of Art, taking the opportunity for a leisurely study of the Aurora Collection of erotic art. She glanced at her slender, diamond-studded wristwatch and saw she still had almost forty-five minutes left before she had to get back to work. Veronica was not a time-waster. Every minute of her day was accounted for, and she was usually very rigid about it. But every once in a while something happened that threw her completely off kilter. This was to be the case today. She gazed at a 17th century painting of a plump nude woman and her clothed lover. It was obvious they were about to engage in lovemaking, and something about the painting was incredibly erotic, but Veronica couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. Maybe it was the look on the male's face—a smoldering expression of lust. It turned Veronica on, and suddenly, she realized how long it had been since she'd had sex. Her career kept her busy, and as a single woman at this point in her life, she just didn’t have a lot of time for relationships. She satisfied her occasional craving for sex with discreet one-night stands, and she always practiced safe sex. She was very businesslike in her affairs, just as she was about everything in her life. When she craved something, she satisfied the craving. It's was as simple as that. As she stood in front of that painting, she heard a step behind her, and thinking it was the security guard, she turned to greet him. But it was a young man who'd stepped into the room. Veronica guessed him to be no older than 20 or 21. He was dressed in baggy Chinos, unlaced Reeboks, an over-sized T-shirt and a blue and gray plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned. He had glossy, golden-brown shoulder-length hair which he wore combed back from his face. And oh, what a face! It looked as if it had been carved with a sculptor's knife—classic high cheekbones, drilling blue eyes and a full, sensuous mouth made to give pleasure. He was tall, probably close to six feet and although his body was 101

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shapeless in the baggy clothes, Veronica somehow knew he would be perfect underneath them. And she knew something else—she wanted him. Veronica always believed the mating ritual between a man and a woman was not so dissimilar from the animal kingdom. It was a chemical reaction between two people which could be communicated through a series of eye movements, body language, and strangely enough, telepathy. Sex was an old and primal emotion, and sometimes the need was so basic that nothing needed to be said. And it was in this way that she decided to stalk her prey. If the young man was on her wavelength, she would know it in a matter of moments. She couldn’t say exactly what she did. A glance here, a smile. A sway of her hips as she moved off into another room, knowing he'd follow. And he did. When she glanced at him, she saw his color was high—and he was having increasing difficulty in pulling his gaze from her full breasts thrusting against the silk of her blouse. Veronica felt a ripple of excitement rush through her. It was working! Only problem was, she was running out of time. Her lunch break was quickly draining away, and it wasn’t as if she could blow off this afternoon’s work. She knew unless she wanted to see this opportunity slip away, she'd have to speed up the action. She walked into the third room and the security guard tipped his hat and discreetly stepped out. They were accustomed to seeing her here, and knew she liked privacy when she appreciated the art of the Smithsonian. She stared blankly at a painting, not really seeing it, until she heard the young man step into the room. Her breathing quickened. She turned and allowed her eyes to speak to him. He stared at her for a full minute, and she could tell he was excited. It was obvious by the sudden bulge in the crotch of his Chinos. Slowly, Veronica’s hand went to the top polished-gold button on her red silk blouse. "Would you like me to show you a real work of art?" she asked, a husky note in her voice. He swallowed hard, his blue eyes like glittering sapphires. Veronica sensed at that moment that he, incredibly enough, wasn't very experienced in the ways of love. A ripple of apprehension swept through her. Maybe he was younger than she’d thought. He nodded, and his tongue snaked out of his mouth to lick nervously at his upper lip. The gesture made Veronica’s knees go weak as she thought about what she wanted him to do to her with that tongue. 102

