Dutch and the Cowboy

Dutch and the Cowboy By Carolyn Faulkner ©2012 by Blushing Books® and Carolyn Faulkner

Copyright © 2012 by Blushing Books® and Carolyn Faulkner All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Published by Blushing Books®, a subsidiary of ABCD Graphics and Design 977 Seminole Trail #233 Charlottesville, VA 22901 The trademark Blushing Books® is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office. Dutch and the Cowboy Faulkner, Carolyn eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-656-7

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Dutch By Carolyn Faulkner ©2012 by Blushing Books® and Carolyn Faulkner

Chapter One Scream, baby, scream. That raw, hoarse phrase, uttered such a short - and such a long - time ago, haunted him, waiting to bring the unbearable pang of fresh guilt whenever it saw the opportunity. His jaw set as he shifted in the tiny hospital chair, taking no notice of its tortured groan. He only saw, heard, felt one thing: the ethereal presence beneath the rough white sheet. She was barely big enough to make a dent in the bed, and yet she was his whole world. Always had been, always would be. ...if she pulled through. He swallowed hard on that thought, and ruthlessly dragged his mind away from it, while his eyes couldn't escape giving him the proof behind it. He'd counted four hanging IV bags, a naso-gastric tube feeding her through her nose, a respirator breathing loudly for her, a heart monitor beating in agonizingly slow time, and a machine that provided up to the minute vitals. He'd learned very quickly how to translate Celsius to Farenheit, knowing the doctors were concerned about the possibility of infection. His jaw nearly cracked. With that many bullet holes, how could they not? She moved slightly, her mouth working around the respirator tube, chewing on it aggrivatedly in the drug induced haze they'd created for her. He rose immediately and went to stand next to her. He'd been in much this same position himself, and he knew how uncomfortable those blasted tubes were. One big paw caressed her forehead in a gesture so delicate and caring that many who knew him would have sworn he couldn't have pulled it off, just because of his sheer size. "Rest, blondie, rest," he was barely able to whisper, but it seemed to soothe her back into unconsciousness. He continued to stroke her hair, murmuring softly to her, wanting to do something - anything - to help her pull through this. She had to pull through this. Not for him - he'd known from day one that he would never deserve her - but for herself and her friends and family. She was too important to too many people not to. That he would never survive her loss went without saying. That he didn't want to survive her loss when it was caused by him and him alone was a bare fact with which he'd already made his peace. *** The previous day... "Dutch?" His name on her lips had always distracted him from anything he was doing, but tonight he really was concentrating pretty much on looking anywhere but at her. Her small hand tried, unsuccessfully, to cover his. "Are you okay?" No one else in his life would have asked that question of him. It was usually the other way around. His size didn't encourage that type of inquiry; he was expected to survive anything, and make sure that everyone else on the team did, too. He'd known Cherie since high school. She was the bubbly, popular sophamore to his dangerous, brooding senior. He should have been a linebacker on the football team, but no one

had the nerve to ask him, not even the coach. Certainly not his alcoholic father and beaten down mother. They were so involved in making each other miserable they'd never take much interest in him. Clothing and feeding him was enough of a hardship on them - a fact they never failed to remind him of at the top of their lungs - that he'd begun working at the tender age of nine or so, keeping himself as independent of them as possible in every way. Of course, his first jobs were a faint harbinger of what he would end up doing later in life. He was too young for most of the usual beginner positions, but he looked much older than he was due to his physical presence and the fact that he so rarely smiled. So he ran a protection racket, and ended up making more money in a week than most kids his age earned in a year. It had disgusted him how easily he picked her out of a crowd whever classes changed that tinkling laugh that warmed him all over in a way that made him want to be a world away and yet right next to her at the same time. She seemed to always be smiling, or laughing, and there was always a gaggle of friends around her. He knew he'd never be a part of that group, and it irked him that he even thought of wanting that. He didn't want the group; he wanted the girl. Fate - who had never shown any particular preference for him until then - provided him with the means to spend time with her. Dutch already made more than most of the teachers, but he also knew he needed at least a high school diploma. College would never be for him, but he was pragmatic enough, even at that age, to know that he needed that piece of paper in his back pocket, just in case. The one class he absolutely had to pass was English, and she ended up being his tutor. Just when he was beginning to wonder who the geek was that the Principal had roped into teaching him, and figuring he was going to give him something to think about in regards to punctuality, she'd appeared in the doorway with an impossibly big grin on her face. Most girls shied away from him - he was huge and taciturn; no one had ever seen him crack a smile, and his almost lethal reputation preceded him. No one wanted to chance getting beaten up. But none of that seemed to have registered with Cherie. Her smile never faltered as she marched over to him and offered an impossibly small hand. "Hi! I'm Cherie Robichaud. You must be Alexander Lubec." He was amazed that he felt the need to supress a smile at her; it was an unusual compulsion, but all he did was correct her with one implacable word. "Dutch." Still smiling, she slung her sweatshirt over the chair and sat down. Belatedly, he'd realized that he should have risen when she entered, and pulled out the chair for her, but the compulsion towards such niceties was so unexpected that it merely puzzled him. She was as tiny as he was huge. Probably barely came to his nipples, he thought, shifting immediately in the uncomfortable plastic chair, his thoughts making him just that much more uncomfortable. He shouldn't be thinking things like that about her. She was entirely unattainable, and there was no bucking that, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from beginning a thorough inventory of exactly what it was that attracted him about her. He'd never really gone for blondes much; in his vast experience, which was considerable for a man his age, the blonde jokes that were all the rage had a grain of truth in them. Dutch knew that that wasn't true about Cherie, though. She was always on the Honor Roll, was a member of the National Honor Society, as well as playing in the school band and, apparently, tutoring dumb bastards such as himself. She had that gorgeous mane ruthlessly tugged away from

her face in a ponytail right now, though, and he mourned the loss. It made her look younger, he thought with alarm, purposely trying to shift himself away from the lustful tone of his thoughts. But he couldn't fail to notice how that nicely rounded bottom fit into the garish, red plastic seat. "You're late," he chided in a deep, distinctly adult voice, surprising himself yet again. He almost never started a conversation with anyone, but lateness was a pet peeve of his. She sighed loudly. "I know. I'm sorry. Kevin Blakely kept me, asking stupid questions about the Spanish Inquisition." She didn't add that he'd also done a passable impression of Mel Brooks' Inquisition Song from “The History of the World, Part I” that had her in stitches. Dutch searched his mind for a picture of Kevin Blakely; he didn't pay much attention to what was going on socially in high school, having long since progressed into a more adult world. Kevin was the quarterback, an all-American football God, with cheerleaders and hangers on around him all the time. There were even rumors that he was being scouted by pro teams. He had the good looks of a male model, without the ambiguity of whether or not he was gay - he'd mowed his way through the popular set in record time. He frowned at the thought that Cherie might be next on his list of conquests. True, she wasn't really a part of the jock clique, but he knew that wouldn't have stopped him, and he couldn't imagine that Kevin would hesitate, either. Cherie would be a catch for any man. A mental note to speak to Kevin, just in case he had any ideas in that direction, was filed away in the back of his steel-trap mind. Cherie busied herself organizing her books, since Kevin'd purposely occupied the usual ten minutes she had between sessions, but when she looked up at her student, she swallowed hard and suddenly remembered that they were alone in this room. It was after school, and there were few people left in the building. She knew of Dutch, of course, by reputation alone. Few people in their school didn't. Even at seventeen, he was more physically and emotionally imposing than most adults, and everyone knew to steer clear of him, unless you wanted to end up in the hospital, or worse. Rumors abounded about various acts of violence and mayhem he'd supposedly committed, although most of them seemed to be entirely unsubstantiated, as far as she could tell. But parts of her she'd rather not think about were contracting at his mere presence. Cherie took herself mentally in hand, and plastered another smile on her face just in time to look up at his forbidding scowl. "What?" The question burst more nervously from her lips than she would have liked. "Tardiness. Don't do it again." He desperately wanted to add a threat that he intended to make a promise - that he'd paddle her bottom if she was late again - but, all of a sudden, she looked so wary of him he was sure she'd walk out if he said one word, much less what he was actually thinking, so he kept it to himself. He had a good reason for not tolerating that particular bad habit; he had a job to do outside of school - unlike Miss Robichaud, he was quite sure. Being tutored was cramping his style, and his fiscal responsibilities wouldn't wait. The smile faded from her face as if it had never been. Dutch didn't think he'd ever seen her when she wasn't smiling, and he didn't like it. "I can assure you, Alexander -" "Dutch," again, more firmly this time. He saw her lips twitch at being corrected, and had to reposition himself in his seat and again supress a smile. Little Miss Perfect didn't like being corrected. He couldn't imagine that it happened to her very much; she was everyone's darling.

Cherie refused to repeat his name back to him like some trained dog. "I can assure you that I am rarely late." It was exceedingly annoying to have this man - and there was no way she could even begin to think of him as a boy, unlike the rest of the male population of Raven Hill High, including Kevin Blakely - call her on the carpet for something that was neither her fault nor her usual habit. "Good. 'Cause next time, I'll have to do something about it." He’d said it a deliberately low tone, low enough that she would have to strain to hear it, and perhaps even think that he hadn't really said it. But he heard her indrawn breath, and she had leaned a bit towards him to hear, which he counted as another definite benefit. Cherie's mouth was dry. She knew she should have been alarmed; that was definitely a threat (or was it a promise?). But despite the fact that her mind was screaming that she should just pack up her books and leave before she got in any deeper with this hoodlum, she found she couldn't, on several levels. She'd never given up on a student and she'd taught a wide range of them from grade school on, and she didn't intend to start now. But that was just her mind and her pride, which didn't seem to have much to do with the situation, if she was truthful with herself. The fact that he was the most blatantly dangerous being she'd ever encountered at such a close range only seemed to make her body hum more loudly, much to her alarm, and it was her body that seemed to be in charge in this situation, which was a distinct change for her. Cherie had always been much more of an intellect than a beauty. She was used to being the smartest person in nearly every class, at least until she'd been put in a more challenging program just recently. Luckily, she had a great personality to go with it. She was almost always positive, and usually almost too willing to laugh. It was her tendency towards giggle fits with other girls that got her into trouble more often than anything else. She'd never really felt attracted to most men, and had almost wondered at times whether she was gay, since the people she really liked tended to be women. They were just so much...more than men, especially in comparison to high school boys. But this one, this man...All of her - in a way she'd never experienced - was on alert in his presence. And not because she felt threatened - although her mind was screaming that she rightly should have - but because he wasn't a boy. He was a man. And she knew, somehow, certainly without being told, that he was acutely aware of her as a woman. The parts of her that were most female, most feminine, responded to his inherent dominance in a manner they never had to anyone else. Her skin felt hot and prickly, and her heart was clenching painfully in her chest. Even at seventeen, he was more of a man than most thirty year olds would ever be. And she wanted him. The thought made her swallow awkwardly, in mid-sentence, but she marshaled her reserves and soldiered on, not acknowledging his questioning look. Later, in her pink and white bedroom, she could dwell on what possible form his promise might take. *** A quirky friendship grew from those relatively few meetings, both of them resisting the elephant in the room attraction between them, each for different reasons. Dutch knew there was no way she could handle him; she was too young in so many ways that he was already too old.