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"How old are you?" she asked quietly. "Twenty-two,” he said. She caught the hint of an accent. And that made him even sexier. "You're not American, are you?" He shook his head. "Norwegian." She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Norway! She'd always been intrigued by that country and its people. This was too good to be true—and he was of legal age! Of course, that didn't make what they were about to do any more legal. The Smithsonian frowned upon people having sex on its hallowed ground. But there was no time to go elsewhere. Besides, Veronica didn't intend to get caught. Slowly, she walked toward him and took his hand. Her eyes gazed deeply into his. "About that work of art,” she said. "Come on." Quickly, she led him out of the art gallery and stepped across the corridor into the Renaissance Art of Portugal exhibit. It was closed on weekdays, but only a heavy velvet rope guarded its entrance. Veronica led the young Norwegian into the shadowed corridor, which led to an anteroom—her destination. Inside this darkened room, a jewelencrusted open-air carriage sat atop a low platform. It was a huge vehicle, its wheels nearly reaching Veronica’s chin. There would be plenty of room inside. Plenty of room. As she put a foot on the platform, the Norwegian balked. She looked back at him and saw that his gorgeous blue eyes were wary as he eyed the carriage. He spoke in his sexy accent. "If we get caught here, they will throw me out of the country." "Shhh!" She placed her index finger against his full bottom lip and smiled. "We won't get caught. And if we should, nothing will happen. I have contacts here in Washington. Favors owed...that kind of thing. I'll make sure you're protected." That word reminded her that she was glad she’d restocked her purse with condoms. Today proved you never knew when you'd get lucky. The gorgeous Norwegian smiled at her and grabbing her hand, took one finger into his mouth, sucking it gently. Veronica trembled, feeling the response his hot working tongue had on her heated cunt. She could feel the wetness between her inner thighs. She took a deep, quivering breath and said, "Come on." She climbed into the carriage, hiking her knife-pleated white skirt up to thighlevel to step over the high sides. But she was glad for the height of the sides; it would hide them from any prying eyes as long as they stayed on the velvet seats or the carpeted 103

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floor. She barely waited for the Norwegian to get into the carriage before she grabbed him by his flannel shirt and dragged his warm body down on top of her. Laughing, they toppled to the floor of the carriage. Her fingers entwined in his fresh-smelling golden brown hair as her mouth searched for his in the near darkness. She found it almost immediately, and his tongue plunged into her mouth with a searching intensity. She couldn't stop herself from moaning as she felt his hands frantically unbuttoning her blouse. Their mouths still locked together, she tugged at his T-shirt, slipping her hands underneath to press her palms against his strong young chest and feel his heart pumping like a throbbing machine. She felt a cool breeze on her chest and realized he'd opened her blouse, exposing my lacy bra. He tore his mouth away from hers, and immediately began to kiss her neck, working his way down to her breasts, a good portion of which was revealed above the cups of her Wonderbra. His nimble fingers moved to the front-closure mechanism, and easily popped it open with one hand. Surprised, Veronica wondered if maybe she'd been mistaken in his bedroom expertise. He'd certainly had some practice somewhere. He didn't waste any time, but immediately used both hands to enclose her tits. He drew her nipple into his mouth and began to suck enthusiastically. Veronica’s hand had snaked down to the waist of his Chinos and was now pressing rhythmically against the delicious bulge at his crotch. But it wasn't enough to feel it through the layers of clothing. She wanted to feel his magnificent cock in all its naked glory. As he went from one nipple to the other, flicking at her nubs with the tip of his tongue before taking them into his mouth and sucking gently, she unzipped his Chinos and slid her hand inside the fly of his boxer shorts for the anticipated first touch of his cock. And it was worth waiting for. Long and thick, hot and hard, it quivered in her hand, and he released a long, staggered groan, pulling his mouth away from her tits and kissing her deeply and hungrily. Her hand moved up and down his thrusting glans, sliding sensuously over his thick knob, already slick with pre-come. Suddenly, his hands, which had been busy stroking the tingling nubs of her breasts, slid under her pleated skirt, moving up her nyloned legs, and once again, she was glad she hadn't become one of the panty-hose brigade as his palms stopped in surprise against the garters at the top of her hose. And she knew he'd be in for a further surprise when he realized she wore no panties, but just a lacy garter belt. His fingers stroked the 104

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bare skin of her thighs above her hose, sliding silkily to the delicate inner flesh of my legs, and all the time, he kept kissing her as if he was feasting on her mouth. Her clitoris tingled even though he hadn't yet touched her there. But she wanted it badly, and knew that if he didn't do it soon, she'd go crazy. She thrust toward his exploring fingers, feeling her cunt grow even wetter. "Touch me,” she gasped. "Please..." His fingers pressed against her mons, and then slowly slid down to where the tips just touched my clitoris. She ground against them, gasping. His hand moved lower, and he slipped three fingers deep into her cunt, moving them slowly and sensuously. "Oh, yes!" she gasped. "Yes, there! There!" But just as she began to feel she'd go over the brink, he pulled away abruptly. She gave a soft cry of dismay as her aching cunt was left unappeased, but she soon discovered that the Norwegian knew what he was doing. He grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up onto the velvet seat so she was sprawled before him, half-sitting, half-reclining. He looked up at her, and even in the semi-darkness, she could see his blue eyes shining and aroused. He knelt on the floor of the carriage and with his hands, pushed her skirt up to her thighs, and then gently nudged her legs apart. Her heartbeat accelerated as she realized his intentions. "Oh, yes,” she whispered, stroking her fingers through his clean, cool hair. He dipped his head, and fastening his hands around her hips, drew her pussy up to meet his lips. She cried out as his tongue flicked at my clitoris, once, twice, three times before thrusting deep into my cunt, sucking and nibbling until she exploded in an orgasm of such intensity, she was left shuddering and incoherent. And only then did the sexy Norwegian draw his mouth away from her soaked pussy. He stared at her with his sleepy blue eyes and slowly released his rigid cock from his shorts. Almost immediately, Veronica felt herself quicken with desire again even though she'd felt such a powerful release just seconds before. She grabbed her purse and frantically searched for the condom in the side pocket. Finding it, she pushed the packet into his hands, and he flashed a grin at her, ripping it open with his straight, white teeth. He eased it onto his erect cock and then slid on top of her, positioning the tip of his smooth round knob at my clitoris, rubbing against it gently and erotically. Her temperature elevated immediately. "Fuck me,” she cried out, unable to wait. 105

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He slid into her with one powerful thrust. She groaned and dug her fingernails into his back, trying to draw him into her even more. Their fucking started out slow and sweet, but that didn't last. Everything got away from them, and soon, he was driving into her with a force that defied belief. "Yes, yes,” she groaned. "Give me everything you've got!" And he did. With wild abandon, his body rocked against hers. Again and again. With each powerful thrust, the carriage rocked back and forth on its platform. And for a moment, Veronica visualized it breaking loose from its moorings and rolling down the Smithsonian's marble floors while they fucked like frenzied animals inside. The possibility made her laugh with delight, and just seconds later, she shuddered with her second orgasm, and clenching her fingers into the Norwegian's firm buttocks, he came too, groaning and thrashing like an excited stallion. When her senses finally returned, she found they’d somehow fallen on the floor of the carriage. The Norwegian had his face buried in her neck, and she could see his Chinos down around his knees, revealing his naked buttocks in the semi-darkness. She couldn't help but run a hand down over their smooth roundness. She could feel him still imbedded deep inside her, and wished fervently they had more time to explore each other with leisure. But she knew her time was almost up. She gave him a gentle nudge. "I have to go,” she whispered. Reluctantly, he withdrew from her. "I can't believe this happened," he murmured, his eyes scanning her face in astonishment. "You are so beautiful." He touched her blond French braid. "I wish I could see your hair down." "Me, too." She smiled at him, fastening her bra. "But I have to get back to work." After they'd readjusted their clothes, the Norwegian helped Veronica out of the carriage (still thankfully in place on its platform), and quickly, they made their way back to the open exhibits. "I'll never forget this,” she said, smiling at him and resisting the impulse to glance at her watch. "Can we not see each other again?" he asked, his blue eyes hopeful. "I work here in Washington—for the Norwegian Embassy." Veronica felt a twinge of guilt. He really was very young. She gave him a regretful smile. "I don't think so. Let's just look upon this as...a little adventure, okay?" 106

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She glanced around to make sure no one was looking, and then gave him a brief kiss on those gorgeous sexy lips. "You're very, very sweet. But I have to go." She knew she was late, but she didn't look at her watch until she swept through the doors of the National Gallery and hailed a passing taxi. "The Capitol,” she said, and only then did she check the time. Twenty minutes late! Oh, God! She was in for it now. It took ten minutes for the cab to turn around and head back to the Capitol. Veronica raced up the steps of the building and into a side door of the House of Representatives. Luckily, she was well familiar with the maze of corridors and reached her destination in two minutes. I slipped through the doors leading onto the House floor, hoping I could sneak in without being noticed, but it wasn't to be. Immediately, I felt the Speaker's cold brown eyes upon me. "Congresswoman Whitby-Harris, so good of you to join us. We started the vote on the Brady Bill almost a half-hour ago. If it suits your schedule, could you please give us your vote now?" She felt her face flood with color. "I vote aye,” she said meekly, squirming under the gaze of all the other members of congress. When the attention finally left her, she made a solemn vow. No more lunches outside the Capitol when the House was in session. After all, she was a servant of the people of the United States.