Cherie wanted him desperately; he had rapidly become the star in all of her steamiest dreams, the hero in all of the cheesy romance novels she devoured in her rare off time. Although it was a toss up there, especially when they were thrown together for tutoring sessions, as to whether her head or her loins would prevail, as usual, she followed the dictates of her mind, forcibly guiding it away from him once their enforced association was over. She knew, even at her tender age, that this was not the right time for them, and, despairingly, that there would probably never be a right time. They were on very divergent paths that would most likely never bring them together again. But they were never quite able to completely divorce themselves from each other. Dutch kept track of her through his various connections and, on the rare occasions when he was home, they would run into each other at parties and weddings, as social circles in Raven Hill were extremely small, and one's social sphere naturally broadened after high school. Cherie's was already pretty broad, and Dutch's had nowhere to go but up. She sent him a chatty birthday card in March every year, after he'd let it slip in an unusually candid moment that his family had never really acknowledged his birthday, and again at Christmas, despite the fact that keeping track of his address could be a full time job in and of itself, and he almost never responded in kind. His voice messages were short, almost curt, and his letters were even worse. One year, both her Christmas and birthday cards were returned as undeliverable, and she began to worry, not that there was much she could have done about it. Still, when she got home every day, she hoped for one of his infrequent phone messages and even more infrequent letters, and for months she was disappointed, and wondered if he was even alive. Somehow, though, he managed to be there for major events in her life - wedding excluded of course. That was a topic they’d never really discussed, and he’d not contacted her once while she was married to the man that rapidly became her ex. He'd magically appeared when her parents died, despite the fact that she hadn't heard from him in more than a year. When he took her into his arms, it felt so good that she could do nothing but sob, something she hadn't been able to do around anyone else, since she was the oldest and expected to be the backbone of the family. She'd made all the arrangements, cooked and cleaned and hugged and soothed, but no one had really seen to her. Until Dutch came to town.

Chapter Two As usual, he took over the situation. It would have been funny, at a different time in her life, to see just how her younger siblings - Claire and Cal - jumped and scurried to do his bidding. Cherie knew it hadn't even occurred to them to challenge his mastery of the situation. Because he could see just how worn and drawn she was from the stress, and he knew from her what the two could be like, he threw in a few choice words about how they'd just let her shoulder all of the burden in this situation, and whisked her away to the hotel at which he was staying; the nicest one in several towns, of course. It couldn’t be very far from her mind - despite her grief - that this was the most intimate situation they'd found themselves in, by mutual, if silent, agreement. His suite had a very comfortable living room area, though, and all he did was settle her down and hold her tightly in his arms, stroking her hair soothingly. He didn't say anything - if he had, she would've wondered if it was really him. Instead he simply provided her a place where she was safe. Just safe. Unlike nearly everyone else around her, he neither expected nor demanded anything of her. Soft kisses were pressed to the top of her head, and one big paw patted and rubbed her back, and she cried, finally, and nearly endlessly. And those strong arms kept her tight against him through it all. It was just what she needed, and he'd known it without her having to say so much as a word. When she was feeling better, trying to lean as far away from him as he'd allow, drying her face on the tissue he produced and apologizing for dissolving on him like that, she seemed flustered about having sobbed all over him. “I’m so sorry.” Cherie dabbed at his tearstained shoulder ineffectually. Her apologies tore at his heart, and he chose to silence her by tipping her face up to his and, with exquisite gentleness, settling his lips over hers. It wasn't a passionate first kiss, far from it. That would have been entirely inappropriate. Instead it was tender and healing, insistent but not aggressive, making her melt back into his arms, where she belonged. Still he knew that the wasn't the time or the place for a sexual encounter, and after indulging himself in that one, perfect kiss, he kept things very neutral from that point on. Cherie knew she shouldn't have been thinking like that with her mother barely buried, and she recognized the irony in the thought that she wished he wasn't being quite such a gentleman. Every bit of her was his at this moment. She couldn't have said no to him if she'd wanted to, but he was annoyingly circumspect. In retrospect, she was glad he hadn't taken things any further, although her loins would definitely disagree. *** At thirty-five, married and divorced once with no potential boyfriend in sight, she'd resigned herself to never marrying again. After all, as her ex had told her in the heat of one of their many battles, it was hard for a guy to compete against a superhero that was never there. Her decision to be happily unmarried lost her some girlfriends who tired of setting her up with who they considered to be perfectly acceptable men that she never the less spurned one after the other. She knew what she wanted, and knew she never wanted to get involved with anyone

again and risk hurting them as she had Rick, who wasn't entirely an innocent bystander himself, but was close enough that she felt right in her decision to keep to herself. After all, she had her personal touch massager, and her ragged memories of infrequent times when Dutch visited his hometown, and that one, almost perfect kiss. He did seem to seek her out when he was home, and they had dinner. Cherie longed to cook for him, to invite him into her home. He'd always been such a loner; she knew that he returned here more to see her than anyone else here, his parents having long since died. He had no home. Never really had had one. She wanted to provide that for him, but knew that there would be consequences to taking any step towards a real relationship with him, and that's what had held her back all these years. She knew what he did for a living. Not particulars. Not any details. Cherie wasn't at all sure she could live with them if he'd ever volunteered them, which wasn't likely to happen. But last night, not long after she'd gotten divorced, he'd come home unexpectedly. She'd jumped at his voice on the phone; it had been so long between visits and calls, and caller ID was no help. All it ever said was unavailable. "Blondie. Meet me tomorrow at Zamboni's." It was their usual haunt when he was home. Cherie clutched her cell that much tighter, while her heart clenched painfully in her chest. "Dutch! How are you?" She couldn't stop herself from asking that inevitable question. She heard his rare, rumbled chuckle. "I'm all right. Four o'clock." He hated crowds, so their infrequent dinners together were always conducted at obscenely early hours. "Where are you?" The gruff reproach in his tone set her privates on edge. "Blondie, you know I can't tell you that." She wanted to think he was just exaggerating, but she knew better. "Well, you're close enough that you're able to meet me at four, so you can't be too far away." "I could be in the air over anywhere at this point and still meet you at four." Her lips pursed. She still hated being corrected, even if it was only verbally. "Despite the fact that you annoy the bejeezus outta me, I'll be there." Dutch waited a beat before growling low, "Don't be late." She would have lit into him, knowing he was just needling her, but he was gone. *** Cherie arrived before he did and sat in the waiting area inside the restaurant until he appeared - with his lower arm in a cast and long gash on his cheek that was still healing, and he made no attempt to cover up. He knew he was ugly. Yet another scar one way or the other wasn't going to make much of a difference. Knowing that trying to fawn over his injuries would be entirely unwelcome; she rose and hugged him as tightly as she could, considering she couldn't begin to get her arms around him. It always amazed him, just how hard he was. It was like trying to embrace a concrete slab. The hostess was new, and gave him a look that left no question about the fact that she couldn't decide whether she should just seat him quietly or call the police. Apparently she decided that the former was less likely to result in bodily harm. Cherie had to give it to him. He could - only when he wanted to, of course - play the part of outlaw to the nth degree. He was wearing a black t-shirt that was practically begging for mercy

as it stretched over rippling plates of muscle. It revealed several of his tattoos, none of which was particularly family friendly. His hair, as usual, was alarmingly close cropped, as if he'd just gotten out of basic training. Dutch was far from the type to agonize over his hair, so he generally just kept it as short as he could. As usual, he was deeply tanned, and Cherie couldn't keep herself from wondering if he was like that all over. She blushed deeply, praying he wouldn't notice, when her dirty mind worked against her and answered her question heartily in the affirmative. "What's that about?" he asked, dashing her prayers as he reached around her and to pull out her chair. Cherie decided to ignore him. "What do you want to eat?" she asked, reaching for the menus, although they both knew the offerings by heart by now. He didn’t like her avoiding his questions. Dutch reached over and took the menus out of her hands, laying them on the table next to him. "Answer my question. Why the blush?" Of course, that only made it that much worse. Cherie could feel every pore in her face and neck turning a blazing red, and his spit-shined combat boots suddenly became of abnormal interest to her. But hiding wasn't her way, so she straightened her head to look him right in the eye and said, "I was just admiring your tan." It was enough of the truth that maybe he'd leave it alone. He was too much of a bulldog - too much of an interrogator - to let her. "And you were wondering if it's an all over tan?" He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed to mere slits, and considered her carefully. "I could ask the same question about your blush." You would think after all of the years they'd been friends that she'd be used to the idea that he wasn't going to let her get away with much of anything. She was still waiting for him to prove that in a more tangible manner, although the pit of her stomach twisted nervously at the very thought. As her body betrayed her and she felt her panties dampen outright as a result, she nonetheless lied primly, "I certainly was not." He reached across the table and tugged on a lock of her namesake hair. It was barely more than a whisper, but said with her eyes held tightly by his. "Don't lie to me, Blondie. You won't like the consequences." Her heart and her stomach met at her feet with a loud thunk Cherie was sure that he could hear, but she knew she couldn't let him see that much, so she snorted. "Consequences, schmonsequences. I've never been afraid of you, and you know it." To her great relief, he leaned back in his chair again, resuming that much less intense posture. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't, little girl. For a smart cookie, you've never had a lot of common sense." Now that had hurt her. He knew it as soon as the words were out of his mouth by the way her face fell. "Bite me, Alexander." She only used his real name when she was pissed at him. He decided to let it go, much preferring her smile to the tight lipped scowl that faced him now. "Sasha?" Dutch wasn't a talker, but Cherie could be. He'd found that it was relatively easy to divert her from a bad mood - since it wasn't her usual bent - just by asking about one of her friends or family. Leave it to him to pare it down to just mentioning their name in a questioning manner. She almost always took the bait, and he always breathed a sigh of relief when she did. He could count on one hand the times he'd seen her in a bad mood, but that was enough for him.