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The Lady and the Traveler

“Sit down, my dearest. It’s time for our nightly Bible reading,” said Lord Edwin Wainscot as his wife entered the room with the tea tray. Lady Caroline suppressed a sigh and placed the tray on a table in the corner of the ornate parlor. “Oh, Edwin, must we? It’s such a lovely summer night. Beatrice tells me the travelers are camped down the hill and at nightfall they will put on a grand show for the villagers. Can’t we go, please? The children will adore it.” Edwin’s mournful face grew even more solemn as his gaunt hollow cheeks sunk inward with his indrawn breath. “Absolutely not! What are you thinking of, my dear? Subjecting my children to such tawdry people as those gypsies! Mary would turn over in her grave if they were sullied by such scum.” With a thud, Lady Caroline dropped the teapot to the tray. “But I’m bored! Life is so dreary here.” “Now, dear, you’re not longer a maiden. It’s time for you to grow up and act your age. After all, you are Lady Caroline Wainscot now.” More’s the pity, Lady Caroline thought. Whatever had possessed her to marry such a stuffy old fool? But really, what choice had she had? Her father, Sir Ronald Saxton, had arranged the marriage a year after Edwin became a widower. His wife, Mary, had died of tuberculosis, leaving him with two spoiled children. Lady Caroline’s father had convinced her that she would benefit from such a match. Her life wouldn’t change, really, but she’d gain new status as Lady Caroline Wainscot. There would be parties and balls in London, teas and foxhunts on country weekends. But marriage to Edwin had turned out to be nothing like Lady Caroline had expected. Shortly after the wedding, Edwin, suddenly feeling the need for a quieter life, closed up his London house and moved to his country estate outside a remote village in Kent. Lady Caroline hated their new life almost immediately. There was nothing to do in the day but stroll around the beautiful gardens or read in the shade of the 108

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summerhouse. Not the Bible, Edwin’s favorite book, but the new delightfully naughty romances she’d bought in London just before their move. Yet, the risqué books left her hungry for love, and frustrated because Edwin was so unschooled in that regard. Being a virgin in her eighteenth year, she hadn’t really known what to expect on her wedding night. But the books she’d read had filled her with anticipation for the big event. When it finally arrived, however, she’d been exasperated by Edwin’s feeble attempt at lovemaking. One…two half-hearted thrusts, and it was all over. He’d rolled off her and immediately fallen asleep. Maybe it was true…the rumors she’d heard by the servants that Edwin’s preferences lay with a different sex. There was that one time she’d found the stable boy in tears after a meeting with the master. But Edwin claimed he was a God-fearing man. Surely something as vile as using a stable boy for his perverted pleasures would not be a Christian thing to do. Nonetheless, Edwin really was hapless in the bedroom, and Lady Caroline was glad, really, that her husband didn’t join her in her bed often. She’d discovered a delicious secret while reading her books at night before bed. She didn’t need Edwin to release the pent-up frustration for which her body cried out. Still, she often wondered what would it feel like to be made love to by a real man… Tonight, she was feeling more frustrated than usual perhaps because it was such a gorgeous summer evening. Soft breezes laced with the scent of honeysuckle filled the night air, and in the trees nightingales trilled their sweet songs. It was a night made for romance…for love. Lady Caroline whirled away from the tea tray, her skirts rustling. I’ll tuck the children in. The nurse will have them prepared for bed by now. She hurried out of the room, anxious to get away from Edwin’s droll presence. Why she used the children for an excuse, she didn’t know. They hated her; resented her presence in their late mother’s home. When she entered the nursery, the two girls scowled at her. Patricia, age ten, and Kathryn, twelve, were both quite unlovable. Poor children, they’d inherited Edwin’s melancholy features—his sober dark eyes and grim, drooping mouths. Lady Caroline summoned a smile to her lips. “Night, night, girls. Give Mummy a kiss.” “You’re not our mummy,” Kathryn pouted. “Our mummy is in heaven.” 109