"Sasha's all right. Living in Qataar with Mark and the kids and terribly homesick." She refused to peep over the menu at him, as if asking permission, when she said, "I've been thinking of going over there to visit her." He choked on his water. "I don't think so." Somehow, and she wasn't at all sure how it had happened, Dutch had gotten the idea that she would obey him. As hard as she thought, she couldn't remember anything she'd done in the past that might have given him that impression. She'd kept her submissive tendencies tightly under wraps; even her ex had never really known her true preferences, and when the marriage dissolved, she was extremely happy that she'd never spilled those particular beans. Maybe that had been part of the problem. Dutch, on the other hand, seemed to know without thinking, and from the moment they'd met, that she had a strong submissive streak, whether or not she was willing to admit it. "Are we going to argue the entire time?" Cherie had reached for a piece of garlic and rosemary foccacia, but dropped it back into the basket and glared at him. He grinned. She hated it when he grinned like that. Like he knew, without a doubt, that she was going to do as he asked. Or, as he'd intimated long ago, she'd regret it, somehow. Her bottom burned at least as feverishly as her face had at the thought. "Not as long as you behave." "Visiting my friend, who is terribly homesick, is not misbehaving." She leaned towards him, nearly nose to nose. He didn’t bat an eyelash. "It is if I say it is. I don't want you travelling in that part of the world, Blondie. You're much too beautiful. Some sheik'll kidnap you into his harem, and I'll have holy hell breakin’ you out." Pure annoyance and pure pleasure warred within her. He liked to think he could lay down the law to her, and she certainly didn't want to encourage that idea, necessarily, but it was twistedly comforting to know that he'd bother to rescue her. Family and friends were much more important to Cherie than they ever would be to him. Yes, he considered his teammates his friends, one in particular was closer to him than he'd ever allowed any other man to get, but not to the extent that Cherie took people into her heart. She would be unhappy because Sasha was unhappy, and he couldn't stand that. "Look, why don't you meet her in France or something? London - you love London. Meet her there. She can catch a hop and it won't cost her a thing." Cherie was at least as ungracious a loser as he was. It was a trait he loved about her. "I'll think about it." Having laid out his feelings – and laid down the law - on the subject, he backed off a little, although he intended to remind her before he let her go this evening. ...If he let her go.

Chapter Three "Dutch? Are you okay?" Cherie asked again, more worried than before. It wasn't at all like him to drift away like that. Their meetings were so infrequent that she'd always garnered his full attention, reveling in its intensity while her nerve endings danced feverishly at his every glance. His skin literally tingled where her hand didn't even begin to cover his. He flipped his over and caught her fingers gently but firmly and nodded at her distractedly, much more involved in tracing each of her fingers with one of his, then he skewered her eyes with his, deliberately letting every aching moment without her, every time he'd had to take a cold shower for thoughts of her driving him mad, every time he'd thought of taking her over his knee and swatting that generously curved bottom while she squirmed and tried to get away, then rolling with her in the aftermath to press himself between those lithe limbs, sliding home inside her and feeling her contractions urging him on to his own reward. If she could have physically stepped back from him at that moment, she would have. Cherie felt absolutely flattened by the blatant sexual intent in his eyes. If she'd thought he'd looked at her intensely before, she was sorely mistaken. He was hungry for her, and this was the first time he'd really let her see - and feel - just how close to starvation he was. And only she could sate him. The very breath was knocked out of her, and she sat staring back at him, her mouth slightly opened, unable to respond to such raw, unfettered emotion, especially coming from a man who barely responded to much of anyone about anything. Dutch's mouth quirked as if he was going to laugh but thought better of it, as he reached over and closed her mouth with a fingertip beneath her chin. But when she returned his look, almost in kind, he groaned and threw the napkin that had been the guardian of his rising desire onto the table. After ripping several bills from a large wad then stuffing them back into his pants pocket, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her from the dining room, ignoring the protests of their meek waitress that she'd be glad to rush their order. Cherie wanted to drive herself; she didn't want to end up somewhere - and, at this point, she had no idea where - without the means to get home. But she wasn't given the opportunity. He had her tucked into his truck - newly bought this morning - in a matter of seconds. "But -" she got out as he slipped behind the wheel. True to form, Dutch didn't say a word. He wasn't going to argue with her. Instead, he reached over to take her hand, and laid it directly onto the massive erection that was threatening to bust right through the zipper of his black jeans. Her response wasn't quite what he'd hoped for when she retracted her hand as if he'd laid it on red hot lava. He knew he hadn't misread her all of these years. He knew it, but he didn't want to press her too far too fast. Tonight, she was going to be his, from the top of her bright head to the frosted pink tips of her toes, and every delicious inch in between. If he'd asked her, she wouldn't have been at all sure of her own reasons for reacting that way. It certainly wasn't because she wasn't attracted to him - quite the opposite. But as much as she had dreamt about him, lusted after him in her mind, and put him into some pretty kinky situations when the mood struck, that all paled in the face of the reality of this situation.

They were going to sleep together. Tonight. She was going to be alone with him, naked, beneath him, with that impossibly big body covering hers. She shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms. Not even the slightest thing about her ever escaped his notice, and he saw that shudder. It made him grimace, but he reached over and laced his fingers with hers, resting their hands on his big thigh. He hated small talk, but wished, for the first time in his life, that he was as eloquent as his partner, wanting desperately to say something to soothe her fears. She'd said it not an hour before hand. She'd never been afraid of him. But here she was, fairly cowering against her door, shaking fitfully at the thought of sleeping with him. That did not bode well for the evening he had planned. Dutch pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the truck and faced her as well as he could in the cab of the truck. His voice was so low she had to strain to catch some of it, but it was the longest speech she’d ever heard him deliver, and it was all about her. “You’re my home, Cherie.” When he used her name, rarely, he always gave it the French pronunciation, as no one else in her life had, so that it was always more than her name, it was an endearment. He hesitated, which was unheard of for Dutch. “I came back here, always to you, because you’re the only home I’ve ever had. I’ve wanted you since before we met in high school. I’ve wanted you every second of every day since, and I’ve bided my time until I could offer you something more than an absentee relationship.” He leaned closer and took both of her hands in the gentlest of manners. “I’ve retired from my current...profession, and I’m home this time to claim you. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine and you always will be mine. “But I would never ever hurt you. I’d cut off my arm before I’d let that happen. I like what you said at dinner, that you’ve never been afraid of me, and I’m glad you haven’t. And I don’t want you to start now.” He cleared his throat, and didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s been way too long already, as far as I’m concerned, but if you need more time to come to terms with the idea that I want nothing more in whatever’s left of this life than to love you, then I’ll back off – some.” The last phrase was barely ground out from his clenched jaw, but then he modified it anyway. “But not tonight.” A platter sized hand cupped her cheek. “I’ve wanted you forever, and I won’t be put off tonight.” He kissed her cheek, and then, as he dragged just his fingertips over that velvety skin, he murmured, “I’m going to make you scream.” As he stared straight into her eyes, he both felt and saw the great shudder that ran through her body. He saw her pupils dilate, and her breathing became erratic. The evidence of her arousal nearly sent him over the edge himself, and he quickly got the truck back onto the most expedient route to his hotel suite. He was staying in a nearby town that took about twenty minutes to get to, minutes that were far from wasted, as far as he was concerned. They remained in constant contact, mostly holding hands, but then Dutch couldn’t keep himself from letting his hand wander. At one point he realized that she was much too far away from him, and he began to tug carefully at her hand until she got the point and scootched closer to him, where he had even more freedom to explore, and he reveled in every caught breath, every slight moan, every shiver that ran through her. By the time they slipped into a parking spot, he was so hungry for her he wasn’t at all sure if he could make it to the room. His hotel was one she would never have considered for herself. She only stayed in the cheapest of motel rooms, and then only when she couldn’t stay at a friend’s house and avoid the cost hotel completely. But Dutch, despite the fact that his career had forced him into some pretty

atrocious situations, liked to be comfortable, and since he didn’t have a house in town, he stayed at a very nice hotel that offered full suites that had the feel of a house. The room was decorated in maroon, royal blue, and cream. There was a full kitchen, a small dining area, a good sized living room – all of which he tugged her quickly through – and a beautiful, big bedroom, with an enormous, high king-sized bed. “Good Lord! I’m going to need a ladder!” Cherie joked as he sat on the end of the bed and pulled his boots off. She busied herself closing the curtains at the large window and futzing with the temperature. He knew she was nervous again, and he wasn’t exactly sure what he could do to ease it. He just knew he needed to be close to her, more than he needed to breathe. “C’mere, Blondie,” he commanded, trying unsuccessfully to keep that command tone out of his voice. She’d lectured him about that before, but old habits die hard. He knew it probably wasn’t the best approach to take in this situation, but he also knew that his next step would be to go over there and get her, but he knew that wouldn’t go over well at the best of times. To his surprise, she began to walk towards him, slowly, like a wife of Henry VIII to the gallows. Not quite what he wanted, but at least she was moving towards him rather than away from him. He opened his legs as she came closer, letting her settle between them and stand above him. It was an unusual position for them – he always towered over her; she was a pixie-girl of a woman, and he knew he was a big, clumsy oaf who had aspirations well above himself to even begin to consider that she could be his. But she was, and tonight he would prove that to her more fully than he’d ever allowed himself to before. Her hands fell naturally, if tentatively, onto his broad shoulders as she considered a view of him she’d not seen before – the top of his head. There was no bald spot there, she noted absently, not that it would have mattered to her if there was. She loved him regardless – cosmetic considerations be damned for the fleeting follies they were. She loved him. It was the first time she’d really admitted it to herself. Oh, it had always been there in the back of her mind, probably no more so than the day she’d married someone else, after giving up hope that he would ever want to settle down. But now they were here, and she was closer to him than she ever had been, minutes away from allowing his body to lay an elemental claim to hers. She reached out and crushed him to her as best she could, his head pressed naturally against her breasts, tears welling and dropping onto his close cropped head. “I love you,” she whispered. “Why did you take so long, damn you? Why did it take you so long?” He couldn’t believe what he’d heard, but he wasn’t going to question it. She loved him. It was all he needed to hear. His arms folded her onto his lap as his lips spread treasured kisses over every bit of her face, kissing away each tear and mingling the salt on their lips. Dutch held her in his strong right arm while his left carefully undid her frilly little blouse, dropping it to the floor unheeded, followed quickly by an impossibly lacy pink bra. He pressed her tightly against him and brought the both of them up to the top of the bed, laying her on her back next to him and giving his hands full reign to touch and pluck and gently twist, all the while adding each soft cry to his mind for future reference about what pleasured her the most. He wanted to learn everything about her. He wanted to drown in her, to lose himself to her blissful absolution. She was much, much more than he would ever deserve, and he would happily spend every day for the rest of his life trying to make her happier than she’d ever been.

And that included spanking her, when necessary. She’d find that out shortly, but he didn’t want to bring it up just yet. He didn’t know if she realized it yet, probably not, but there was no way in hell she was going to visit her friend in Qataar, and he intended to make certain she got his point about that. He’d divorced himself from the life as much as he could, but there were probably still some small situations that were going to crop up over the next months or so that would require that he travel a bit – but nowhere near as much or as often as he had in the past, and he’d inevitably have to leave her for short spurts. Dutch wouldn’t put it past his Blondie to use one of those times to go see Sasha. He intended to make sure that idea wouldn’t even enter her mind. But right now, all he wanted to do was to find his home within her. She was nearly naked, but he still had all his clothes on. Suddenly, he couldn’t bear not feeling his flesh on hers. They had spent so much time apart that he was entirely unwilling to spend another minute not indulging the both of them in every possible manner. And he had the money, the time, and more than enough inclination to do just that. She’d be lucky if he ever let her out of his bed, since he’d gotten her into it. “What’s that unholy grin for?” Cherie asked as she brushed his hands away and undressed him herself, which was a new experience for him. He’d always found it so touching how careful she was of him, behemoth that he was. She kissed the scar on his cheek with no hesitation what so ever, tingly butterfly kisses accompanied by plaintive murmurs like those she always made when she heard of or saw an animal being hurt, as if she couldn’t abide that the creatures had had to experience any kind of pain. The short cast on his left arm received the same treatment. “Poor baby,” she murmured, which only served to widen his grin. “What? Am I doing something wrong, or funny?” “No, baby, no.” He hugged her gently, wanting to reassure her as best he could. “At first I was thinking about how unlikely it is that you’re going to see the light of day for a while. I want to spend the rest of the week in this bed with you,” he growled, nibbling her collar bone and loving the way she writhed against him as he did so. “But then I was listening to you oohing and ahhing over my injuries and realizing that you’re the only person in the world who has ever – or probably will ever – do that for me. People just assume, because of my size, that I’m pretty much indestructible. But you treat me like I’m as delicate and breakable as you are.” His mouth had begun to wander away from her shoulders with a mind all its own, warm, wet lips settling with infinite gentleness, almost too gently, over first one taut nipple and then the other, suckling deeply but with such care and attention that she almost lost herself to him right then and there. He made her feel treasured, and that sweet, tangy mixture of absolute pleasure and absolute love opened her heart to him like nothing else could have. There was no remnant of fear or nervousness left in her, and she couldn’t even summon the usual modest protests as he worked his way down the length of her body, dropping exquisite kisses here and there, rasping her creamy, fairy skin with hard won calluses, until he had himself right where he wanted to be, with his Blondie where she was most definitely a blonde, spread out before him. He was looking at her like starving man at the sight of a banquet. “I’ve dreamt about this, you know,” he whispered, his lips and tongue occasionally punctuating his words with kisses and delving licks here and there. “Long nights on watch, huddled in the jungle, wet and hot and miserable. All I had to do was think about you, and this.” Two thick fingers parted her nether lips carefully but inexorably, and seconds later the heart of

her was surrounded by the heat and the unbearably exquisite textures of those soft lips and tongue laying claim to that part of her that was the most his. Her deep cry of ultimate pleasure only drove him on. He arranged her legs over his shoulders, not allowing her demure protests to deter him. When he again settled himself down to that luscious feast, he’d freed his right hand to reach up and pluck at an eager nipple, pinching gently at first, then increasing the pressure until he had it just right as he listened with avid attention to every coo and moan, cataloging every twitch and gyration. “Please, I – please, Dutch!” “So close already, ma Cherie?” he asked, teasing her with every part of him, including his voice. She didn’t answer him, she literally couldn’t. He had her so crazy, so outside herself with pleasure, that it was all she could do not to reach down and hold his head so she could grind herself against it. One thick finger began toying with that slick opening. “My, my, my, baby. I’m going to start calling you Niagara. You’re so wet!” Every second he spent pleasuring her compounded within his own body to the point where he thought he was going to come at the same time she did, never having even been touched. She was impossibly tight, almost virginal, he thought. It was a good thing she was slippery, or it was going to be an uncomfortable fit. He could barely get one finger inside, not that he was trying to be forceful in the least. He didn’t want to hurt her or himself, and the finger he was using was on the hand that was in the cast, so he was even gentler that he might have been. As he crossed his index and middle fingers, positioning them at the entrance to her love spot, he again settled his mouth on that proud little button, and reached up with his other hand to firmly pinch her nipples. The combination of ultimate bliss from so many different parts of her body, not the least of which was the amazing sensation of being stretched to open for those two big fingers, which he introduced very slowly the first few times, then began to pump them in and out of her with just the slightest – and rightest – touch of roughness. He lifted his head only once while he brought her to ecstasy, long enough to whisper gutturally, “Scream, baby, scream.” She obeyed him without a thought, her body more his than hers at this point, not caring if everyone in the hotel – or the world – heard her. The orgasm ripped through her body with a almost alarming violence, making her shudder and shake and writhe and gasp as he held her there, pinning her with his mouth, milking every last morsel of paradise from her without mercy. Only when she was left panting on the bed did he raise himself and cover her with his own body, keeping her legs over his shoulders as he found the entrance to its home within her. He let his body weight forced him inexorably inside her, kissing away the murmurs of slight discomfort as they came to her. “It’s – it’s been – a – little – while,” she whispered an unnecessary apology, every bit of her concentrating on relaxing enough to let him in. Dutch saw her head whipping back and forth on the pillow, and the murmurs had become more frequent and urgent, so he withdrew – not completely, but enough to give her some relief. He knew he was larger than most, which had caused him no small amount of consternation in regards to whether or not she would be physically able to accommodate him. But he couldn’t have stopped himself from sinking back into her, this time seating himself nearly fully within her before retreating again, for the last time.

To his embarrassment, he knew it wasn’t going to take him very long to climax. He was ached so badly he was somewhat worried that he wouldn’t be able to, but his body disabused him of that notion. She was so tight, he could feel the small tremors leftover from the way she’d exploded in his arms, and as soon as he began to rock, he felt her clench him even tighter. Despite the fact that it was a few scant minutes before his own body contorted with a pleasure that was so intense it was almost painful, he nevertheless felt and heard and saw her climax again beneath him, whimpering, almost begging as he took her there regardless, losing her convulsions mere seconds before his own. In the aftermath, neither could move. He knew he was crushing her, but he didn’t have the strength even to just roll to the side. Not yet. She was still breathing, and not even poking at him, as some women had done, rushing him off them as soon as possible. In fact, her arms were around him, rubbing his back, her fingers tracing over his scalp, massaging him, almost, and even trying to pull him closer. Eventually, he did move onto his side, but he kept her with him, her head landing naturally on his chest as his big hand claimed her bottom in a harbinger of what was to come. He was doing his best not to fall asleep, despite the natural urge to do so. He wanted to spend as much time with her as he could, none of it asleep. The fact that her finger was tracing the outline of his tattoos and scars was helping in that area, because she was tickling him. Finally, he easily caught both of her hands in his, because, despite several firmly delivered warnings, she wasn’t stopping. “You’re ticklish!” she giggled, delighted at having found a chink in his macho armor and not in the least concerned that she’d lost control of her arms to him. “I am not,” he lied boldly. If he admitted to it, she’d never forget it, and she’d use it against him whenever or wherever she could – he knew her. “Hey, lemme go.” Cherie tried unsuccessfully to reclaim her appendages, but he was having none of it. Dutch was thinking that, since they found themselves in this convenient position, and he already had her partially subdued, it might just be the right time to reinforce a basic tenet of their relationship. Before she knew it, she was over his lap. He had arranged the sheet and blanket over him, so that his more prurient interests wouldn’t be poking up at her, but other than that it was the classic pose, and he took just a moment to admire it. They were accomplishing a lot of firsts today, and this would be the second biggest of them. Cherie’s heart was beating at least as fast right now as it had been when she was lying beneath him just a few minutes ago. Had she really told him she’d never been afraid of him? This position, however interesting in a fantasy where he was thousands of miles away and it was not very likely to happen had seemed extremely intriguing to her. In fact, it was a position she put herself in the majority of the times she’d thought of him, when she was alone in her house and unable to sleep for thoughts just like this creeping into her imaginative little head. But fantasizing about being spanked and actually being spanked – especially by him – were two different things. Fantasies never hurt – just the opposite. But Cherie was quite sure that there was going to be no avoiding a world of hurt if one of those paws smacked down onto her tender flesh. She began to wriggle and writhe, only to come to the alarming discovery that, if he didn’t want her to move, she wasn’t going to move. His left arm, cast and all, managed to immobilize her almost immediately after she decided to escape. Free hands and feet didn’t seem to do her

any good, and now she wished she’d paid a lot more attention in those self-defense classes that Sasha had dragged her two years ago. “Dutch, really. You’re not going to spank me. That’s so caveman of you.” “That’s exactly right.” Well, so much for appealing to his ego. “The way I feel about you is very much like a caveman. I told you before. You’re mine. And I intend to do everything in my power to make sure that you’re safe and sound all of the time. You’ll always be safe when you’re with me physically, but I need to know that you’re safe when I’m not able to be here.” “I thought you’d retired? Where will you be?” Cherie wanted to know the answers to those questions, but even more importantly, she wanted to distract him away from his nefarious intent. Dutch knew exactly what she was doing, and she wasn’t going to manage it, but he didn’t mind answering her questions, regardless. “I have some small situations that need to be cleared up, and I might be gone for a week or so for the next couple of months, and that’ll taper off quickly and I’ll be able to devote all of my time and attention to you.” He punctuated the last word with a swat to her behind. A loud “ow” was torn from Cherie’s throat. She swallowed hard and redoubled her efforts to escape, not that it got her anywhere but exhausted. Dutch stayed still and let her wear herself out. “Now. At dinner you mentioned a trip that has me concerned. I’m all for you maintaining your friendships – I don’t want to smother you or micromanage you. But you’re not going to Qataar, and you can begin to reconcile yourself to that fact right now.” Firm swats began to rain down in a measured tempo. His voice was very calm and the spanks landed in a very precise manner, all about as hard as the first one he’d delivered. Cherie was beside herself. This hurt, and he’d only just begun to spank her. The problem was that she’d spent all her energy trying to wiggle away from him early on, and now she didn’t have the wear with all to escape when she really needed to. She would not cry, she would not cry, she would not cry, she repeated to herself in tempo with the crash of his hand against her burning bottom. She was still chanting it in her mind when she began to taste her own tears on her lips. “You can do as I suggested and meet Sasha in London or Paris or wherever. But you are not going to the Middle East, under any circumstances.” He picked up the pace, that broad flat hand slapping down even more firmly onto her naked, formerly creamy rump. “You let me go this instant, Alexander Lubec!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, which wasn’t nearly as loud as it had been moments ago, then ruined the militant tone by dissolving into sobs at the end of the command. Dutch forced her legs slightly apart, an indignity that set off another, louder round of sobbing. “What did I say, Blondie? What’s your first rule?” “My first rule is that I’m going to kill you as soon as you let me go!” Dutch considered how much fun it would be for him if she tried. But his purpose wasn’t to make her angry. He didn’t stop spanking, maintaining an awful staccato beat as he explained, “You said you love m, Blondie, and I love you, and I’ll do anything – and I do mean anything – to keep you safe. That includes spanking you, love. This is not something I do lightly. We’ve just come together and I won’t lose you. If I have to spank you every day to remind you, I will.” His stern tone almost covered the fact that he’d choked up in the middle of his little speech. Almost.

Still, the last ten volleys were horribly hard on the both of them, until finally he gathered her up in his arms and held her tight, glad that she wasn’t struggling to get away from him, despite the impetus he’d given her. Everything he’d said tonight was the absolute truth, probably none more so than what he’d just said to her. There was no way he would live through losing her. No way.