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“Of course, she is,” Lady Caroline said lightly. “And I’m your step-mummy. But we needn’t use that term every time, need we?” She bent over Patricia and gave her a swift kiss on her grim little face. “Sleep tight.” She went to Kathryn but before she could kiss her cheek, the girl turned away and Lady Caroline’s lips met her black tangled hair. “Goodnight.” As she moved toward the door, Lady Caroline heard the music through the open window—a gypsy’s fiddle—and a wave of longing came over her. How lucky they were, the travelers. They were free. Not a prisoner of convention. Of a staid, formal society. Oh, how she wished she’d been born free. Lady Caroline went down the stairs and into the kitchens to get bread to scatter for the nightingales. She’d decided to take a walk in the gardens—let Edwin sit in the stuffy parlor and read his Bible until kingdom come—she didn’t have to do it with him!. After all, she was young and full of life. As she rounded a corner, she heard a high-pitched giggle and stopped short. In the shadows, she saw Beatrice, the scullery maid, pressed up against the wall by Hadley, the groom. His slightly soiled hands cupped her full, heaving breasts as his mouth nibbled at her long neck. His trousers were lowered, and the firm globes of his buttocks thrust against her rhythmically. Beatrice’s eyes were closed, and she was gasping, her fingers clutching his ass. Lady Caroline stood in the darkness and watched their frantic coupling. Desire curled in her lower regions and sweat beaded on her forehead. Beatrice gave a sharp moan, and the groom’s guttural voice joined hers as he gave a final, grinding thrust. Caroline whirled away, ashamed at herself for watching the intimate moment between the couple. Her cheeks burning, she stepped out the doors leading to the garden. It wasn’t fair, her mind screamed. Other women had love. Why not she? In the gardens, the sound of the gypsy’s fiddle was louder. From across the meadow, laughter and merry-making filled the air, intensifying the ache in Lady Caroline’s heart, as well as in her groin. She paced the garden dejectedly, thinking ahead to the endless years of boredom. Suddenly, she heard a childish voice from the window under which she stood. Kathryn’s voice. “I hate her! I wish she’d go away and never come back!”

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Lady Caroline blinked back tears. She’d never wished to take the place of the girls’ mother. She’d only wanted to be accepted, to be part of their family. It was clear now that would never happen. Without making a conscious decision, Lady Caroline began to walk. Soon, she was in the lane leading from the manor house, inexorably drawn by the seductive call of the gypsy music. Within minutes, she could see the brightly colored tents and wagons of the travelers camped in the meadow. In the soft light of the summer evening, the encampment looked surreal, almost as if it were a trick of the eyes. But as Lady Caroline grew closer, she could see very well it was real, and a sense of excitement coursed through her. She’d never been to a gypsy show before. Like Lord Edwin, her father had been of the belief that the travelers were sordid, sub-human creatures, and if one were to get too close to them, she would be soiled, unfit for proper company. A small crowd had gathered around three raggle-taggle gypsy men as they played their beguiling music. Mostly poor village people, they welcomed anyone into their midst who broke the tedium of their boring lives. Curiously, Lady Caroline gazed at the three gypsy men. Two of them were quite ordinary, unkempt middle-aged men who looked as if they’d gone to drink in their early years. But the third…oh, the third man who played the fiddle sent shockwaves through Lady Caroline. He was tall and broad chested. Even in his rags, she could see his body was sturdy and manly. He played his fiddle, his black head thrown back, his eyes closed. His stubbled chin held the fiddle base securely as his lightning hands moved the bow across the strings. Lady Caroline was captivated by his face—his high, ruddy cheekbones, his thin, sensuous lips, twisted in a secret smile as he played his music. Almost as if he felt her gaze, the traveler opened his eyes and stared at her. She shivered. For a long moment, he stared at her with his piercing blue eyes. It was almost as if he could read her mind…her longing. His gaze grew soft and caressing. He smiled at her slowly, revealing straight, white teeth. Lady Caroline blushed and looked away just as the music ended. The three travelers bowed and disappeared into the crowd as two young jugglers went into their act. Lady Caroline’s eyes searched the crowd. Where had he gone? She wanted only one last glimpse of him. Something to imprint on her mind for those lonely nights she lay alone in bed. 111