Chapter Four And now, here he was, facing that very distinct possibility. He’d had all he could stand of that chair; he wondered, not for the first time, why it seemed that all hospitals bought their chairs from direct descendants of the Marquis de Sade. He stared at a poster of the respiratory system, his mind and heart full of Cherie. He heard the curtain open – she was in ICU, so there really weren’t any rooms, per se, just curtained off areas where the patient faced a centralized nursing station. He expected yet another nurse or doctor; they were constantly checking on her, for which he was eternally grateful. But it wasn’t a member of the medical staff, it was his partner, one of his teammates, West Archer, better known as Cowboy. Dutch had stuck him with the nickname himself. He marveled at how he’d gotten here so quickly – and actually, that he’d bothered to come at all – but then he remembered West’s facility for flying, and how many times it had saved all of their butts. West was younger than Dutch, but he’d become very important to the team very quickly, and was Dutch’s right hand man. The young man handled himself with aplomb in some very tight situations, and he’d never failed to come through in the end. Dutch’d ridden with Cherie in the ambulance, holding her hand the entire time, whispering to her that she had to make it, she had to. But they wouldn’t even let him in the same room with her once they got to the ER. He wanted to bellow like a wounded moose and force them to let him be with her, but luckily his better instincts kicked in, barely. He knew all the reasons why they didn’t want him there – he’d be in the way, might faint at the sight of blood, shouldn’t see what they’re going to have to do to her, et cetera. So he backed off, although it went against every ounce of him to do so. Instead, he took up a post just outside, and could not be persuaded to go to the waiting room. He was polite but implacable when anyone suggested that he should sit down, and no one who saw his thundercloud face had asked twice. He wasn’t going anywhere until she did. West answered immediately, and offered his sympathies. He was the only person on the team that Dutch had opened up to, as much as he was ever able to with anyone other than Cherie. He knew Dutch well enough, despite Dutch’s natural reticence, that he knew how important Cherie was to Dutch, and how torn up he was going to be that he was the cause of this. Dutch didn’t need to be told that the best thing he could do was neutralize whoever it was that was behind the attack that was definitely meant to off him. If it was possible, he’d have done it himself, and whoever it was wouldn’t have died easy, but he knew his place was here, with Cherie, if she’d still have him. In their line of work, they made a lot of enemies, so it wasn’t going to be an easy job. But Dutch had some ideas of likely suspects and pointed West in those directions. West offered to put the skills of the entire team – which he now led – at his disposal, but Dutch preferred to keep this as quiet as possible. He didn’t want to make waves; he just wanted this situation taken care of as soon as possible, preferably before Cherie left the hospital. If she left the hospital. West moved quietly over to Dutch and whispered, “I just wanted you to know that you don’t have anything more to worry about.” The big man frowned. “How’d you manage that so soon?” West’s mouth twisted. “You remember a couple of years ago, that crazy Columbian drug lord who vowed to get you when we busted up his cocaine operation for the government?”

Dutch nodded. “Well, he was too damned proud of himself, bragging on the Internet about what his soldiers had done. They were too afraid to tell him that it wasn’t you they’d shot.” “Lovely.” He leaned against the wall and sighed, his eyes never leaving the figure on the bed. “How’s she doing?” Dutch shrugged. “I sure as hell wish Rafe was here. I’d trust him with her more than I trust any of these guys.” Rafe was the doc who patched them all up. West didn’t want to impose any further than he had to. He knew Dutch was beside himself. There was a twitching muscle in his jaw that West had only seen when he was extremely stressed. “Well, call me if you need anything. I’m going home, but I’m not far away. Don’t hesitate to call.” “Thanks, brother.” West patted him on the shoulder and left. *** It was two weeks before Cherie had recovered enough to be brought out of the coma they’d induced. Two long weeks of waiting and worrying, sitting beside her, holding her hand, stroking her forehead, and constantly getting in the way of the nurses and docs. There were a couple of points where they thought they might lose her. She did develop an infection that kept her under for an extra week. They had to use some high powered antibiotics before it finally backed down a couple of days ago. But there was a bone chilling time when her doctor had come to him and asked him who would make the decision to take her off the respirator if it came to that. He wasn’t her husband. He wasn’t anything to her, legally. Her parents were dead. Claire was off backpacking in Europe, and he’d left tons of messages on her cell, but she hadn’t called back. He’d been able to get a hold of her brother, and Cal spent almost as much time in the hospital as he did, taking as much time off from the law firm he worked for as he thought he could get away with. But he was also very deferential to Dutch. Technically, any decision would have to come from her next of kin, which would be Cal. But Cal looked to him, and he had no idea what he’d say if they asked him that question. Luckily, it didn’t come to that. She was finally in a more normal room with a window and a TV. Still in ICU, but a baby step towards a regular hospital bed. He was ushered out while they extirpated her, but he came back as soon as he could, bearing ice chips that he knew would be soothing on her throat. “Bless you,” she mouthed as he pressed a chip to her eternally parched lips. He wasn’t at all sure that she was going to retain that sentiment once she truly woke up. She was still very definitely under the influence of the powerful drugs that had kept her comatose for so long. Her eyes were unfocused and bleary, but the second thing she said made his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. “Are you all right?” she barely breathed, holding tightly to his hand. He had a feeling that she would fight against sleep until he answered her. “Yeah,” he said huskily, the previously unfamiliar threat of tears closing his throat. “Yes, I’m fine. You go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Her eyes drifted shut almost as soon as he said yes the first time, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and pressing his lips to hers in an achingly fleeting kiss.

Dutch had never wanted to run from anything or anyone in his life. He was always the one who, in the heat of battle, was pushing everyone else to move forward, towards the danger rather than away from it. He’d sent men into battles that they probably weren’t going to live through. His team was phenomenal, and they usually came through for him when no one else could, but he’d sent his share of men to their deaths. But this was different. She’d almost been killed because of him. He didn’t know how she could ever forgive him for that, and he knew, regardless, that he wouldn’t be worthy of her forgiveness if she could ever see her way to granting it. He thought he’d taken care of every possible loose thread – and loose screw – before he decided to quit the life. And now, because he hadn’t been as thorough as he should have, probably because he wanted so much to get home to her, he’d almost lost her. He would never be able to forgive himself, and he had to fight the urge to walk out of the room after stealing that poignant kiss. But he’d told her that he’d be there when she woke up next, and he’d be damned if he’d break a promise to her. Whether or not she’d want him around after she really woke up was another question entirely. She slept for nearly twelve hours straight before her eyelids fluttered open again. Ever alert to her and her alone, Dutch woke immediately, too, his body pretzel-bent from even what the hospital considered to be a comfortable recliner. But he stood immediately and came to her side. “Where – where am I?” she asked, her hand going immediately to her painful throat. “You’re right here with me, Blondie. Right here with me.” He hugged her tightly. “What do you remember, baby girl?” It was going to rip out his guts to hear it, but he needed to know. Dutch stroked the hair away from her forehead tenderly, his heart in his eyes. Cherie tried to sit up, but couldn’t quite make it. Sharp pains in her stomach and leg forced her to sink back into the bed, overwhelmingly exhausted for no apparent reason. “The – the last thing I remember was arguing with you because – because you’d spanked me!” He had to grin at the outrage she was able to muster about that thought, even in her weakened condition. Their intimate discussion was interrupted by her brother, who rushed into the room, having gone downstairs to get some breakfast. But Dutch waylaid him back outside before he got very far into the room. “I’m not trying to prevent you from seeing your sister, Cal, but I just want you to be prepared for the fact that she’s probably not going to remember much about what happened. She might not even remember that she’s been shot. That happens sometimes in trauma situations.” He would know. He’d been involved in – as the cause or effect – an awful lot of traumatic situations. “Okay.” Dutch was amazed that Cal hadn’t lit into him from the start about this. He certainly would have, if the roles were reversed. “Don’t go volunteering information right off. Let’s ease her into this as much as we can. She needs to get her strength back before she can tackle the emotional ramifications of what’s happened.” He didn’t go into the fact that she’d probably suffer from PTSD. He hoped she’d let him help her with it; he was somewhat of an expert. Cal nodded, and Dutch followed on his heels back into Cherie’s room. The siblings embraced, and Dutch could plainly see how much the two loved each other. It was a relationship he would never have in his life, and he was frankly jealous of it, although he did his best not to show it.

Cherie tried to ask her brother questions about how she got here, but Cal deflected all of them to Dutch, who answered only in the vaguest of terms, and headed off any further inquiry by saying with all casualness, “I’m sure you don’t want me to get into the details of our encounter, Blondie?” She certainly didn’t want her brother hearing about what they’d been doing that night – she didn’t care how old he was. That deferred any further questions, at least until Cal left. He had to get back to work, already having taken time away from the firm that he shouldn’t have. He kissed Cherie goodbye, and promised to visit her every night. Luckily, by that time, Cherie was exhausted again and fell into a deep sleep. Dutch camped out in her room, as he had the entire time, checking her carefully before he allowed himself to fall asleep, and waking every hour or so just to reassure himself that she was still sleeping and wasn’t in any more discomfort than was absolutely necessary. One of the times he woke up and checked her in the middle of the night, he was surprised to see that she was wide awake. “Are you all right?” he asked, brought up short by the fact that she was staring wide eyed back at him when he turned on the penlight he always kept in his kit. She said but two words, the worst two words he could think of at that point. “I remember.” There wasn’t much he could say to that, so he didn’t. Cherie reached out and took his hand where it had balled into a fist on top of her blanket, forcing his fingers to thread through hers. “Whoever it was was after you, right?” “Yes,” he ground out. “Do you know who it was?” “Yes, and they’ve been dealt with.” He said it in such a bone-chilling manner that she was very glad it wasn’t her he was talking about. And she wasn’t quite a magnanimous enough person that she didn’t wish it on whoever it had been. She was sure that they received quite a comeuppance, if Dutch had anything to say about it. She almost chuckled, but her wounds convinced her that that wasn’t the best thing to do right then. “I’m surprised you didn’t go after them yourself.” He sighed, running his other hand through what there was of his hair. “Believe me, if you hadn’t been so sick, I would have enjoyed giving someone a lesson he’d never have a chance to remember.” Cherie almost winced. “But you stayed with me.” “Of course,” he answered, as if there was no possible question. “If nothing else, I’m the reason that you’re here.” Dutch sighed in exasperation at himself. “You should send me away from you, Blondie. I’ve done the one thing I’ve spent my life trying to avoid – I’ve brought the violence of my profession home to you. It’s one of the things I feared most, and I’m so damned sorry.” He would have buried his head against her, but he didn’t for fear he might hurt her. It killed him, but he had to say it. “Blondie, I should go away. I never ever wanted you to get hurt because of me, and that’s exactly what’s happened. I should have known better than to try to live a normal life with you. I’ve never had anything resembling a normal life, and I obviously can’t have one now if my past is going to come back to haunt you.” He seemed alarmingly serious, and Cherie grasped for every straw he could to keep him with her. “You can’t leave. Who’s going to help me recover? Who’s going to fetch and carry for

me, and be slavishly devoted to me and give me everything I ask for because otherwise I’ll make him feel guilty?” He couldn’t believe that she was teasing him. Dutch couldn’t fathom that she might actually not want him to stay away from him for the rest of her life. There were tears in his eyes when he bent down to kiss her. “I’ll help you recover, ma Cherie. Don’t you worry about that.” In his mind, he realized that, once she was fully recovered, he would have to revisit this subject. He’d have to see how she handled things emotionally. But since she seemed to want him to help her get back to normal, there was no way he could turn her down. *** When Dutch said he’d help, that translated to taking over her life. She lived in a small house that was perfect for herself and her cat, but that was about it. It was a tiny one bedroom bungalow, and there was barely room for a man of Dutch’s size to sit, much less actually live. She’d given him a set of keys so he could feed said cat, and after seeing the place once, he knew she wasn’t going to be doing her recovery there. He had been going to buy a house anyway, so he got a realtor and let her go at it, within some specific parameters. He looked at pictures of the houses online at night, as he sat in that awful chair next to her hospital bed at first, then her rehab bed when she was moved there a month ago. He’d found one he liked and plunked down cash for it, much to the realtor’s astonishment. He had contractors there the next day making the accommodations he required, and he’d moved in by the end of the week, which was perfect, since Cherie was coming home at the end of the next week. He’d thought a lot about their sleeping arrangements, and he had a twin bed put in the master bedroom. His jaw twitched just thinking about it. He wanted to be in the huge king-sized bed, with her, but he refused to assume that she would want the same thing, despite the fact that she showed absolutely no signs of resentment or anger towards him. The day she was to be discharged, he got there a little early, and found her chatting up his partner, West, and clutching an obscenely large bouquet of both balloons and roses. “West came to say hello, Dutch,” she narrated unnecessarily. Cherie didn’t like the look on Dutch’s face at all. He looked fit to kill. All Dutch could see, irrational or not, was the woman he loved smiling and laughing with a man who wasn’t responsible for her almost being killed. And a friggin’ Adonis at that, he thought, his mood turning even sourer. West knew that look, and got up immediately to let Dutch occupy the chair next to Cherie. Even a best friend and partner respected that look on this man’s face. “Hey, man, I was just leaving. I’m so glad that she’s feelin’ better.” In a death defying act, he reached down and gave Cherie a big hug, then made for the door quickly when Dutch’s face turned absolutely murderous and he drew back his fist. “Get your own woman, Cowboy.” “Yes, Sir.” He executed a reasonably good salute for someone who’d never been in the military, and ducked out before Dutch could make good on the threats in his eyes. Cherie laid a hand on Dutch’s arm, and his temper evaporated as if it had never been. “Stop harassing West, Dutch. I have a feeling there’s someone close to his sister that he’s got is eye on, even though he might not know it yet.”

She didn’t mention that West had been here for an hour or so, and that he’d given her a ton of information and insight in to Dutch. Cherie had known Dutch for quite some time, but on a more sporadic basis, and she had to admit to not a small amount of jealousy towards West, since she would never know him as well as someone who had faced life and death with him. She’d already known that he felt horribly guilty about what had happened to her. Somehow, she didn’t feel in the least mad at him. Mad at the perpetrator and the man behind him, yes, but not at Dutch. West talked to her about Dutch’s childhood, what there was of it, and his philosophy about women, which had shaped his own thinking on that matter. Cherie couldn’t believe that an entire team of men in this day and age subscribed to the idea that husbands should spank their wives. One of the most revealing things he’d said was that Dutch kept a memento of her with him at all times – a letter from her that he’d told West was the first time she’d signed it, “Love, Cherie.” He never came right out and told Cherie how to handle Dutch’s guilt, but he did say that the best thing she could do was just to hold tight to him, if she wanted to keep him. Cherie had assured West that she most certainly did.

Chapter Five When she was finally released, with a long list of don’ts that Dutch swore to oversee, like not lifting much of anything or wearing herself out, he carried her out to his truck and bundled her into it like the fragile flower she never wanted to be. But this recovering took a lot out of a person. She was more tired, more often from doing absolutely nothing but lying there and sucking up oxygen than she’d ever been in her life. One hour of PT and she was asleep for most of the rest of the day. Her stomach wounds were healing nicely, if much too slowly for her tastes, and the physical therapy for the leg wound, which was the one that had caused the infection, was going fine, if one liked practicing De Sade tactics on injured people. She’d seen pictures of the house he’d bought, but the reality took her breath away. It was enormous, and all on one floor. He’d had wheelchair ramps installed everywhere, and there was a huge, roll in shower in the master bath, along with a tub that was about the size of the first apartment she’d lived in. The bedroom itself was enormous, with a hidden plasma screen TV at the end of the bed, and autumn colors of cream, rust and forest green. “What’s this?” Cherie asked, pointing towards the twin bed that seemed terribly out of place in the gorgeous bedroom. Dutch flushed, stammering uncharacteristically, “Well, I didn’t want to take the chance of – uh – accidentally hurting you in the middle of the night–” Cherie wheeled her chair right over to him and reached up to pull on his t-shirt until he leaned down to her level. “I want it out of the bedroom. Now. The only place you’re sleeping is with me.” A thought overtook her, and the corners of her mouth took a downturn. “Unless you’re turned off by the scars.” She hadn’t thought of that possibility until right now, but she did have some considerable ones above her bikini line, and of course the one on both sides of her leg. Maybe scars weren’t his thing. They made a man look manlier, but what did they do for a woman besides make her look even more imperfect than she did before? How could she possibly think that? “I don’t care if all I have of you is your head on a pike.” “You are such a romantic! How’d I ever resist your silver tongue?” She wanted to belly laugh so badly that it was hurting her to suppress it, but she knew it would hurt a thousand times worse if she let lose. So she settled for a lot of snickering. He got the sarcasm, but it was the first thing that had popped into his head. He didn’t care if she had scars, but hopefully she knew that, or at least got the gist of what he was trying to say. “I understand, Dutch. I do.” He saw a spasm of pain pass over her face, and grabbed her hand as she reached for him. “Would you help me into bed, please?” He was immediately the most solicitous of nurses. She was undressed and tucked under the covers before she knew it. Her most comfortable position was on her back with her knees up, so he adjusted the height and reach of everything so that everything was easily within her grasp, and fluffed anything that didn’t get out of the way quick enough. “Thank you. Now come over here and get into bed next to me.” He gave her a hesitant look, but she was proving to be as unbending as he was, and he said as much to her when he finally joined her. Still, he stayed strictly on his side of the bed, until he heard an exasperated sigh from under the covers. Rolling very carefully onto her side, she threw

over her shoulder with just the right touch of forlornness, “I’m not a leper, you know. I don’t have H1N1, or the heartbreak of psoriasis. Come over here! If I’m feeling lonely and unloved, I’m not going to heal as quickly...“ she threatened, when she thought he might refuse her order. Two impossibly muscled arms encircled her just about as tentatively as possible. Cherie grabbed them and lifted them up a bit, repositioning them in just the right place. His front was up against her bottom, and she caught her breath again at the size of him. “Sorry.” She getting used the habit of scoffing without using her stomach muscles. “Puh-leeze. I’m just glad you still want me.” Dutch was thinking the exact same thing. *** Every month for the past three, Cherie had been saying TGILTDI – Thank Goodness for Long Term Disability Insurance. The high school she worked for had a reasonably good one, and, although it was only sixty percent of her pay, it still helped, and it was wonderfully dependable. Dutch, of course, had tried to pull that, “I’ll take care of all of your bills” bit, but she wasn’t having any of it. She knew he had money, but that’s never what their relationship was about, and she didn’t want it to become that way because of what had happened – not the lovemaking nor what she had taken to calling “the unfortunate incident”. It seemed to be how everyone else was referring to it. She wasn’t going to be able to extend things much longer, though, and the thought had her biting her lower lip and her nails. She couldn’t milk this thing forever, but she didn’t want to lose Dutch. Cherie was terrified that when she got better, he’d decide he could no longer handle the guilt and he’d be long gone. She couldn’t lose him. She wouldn’t. She’d be at death’s doorstep long enough for him to realize that they belonged together and what happened hadn’t changed her feelings for him in the least. But then how did she try to convince him that she still wanted and needed him when she was supposed to be feeling poorly? “What are you thinking so hard on, Blondie? You’re going to pop a stitch.” She didn’t have any more stitches, and he knew that. He knew more about her medical condition that she did, by far, having made – with Cal – all of the decisions prior to her awakening. He went to every check up, and every PT appointment with her. They literally had never been separated since she was rushed to the hospital. Dutch took a seat on the couch next to her and folded her into his arms carefully. An errant thought crossed Cherie’s mind that hadn’t before – what if he found out – or even suspected that she wasn’t quite as sickly as she portrayed? The thought made the bottom fall out of her stomach, which she knew for sure now was medically impossible. She didn’t have to guess what he was going to do if he ever found out that she was purposefully not trying as hard as she could have been. She would have to be very careful if she wanted to insure the continued good health of her bottom – forget her stomach and her leg! “I’m feeling a bit better,” she said, entirely truthfully. His broad smile made her feel that much guiltier. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’m glad for that. I have some things I have to do, and I’ve delayed them as long as I

can, but I’m going to have to leave you alone for a little while tomorrow.” He said it as if he’d just signed on for a five year mission on the Enterprise, rather than the idea that he’d be away for a few hours during the day. Again, feeling horrid, Cherie nodded slowly. He interpreted that exactly the way she expected he would, and his protective instincts kicked into overdrive. “I can put it off, though, if you don’t think you’ll be all right by yourself.” Her teeth clenched. He was being too damned nice to her. What happened to the dominant streak a mile wide that she was learning to love to hate? “No, go. I’ll be fine.” He caught her eyes. “I don’t want any funny business while I’m gone. You’re to sit in your chair or lie in the bed and watch TV. I’ll make something up so you don’t have to cook, because I’ll be gone over lunch, probably.” Dutch was wagging his finger sternly in front of her face, and she couldn’t resist reaching out and grabbing the tip of it in her teeth. His demeanor changed immediately, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. There he was! She was worried his guilt had killed that side of him. But it was gone as soon as she saw it. He was covering it up, keeping that part of him, that was so much of him, away from her for some strange reason. Still, he only said one word, in the softest of tones. “Blondie.” She released him, but said, “Then don’t wag your finger in front of my face. I don’t like it.” His eyebrow rose, and the look was back that made her want to consider the intelligence of teasing the beast in him when she knew it meant that, if he thought she was fully recovered, and he still cared to, he could flip her over onto his lap and singe her poor bare nates in a matter of seconds. But all he said was, “You really are feeling better, aren’t you?” *** He’d left her alone that morning around ten, and Cherie had decided, in a moment of distinct weakness during which she stood at the kitchen door and watched that perfect ass of his walk away from her, that she needed to step things up, even at the distinct risk of the comfortable condition of her bottom. So she took a long, slow bath in tons of bubbles, shaved everything carefully that she’d been doing haphazardly for longer than she needed to, and dabbed hideously expensive perfume on all of her pulse points and a few other interesting areas. She had a simple, yet elegant dinner catered, and set the table with her best china, adding tall pink tapers to her grandmother’s silver candlesticks. It was three o’clock when she heard his truck rumble into the driveway. Cherie lit the candles then gave a quick glance to all of her arrangements as bats took over from the butterflies in her stomach, and her butt was tingling in time with their fluttering. Having made all of these arrangements, it was too late to back out now, but the thought of going over his knee had her wishing she could reconsider. Dutch let himself into the house as quietly as possible, just in case Blondie was asleep. She wasn’t progressing nearly as quickly as he thought she should have, and he was frankly worried. During the time he spent away from her this morning, one of the things he did was consult with her doctor, or rather, try to. Even though he’d been there from the beginning, and had been present for every single consultation she had with him, he steadfastly refused to speak to Dutch about Cherie in particular. So Dutch put everything into hypotheticals, to ease the doc’s