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She felt a touch on her elbow, and turned. Her breath left her lungs. The blackhaired traveler stood at her side, his eyes assessing. For a long moment, they eyed each other, not speaking. Finally, he murmured something in his native tongue. Hungarian, Lady Caroline thought, but of course, she didn’t understand. But then again, she did. With a nudge of his black head, he indicated one of the wagons. Lady Caroline’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t really think…he couldn’t possibly think she would… But when he turned and began to walk away, she followed. Even as she heard voices screaming inside her head, warning her against giving in to her base desires, her feet continued to move. The traveler led her to a wagon and pushed aside a curtain, indicating for her to step inside. Heart pounding, Lady Caroline placed a kidskin boot onto the wagon step. His hand grasped her elbow to assist her. She stifled a gasp at the fire his touch sent through her body. You’re mad, girl. Deliriously and deliciously mad. The traveler followed her inside the wagon. The interior was in shadows. Quickly, the traveler lit a lantern and its soft glow illuminated their surroundings. But Lady Caroline was transfixed by the gypsy’s shining blue eyes caressing her body. She felt weak with desire. It was like one of her romance books come true. But would the real thing live up to the fantasy? Gently, the traveler’s long, slender hands pressed upon her shoulders, pushing her to the floor of the wagon. It was covered with soft cloths and blankets. He sat down next to her, and without preamble, took her into his brawny arms. His warm mouth covered hers, his tongue searching the cavern of hers. Lady Caroline felt her limbs turn to jelly. She was oozing away like warm honey. Her hand touched his stubbled face; it was rough and bristly and the feel of it sent a strange excitement through her. Her heart galloped as his hands slowly moved down her arms. He pulled away from her lips and stared into her eyes. Then softly, gently, he eased her down to the floor and again covered her mouth with his, taking his time, feeding upon her mouth. Lady Caroline allowed her tongue to taste his. It was minty and sweet. His hand moved to her breasts, pressing gently against one mound, working his fingers in under her bodice, searching. She gasped when he touched her swollen nipple. He pulled away and pushed her gown off her shoulders, revealing the top of her stays. He unlaced them and her creamy breasts spilled out to his gaze. For a moment, his eyes played across them and then he knelt and took one nipple into his mouth. Lady Caroline 112

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moaned softly, arching toward him. A blossom of heat centered into her womanly parts. As the traveler teased one nipple and then the other with his tongue, Lady Caroline thrashed upon the blanket, the ache between her legs growing almost unbearable. He moved up to kiss her mouth again, and she felt his hard cock pressing against her stomach through his ragged trousers. Her hands moved up to caress the wiry black hairs of his broad chest. He groaned and kissed her deeply. Murmuring in Hungarian, he pulled away and stared at her. Lady Caroline gazed back, barely breathing. Slowly, his hand moved under her skirts, sliding up her cotton stockings. Lady Caroline tensed as his hand slid between her legs, his fingers delving into her wet heat. A soft cry escaped her lips at his intimate touch. “Oh, please…” she murmured. She was in heaven. Nothing in her romance novels had prepared her for this feeling. Suddenly he removed his hand, and Lady Caroline moaned in disappointment. Then she felt him kneel between her legs, thumbs caressing the tender inner flesh of her thighs. The ache of her sex intensified. She thrust toward him, crying out something unintelligible. She heard a soft chuckle, and then felt something hot and wet touch her in that place where she was most sensitive. She bucked, her hands grasping the blanket. The exquisite torture went on, grew deeper, the pressure intensifying. She knew in the back of her spinning mind that his tongue was dancing upon her womanly parts, exploring, teasing and tormenting. Never in her books had she read such a thing! She’d never thought such a thing could be done. Yet…oh, my stars, it felt so good. His tongue thrummed at her pleasure button, and Caroline thrashed and moaned and cried out in awe. And then she crested and shattered. Even then, the traveler’s gypsy tongue didn’t stop moving. He suckled at her sex until spasms stopped, and then drew back, murmuring a few word of Hungarian. He lay on his side, his eyes watching her. He asked a soft question that she didn’t understand. Then he reached down for her hand, and put it on his hard shaft. Some time before, she knew not when, he’d released it from his ragged trousers, and it thrust rigidly, so massive she could barely wrap her tiny hand around it. But instinctively, she moved her hand up and down his length, exploring, caressing, learning, and his cock seemed to grow even bigger. He groaned, and rolled her over on her back. He eased down upon her, his lips clinging to hers. She realized her pantaloons were gone, and there was nothing between his bare skin and hers. Slowly, he entered her. Lady Caroline gasped as he filled her, deeper than 113

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she’d imagined possible. Her fingernails dug hard into his firm buttocks as she urged him on. “Oh, yes, yes…” she whispered over and over. He began to thrust in and out, his eyes watching hers. With one powerful arm, he held his weight off her, moving sensuously, drawing out, stopping, then slowly, deliciously, thrusting in to the hilt. Holding, watching, covering her gasping mouth with his. For what seemed like hours, he made love to her in that slow, sensual way. From a distance, Lady Caroline heard the sounds of gypsy music, and somehow it made their coupling even more exotic, more sensual. His tempo quickened. She looked into his eyes in the lamplight, and saw them growing dark, tumultuous, and knew he was close. Her nails dug into his buttocks. One more long, silk-sheathed iron thrust, and she stiffened, soaring through the night air on pulsating waves of pleasure. The traveler cried out in a guttural voice, pounding into her, completely out of control. His eyes darkened into pinpoints of black, and he broke with a gigantic, shuddering climax. She felt his hot seed pumping into her, and she thrilled to it, hoping she would conceive. Hoping he would leave her with a black-haired little babe that would always remind her of her gypsy lover. Because…tomorrow she would go back home and become the prim and proper Lady Caroline again. Afterward, he held her closely, still enmeshed in her body, and softly murmured words of love in Hungarian. With the music of his voice in her ears, Lady Caroline fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of her lover. Or was it a dream? Over and over in the short summer night, he made love to her, teaching her how to pleasure him in ways her romance novels had never described. When she awoke to the light of morning, she was afraid to open her eyes, afraid the magic night had been only a dream. But there he was, sleeping in her arms, his ebony hair tousled. His black eyelashes were long and shadowed against his handsome sleeping face. Softly, Lady Caroline caressed his bristled jaw and tentatively touched his sensual mouth. “I don’t know who you are,” she whispered. “But I love you, handsome stranger.” His blue eyes opened. He stared at her. Then he gave her a slow, tender smile and reached for her. Their lips clung together for a long, searing kiss. Immediately Lady 114

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Caroline felt a kindling desire begin in the recesses of her womanhood. He moved her hands down to his already erect member, and she stroked it just as he’d taught her to do. Sensing his need, she got up on her knees and bent her head, taking his granite cock into her mouth. She still couldn’t quite believe she—Lady Caroline--was doing such a thing. She’d never dreamed such things were done. But oh, how she loved the power and thrust of him. The musky, male taste of him. She suckled greedily and was rewarded with an animal-like groan of pleasure from the gypsy. The ache between her legs intensified, blazing hot. She needed to be filled by him again. One more time before she returned to her prison. Suddenly from outside the wagon, they heard a loud curse. Lady Caroline drew away from the gypsy, her heart freezing in her chest. He looked at her, his blue eyes still half-dazed from her love-play. “This is Lady Caroline’s scarf!” It was Lord Edwin’s voice. “Check that wagon. No doubt she’s been abducted by some gypsy scoundrel!” Lady Caroline clutched at the blanket, covering her naked body. The traveler hastily pulled away from her, his eyes wary. He grabbed his trousers and pulled them up just as the curtain was pulled aside by the village constable. “Oh, good God!” he exclaimed, peering in at Lady Caroline and the traveler who was buttoning his trousers. “Guard! Arrest that man immediately!” Caroline cried out in anguish as two burly guards rushed in and grabbed the traveler. Unceremoniously, they tossed him out of the wagon and scrambled out after him. Edwin poked his head in and stared at his wife. “By thunder, that scalawag has used you most hideously. I’ll see him in hell for that. Get dressed, Caroline, and I’ll take you home.” He disappeared. With trembling fingers, Lady Caroline began to dress. From outside, she heard shouted accusations hurled at her traveler, he who had pleasured her body so thoroughly the night before. Then the beating began. Her hands stilled as she laced up the bodice of her stays, and wincing, she listened to the violent blows being administered to the handsome gypsy. Suddenly, she could take it no longer. Her breasts were still halfexposed as she stumbled out of the wagon, but she cared not. Her eyes centered upon the guard holding the traveler while the other one pummeled him with big, beefy fists. The gypsy’s lower lip was split and dripping blood. One eye was swollen shut. His glistening bronze chest and flat belly were now taking the brunt of the guard’s blows. 115