conscience. He wasn’t going to leave that office without having his concerns assuaged about how slowly she was recovering. The doc agreed that their fictitious patient was healing at a slower than normal pace, but he refused to raise the red flag. There was no sign of a return of the infection, and she was progressing, just not at the pace Dutch would obviously have preferred. But he didn’t prefer that at all. The sooner she got better, the sooner he’d have to leave, a though he consistently put out of his mind in favor of the idea that she recover fully. That was his goal, regardless of the personal consequences. He was very surprised when the subject of all of his musings met him at the door, in a beautiful pink peignoir that did nothing to conceal and everything to reveal her considerable assets. So much so that he dropped the fast food bag he was holding and gulped painfully at the sight of her. She was a vision – always had been in his eyes. She’d turn him on if she was wearing a potato sack, but this...this was unbelievable. He could smell the delicate perfume she was wearing from where he was standing, and he could see almost every inch of her as the pink lace clung lovingly to every curve she owned. Her hair was down, curling at her shoulders as he liked it best, and she looked like she felt wonderful. That thought, in and of itself, was almost enough to make him lose control of himself right there. Dutch had not so much as kissed her deeply in nearly five months. Yes, he’d poked her in the back quite a bit when they spooned, which he wouldn’t have even attempted without her encouragement, but he’d kept all of his attentions to her affectionate, but chaste, and it was killing him. They were together all day every day. For some couples that might have posed a problem. But, to his delight, she seemed to thrive on it, and so did he. In the beginning she’d slept a lot, and he’d worked in his study. He had a monitoring system installed so that he could hear when she called for him from anywhere in the house. As she got slowly better, he arranged sedentary entertainments for them. They discovered a love of cards, and she soon owed him a phenomenal amount of money because, although she loved Gin, she was truly horrible at it. They rented movies and decided to try out video game consoles by borrowing them from friends, but decided, when they realized they couldn’t make it out of most of the tutorials for the majority of the games, that they’d definitely missed that cultural boat. Luckily, their tastes in both television and movies ran to the same things. He arranged marathons of series they liked, like “Deadwood” and “Rome”, holing up in their bedroom for hours indulging in the tasty dramas, or watching the Planet Earth series. They also discovered that they enjoyed a surprising amount of adult cartoons – “Boondocks”, “The Simpsons”, and “Family Guy among them. And through it all, through every bloody moment of “Dexter” and every scandalous intrigue of “I, Claudius”, his erection rarely flagged. Cold showers didn’t help one bit, especially when he was constantly touching her. It was new to him – intimacy with her, even the medically necessary kind, kept him rock hard to the point where he had a terrible time sleeping at night. He’d taken to alleviating the situation himself on occasion, and hating every minute of it. He wanted another taste of her. He needed it like he needed the air he breathed. Perhaps if he could just have one more night with her, he could live off his memories for the lonely years to come.

Dutch could no more have stopped himself from reaching out and pulling her up against him than he could have stopped his own heartbeat. “Cherie. You look,” he said, with deliberate double entendre, “good enough to eat.” Cherie blushed to match the color of her gown, taking him by the hand and leading him to the dining room. Dutch was overwhelmed. “What’s this?” He eyed her up and down as if looking for signs of exhaustion, or worse. “You haven’t been cooking, have you?” The tone in his voice made her entire lower body clench. “No, I haven’t. I had it brought it. All I had to lift was the phone. Not that I couldn’t have cooked if I’d wanted to.” “Only if you wanted to end up over my knee.” It was a hollow threat when they both knew that he still considered that she was as delicate as a flower and he would never spank her until he thought that she was completely recovered. He pulled out her chair and eased her into it, which made Cherie’s stomach twist with guilt. Before he sat down himself, he looked to her. “Are you all right?” Cherie said exactly what she was thinking. “Oh, I’m perfect now that you’re back.” It was fun to make him blush. Their dinner was light – herb roasted chicken with a mixed green salad. She didn’t want him feeling sleepy afterwards. She had plans for him. When they were done, she reached out and took him by the hand, guiding him into their bedroom and having him sit on the end of the bed. She lit all of the scented candles she’d set around the room and turned off all of the other lights. Cherie had been going great guns while he was gone, but now, as the moment she’d been waiting for drew near, she became suddenly shy. They’d known each other for so long, but had had only that one romantic encounter before everything got derailed; she felt as if it was their first night together again. Dutch was barely able to keep himself from throwing her down on the bed and burying himself within her. He was at war with himself, and now, apparently with her. Deciding that she needed to just do what she wanted to do, and to hell with the consequences, Cherie stood between his open legs and tipped his chin up, slanting her mouth down on his until his big hands slid up her back to hold her even closer. He deepened kiss, trying to pull her down – carefully, still – onto the bed with him. She stepped back as he let her go with obvious reluctance. “Not yet, my love. Not yet.” His heart squeezed painfully at her endearment. Instead, she reached down to pull his ever present black t-shirt over his head, her eyes sliding over him as eagerly as her small hands, marveling at the breadth of his shoulders and the layered planks of muscle. He didn’t have a lot of chest hair, but she contented herself instead with tracing the outlines of his tattoos, with their bright reds and blues, then razing those tiny buds of his with carefully trimmed fingernails and heartily enjoying the way he sucked in his breath quickly and shifted uncomfortably on the bed. Cherie had marveled to herself at his control. The evidence of his desire for her had never waned, despite her own concerns about how the scars affected her attractiveness. But now was the time for her to let him know that he didn’t have to wrap her in cotton any more. She wanted to be his again, truly and fully. She wanted to catch her own breath when he entered her, to feel the weight of him on her, to be surrounded by the size and smell and feel of him. Dutch was confused when she took his hand and tried to get him to stand. What the hell was she doing?

His belt buckle was a huge silver shield with the logo for his team. She undid it, then disposed with the button of his jeans and the zipper. She could feel the pulse of him burgeoning behind it. His pants fell to the floor seconds later, and she sat on her knees looking up at him as he stood there in what were very tightly stretched black briefs. Surrendering herself completely to her instincts, she dragged just the barest tips of her fingers over his skin from the tips of his toes, up the insides of his heavy calves and thighs, leaving a trail of fire behind her. She could see the gooseflesh – among other things – rise wherever she touched. Dutch clenched his fists, trying to do run multiplication tables in his head or he was going to lose himself completely and take her on the floor. She was deliberately touching him everywhere but where he wanted her to, and it was going to drive him past the point of no return very shortly. When she reached up to brush her fingers over his shoulders, her face was almost buried in the part of him that wanted her the most. And then she opened her mouth and breathed moist, hot breath on him through his briefs, rubbing her face against the swell of him like a cat. His guttural moan was no warning. One moment she was kneeling before him, the next moment, her beautiful teddy was in tatters on the bed beneath her as he drove himself into her. His sheer size was always going to be a bit shocking to her, but she was more than ready for him, embracing him and pulling her even more tightly against him. Dutch was out of his mind. He knew, in that last small vestige of civilization and intelligence that had been forced to the back of his mind, that he should never have been treating her so roughly, but he couldn’t take it another minute. It took every ounce of self-control he could muster to stop himself after he’d plunged into her with his first, raw stroke to look down at her and grind out, “Are you all right?” Her answer was to lift her hips to him and encompass even more of him. “I need you, Dutch. I need this. I need you,” she groaned, arching up to him, welcoming him with all of herself. His head dipped to capture a pert nipple as he let go of the last remnants of care or worry about anything except driving himself into her. Cherie whispered words of encouragement between moans of aching ecstasy, urging him on with her voice and her body, surrendering to him completely as he carried the both of them to a shuddering, blissful paradise. Dutch collapsed on top of her, panting and gasping for air. He’d never let himself go like that with any other woman, and here he was, taking her like a pillaging Viking, months after he’d nearly lost her. He rolled off her immediately, barely able to get enough breath to get out, “Am I hurting you?” Cherie was still in the midst of orgasmic contractions, and didn’t answer him immediately, which had Dutch worried that he’d done something to injure her. “Cherie, are you okay? Did I hurt you?” He sounded completely terrorized at the thought. She reached for him immediately and said, “I’m fine. I would have let you know if you were hurting me, Dutch. I always will.” He didn’t seem in any hurry to relax, and kept running his hands over her as if looking for breaks. “I’m fine, really. I’ve been feeling much better...today.” It was the way she said it that made him suspicious, but he didn’t say anything immediately. They snuggled, her head on his shoulder, for a while, both of them drowsy and boneless and content right where they were. “Dutch?”

“Hmmm?” His eyes were closed, and she didn’t want him going to sleep before she had a chance to settle things. “You’re not really going to leave me when I get better, are you?” His eyes were no longer closed, and she heard him swallow hard. When he spoke, the guilt that had been eating away at him was foremost in his tone, and to her dismay, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started to get dressed. “I can’t imagine that you would really want me to stay. After all, you’ve had so much pain from me – you almost died!” She could hear how hard he was being on himself about what had happened. “Get over yourself, Dutch. I knew what you did. This could have happened at any time. How often have you come to visit me? You had a cast on and a scar on your cheek when we went to Zamboni’s a few months ago. You’ve been shot and stabbed and God knows what else that I’ve never seen.” Tears rolled unbidden down her cheeks. “So you’ve had a taste of what I’ve gone through, worrying about you all these years, hugging you goodbye and never knowing if that was the last time I was going to see you.” Her tears were his undoing. He couldn’t stand to see her cry. Dutch grabbed her up in his arms and rocked her slowly, holding her crushingly tight. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” “I know, but you don’t have to be. I’m all right. I’m really all right, thanks to you.” She leaned back and looked him straight in the eye. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t want this to end. Will you marry me?” She’d never seen such a broad smile on his face. It lit up the whole room. “Where’s the nearest justice of the peace?” he growled, hugging her until she had no breath. He couldn’t quite let go of playing nursemaid, though. “You’re really feeling better?” Cherie nodded eagerly. “Yes, much.” His suspicions were aroused, since she hadn’t been feeling that much better yesterday. “This certainly was a miraculous recovery, wasn’t it,” he said, kissing the top of her head and trying to meet her eyes. “Blondie? When, exactly, did you start feeling so much better?” She didn’t like where this conversation was heading. It was playing out entirely too much like how she’d envisioned it; and that didn’t bode well for certain parts of her anatomy. She refused to meet his gaze, and tried unsuccessfully to still her wiggling body. “A little while ago,” she answered vaguely. Dutch cleared his throat and sat up again, and the next thing she knew she’d been placed over his lap – carefully, still, but with no hope of escape. “But Dutch - !” “Something’s not setting well with me about all of this, and that means you’re not going to be sitting well for a while, Blondie. I didn’t hear a peep out of you about your stomach or your leg the entire time we were engaged in some pretty heavy gymnastics, and yet you whimper at everything the guys at PT try to get you to do. You wouldn’t have been trying to prolong my stay by deliberately making me think that you weren’t healing any too well, would you?” She opened her mouth to answer, but he interrupted her with a very stern warning. “Be careful what you say, Blondie. You don’t want to get caught lying to me on top of everything else.” How could she ever have thought that this would be a good idea? Was she crazy? Had the hospital stay addled her brains? She only had to look at him to know that it was all his fault, in several ways, and she proceeded to tell him just that. If he wasn’t so damned sexy, and so awfully set in his ways about