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Lady Caroline ran to the guard. “Stop it!” She began to pound at the man with her small, ineffective fists. “Caroline!” Lord Edwin gasped. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself, woman. And for God’s sake, cover yourself up. You look like a harlot!” Lady Caroline whirled toward her husband. “Leave him be! He did not abduct me. I went with him willingly.” Her words froze everyone. Lady Caroline moved to her gypsy and pressed against his bruised body. “Oh, my love, have they hurt you dreadfully?” His good eye gazed at her steadily. He spoke something in Hungarian, something that might have been a warning. But Lady Caroline knew it was too late for warnings. Fate had stepped into her life and taken control. Her hand caressed the traveler’s brawny chest. She looked back at her husband and the guard. “Last night, I learned about love, Edwin. It’s something you know nothing about. What’s more, I’ve learned I am a free spirit, and if I continue to live with you, that spirit will be crushed and I’ll die without having lived. That is why I am leaving you. I’m going with my traveler. We’ll sleep under the stars and make love and play music and experience life.” She turned to the guard still holding the traveler. “Release him. He has done nothing wrong.” The guard looked at Lord Edwin. He gave a stiff nod. “Let him go.” With a rough shove, the traveler fell to the dusty ground. Lady Caroline knelt beside him, her hands reaching out to console him. She heard the crunch of boots and looked up at Edwin towering over them. He stared down at her bitterly. “I don’t know you at all, Caroline.” She stared back steadily. “You never tried to know me, Edwin. I was just a cheap replacement for Mary.” “Don’t speak her name!” He roared, his pinched face ashen. “You are nothing but a harlot and a slut!” Caroline’s chin lifted defiantly. “Better a harlot and a slut than a sanctimonious hypocrite. Do you think I am so blind not to know about your preference for young boys? I have seen you return from the stables, looking smug and satisfied. And I have seen the tears on the rosy cheeks of the stable boy, not yet fourteen. You are a despicable man! 116

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His face grew red with rage. “Vicious Liar! I am sickened that I ever allowed you into my house! It mortifies me that my sweet daughters ever came near you.” He turned to the constable. “Her accusations are vindictive lies, of course. I will not dignify her by defending myself.” His cold eyes fastened again on Caroline. “Do not expect to come crawling back after you tire of your gypsy-man. I never want to see your adulterous face again.” “Very well.” With her skirt, Lady Caroline dabbed at the blood on her traveler’s lower lip. “I will get you some water, love.” She heard the sound of horses galloping away and knew she was alone with the travelers. She could feel their eyes upon her. For a moment, she felt panicky, wondering if she’d done the right thing. Then her traveler gave a soft groan. She looked at him and saw he was gazing back with his one good eye. “Caro…line…” he whispered. His hand clasped hers and he grimaced. “I am…Stefan.” Caroline smiled at him, her eyes suddenly filling with happy tears. “I am most happy to make your acquaintance, Stefan.” The other travelers carried Stefan into his wagon. Caroline followed behind. Later in the morning, as she nursed her lover’s bruises, the wagons began to move. She didn’t look out to see in which direction they were heading. There would be time for that later. New country sides to explore, a new life to begin. It was all in front of her…

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Author Bio

Carroll Mavis-Raine AKA Carole Bellacera is the author of four novels of Women's Fiction published by Tor/Forge Books. Under the Mavis-Raine pseudonym, she has published works of erotica with Ellora's Cave and Dutton's anthologies of erotica, "Seductions" and "Erotic Escapades."

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