how women should be treated, and so wracked with guilt about something he had no control over happening, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. He liked the damned sexy comment. He’d take that one, but the rest of it was bull. “No one got you into this spot but you, Cherie-soon-to-be-Lubec. I’ve always known you needed a firm hand on your backside on a regular basis, and this just proves it.” He’d begun walloping her soundly as he spoke, and she only had one fleeting thought about crying wolf and saying her stomach hurt, but she knew that way lay only a longer, harder spanking, and she didn’t want him distrusting her about how she felt. So her shrieks, and there were a lot of them of varying tone and temper, were solely because of the pain in the butt he was rapidly making himself. That big, flat hand of his was the scourge of not only those generously rounded napes, but the vulnerable backs of her thighs, too. He didn’t stop until she was red from the top of those previously creamy hillocks to just above the backs of her knees, and bawling uncontrollably, lecturing her sternly all the way. Finally, he turned the both of them back onto the bed, allowing her to stretch out on top of him instead of pressing her scorched bottom into the mattress as he probably should have. “You realize that this isn’t the last spanking you’re going to receive, don’t you.” “Of course it is.” His eyebrow rose. “You couldn’t have had enough painkillers today to have made you that hallucinatory. You’re going to be over my lap more often than not, I’d bet.” He arranged her legs so that one was on either side of him and let his fingers explore her tender parts, which were, just as he thought, soaking wet. “Hmmmmm.” He transported some of that moisture with his broad finger up to her sensitive bud. “This could get very interesting indeed, since you appear to protest too much, too.” Cherie was too lost in what his finger was doing to combine somehow deliciously with the heat in her bottom. “Huh? What?” she said on a groan. Dutch chuckled, rolling her under him again. “I’m going to make you scream, baby.” And he proceeded to do just that.

The End

The Cowboy By Carolyn Faulkner ©2012 by Blushing Books® and Carolyn Faulkner

Chapter One “Scream, darlin’, scream.” The hoarsely whispered command was almost impossible not to follow. It was what she wanted to do more than anything in the world at that moment, and finally, absolutely, she did. She let go. She placed all of herself into his more than capable hands, parts of herself that she’d never shown to anyone else, trusting him with the very breath in her lungs. And as the scream was ripped from her throat, the orgasm was ripped from her body. Despite the fact that she could no more have denied that scream than she could have decided to breathe water, she felt her whole body flush with embarrassment. She’d never done that before – just given in to such a primal instinct. Anyone listening would surely think she was being torn asunder, and she was, in the most pleasant manner possible. He felt her begin to tense almost as soon as she’d allowed herself to feel the entirety of her pleasure, but he wasn’t going to have any of it. He reached beneath her, forcing her body to accept him more fully, but also gripping those still tender, hot globes and squeezing just enough to remind her that she was his. Just that almost casual claim of her recently blazing backside while the rest of him claimed the front of her in the most primeval manner possible, was enough to cause her to fall into another set of violent contractions that almost unmanned him with their strength. He kissed the hot tears that slipped into her hair in the gentlest of gestures, hoping to forestall the storm that he knew was building within her. She was already trying to buck him off, as if the pleasure she’d already received was far too much to bear. But he wasn’t about to let her do that, swiftly and easily halting her ineffectual movements and adjusting her into a position that left her even more vulnerable to him, more truly helpless to stop him than she’d been before. “I want your screams, darlin’. I’ll have them tonight, and from this point forward, whenever I want them. I’ll hold you afterwards for as long as you’d like, but I’ll have what I want.” The words were ground out from the back of his throat but physically scraped over her nipples and already excruciatingly swollen privates. He’d told her when they’d finally been able to escape to his small cabin in the woods, with no neighbors for miles and only the trees and wildlife to shock, that he wasn’t going to let her resist him in any way this weekend. That she was his, and he would give her ecstasy without reservation, without listening to her for clues as to when she wanted him to stop – without allowing her to worry about who else might hear her moans...groans...screams. For her part, she wasn’t trying to hold anything back; each and every time they made love, she was only trying to survive the inferno he created within her that threatened to consume everything that she was. She already felt so close to him that she awoke with any change of his breathing pattern in the middle of the night. She was just trying to assure her own existence, that she’d still be herself on the other side of their magnificent embraces. It was a basic survival instinct and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to give herself up that completely, even to him. Nor was she sure she could. She’d always kept large parts of herself carefully under wraps, and he’d just as carefully set out to shred each layer of protection she’d so painstakingly constructed over the years, until he’d reached that last thin shroud to which she clung, desperately. He knew that she’d held back every other time they’d made love. He had no idea how he knew this, but it was as apparent to him as that cute little curl of golden baby hair at her temple.

Oh, she’d very nearly bucked him off in the throes of her orgasm every time before, and several times, in the beginning, she’d surprised him enough to actually succeed in running away from him – although not for long, of course. At first, she’d tried to concentrate on making him happy – but that didn’t work for him. Despite what others might think of his chosen occupation, he was a gentleman and he firmly held to the credo of ladies first. He couldn’t enjoy himself unless he knew that she was feeling the same things. He’d thought perhaps that she had never experienced an orgasm, but the situation turned out to be quite the opposite. And despite her vehement protestations to the contrary, he knew that his brand of discipline only heightened her already razor’s edge responsiveness. So tonight, their first night in the log cabin he kept in the woods of Maine, surrounded by a thick blanket of newly fallen snow, after a marvelous dinner and a long soak in the hot tub, he’d thoroughly enjoyed the surprised “o” her lips formed when he tipped her nude body over his legs where he sat at the end of the king sized bed, saying, “I seem to remember that I told you not to wear panties up here, didn’t I?” Her squeak of protest was only somewhat muffled by the handmade quilt. In some ways, his love was very uninhibited. She rarely said no to anything he suggested in the privacy of their bedroom, and even sometimes countered with suggestions of her own. But in other ways, she was charmingly Victorian. She always wore a bra, and, although she was more than generously endowed in that area, she didn’t need to. She’d never gone commando, preferring pretty pink lacy panties that he liked, too, but he’d given her specific instructions about what she was to wear – or rather, not wear – when they met this time. Circumstances had forced them to come to the cabin from separate parts of the country, and he liked the idea of thinking of her walking through Albuquerque International Airport with nothing between her and her Calvin Kleins. He’d arrived at the Portland Jetport first, and spent an hour and a half waiting for her, as her flight had, of course, been delayed. He was there when she came through the gate, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her through the airport with absolutely no thought to what anyone around them was saying. Embarrassed by the whispered comments she could hear, even though the females were definitely envious, she hid her face against his neck until he set her down next to their rental car. She’d done as he asked, and not checked any luggage. She wasn’t going to be spending any time in clothes this weekend, anyway. Besides, he’d asked their housekeeper to pack a few things and send them to the cabin. He knew she wouldn’t be able to be happy without a few particular items. The first thing he’d done, after carrying her over the threshold of the cabin just because he wanted to, even though this wasn’t their honeymoon, once he’d set her down just inside the door was let his hand drift down to the waistband of her jeans and below. He wanted to cup those generous cheeks of hers and pull her even tighter against him, oblivious to the sensibilities of the innumerable squirrels, chipmunks, deer, and rabbit. He chuckled to himself that the rabbits were probably cheering him on. But instead of encountering that wonderful, firm flesh, he found himself cupping a handful of lacy panty. He pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re going to have to pay for disobeying, you know,” he whispered, surprised at how husky his own voice had become. He loved it when she squirmed, having been caught ignoring a rule. She was such a perfect lady; she almost never disobeyed him, certainly not outright like this. It must’ve been a harder challenge for her than he’d envisioned.

Regardless, he wasn’t about to let her get away with just not doing what he’d asked. Afterwards, they’d talk about it, and he’d do his best to ease her fears, or answer whatever concerns she might have, but he’d definitely expect this of her in the future. She definitely didn’t want to be spanked twice for the same thing, since punishments got worse if the same offense was repeated. And he’d get to her punishment, just not quite yet. Not that he was a fan of putting off discipline, but this weekend was bigger than that, and they had a lot more to get to before he allowed them to come together in that blatantly intimate way. Dinner was romantic and sumptuous. He’d had lobster brought in that day for himself, as well as a Kobe filet for her, since she didn’t do much in the way of seafood. They each had exactly what they wanted, and practically sat in each other’s lap while they ate at the heavy, antique oak table. The only light was candlelight, and surrounded by the woods, as they were, it provided just the right intimate atmosphere. Dessert was a favorite for both – Nita’s homemade apple crisp, with Ben and Jerry’s vanilla, homemade whipped cream, and just the slightest drizzle of homemade caramel sauce. They shared the same bowl and the same spoon as she leaned back against him and let him feed her generous spoonfuls of the crunchy, sticky concoction. They tested the outdoor hot tub, but not for long. After a big meal like that, he knew she might get sleepy, and the tub would only contribute to that. He just wanted them to soak in the bubbling water long enough to get her to relax some. He already knew that that was going to be a lifelong challenge for him. His casual baby wasn’t so much, inside. She didn’t really want to get out of the tub, and he knew why, beyond the fact that her limbs were turning into wet noodles. She knew what was coming next, and was none too interested in getting to it any quicker than she absolutely had to. But he wasn’t to be denied – ever – so she soon found herself in that all too familiar position, just with a pretty quilt instead of their usual bedspread to bury her face in and absorb the inevitable tears. “I didn’t hear a response,” he chided, rubbing her bottom gently. “I heard a squeak that couldn’t possibly have been of protestation, since you most definitely did disobey me. But I didn’t hear a response.” She lifted her head up and said as clearly as she could, and doing her level best to keep any form of whine out of her tone, “Yes, yes, you did tell me not to wear any panties.” Whining was a distinct no-no. She’d learned that quickly enough. Luckily, it wasn’t something she did naturally, but on the occasions when she had, she’d found herself on the receiving end of an impromptu but extremely thorough spanking that she’d done her level best not to repeat. She hated the sound of his flat hand connecting with her – as far as she was concerned – much too rounded bottom. His spankings assaulted all of her senses, but touch and sound were the two that affected her the most. It was a terrible cracking sound, that soon enough became the dominant sound in the quiet room, punctuated not long after with the sounds of her real struggle against his hold, and, of course, her distinct discomfort. He was always amazed how she somehow became an experienced contortionist every time he spanked her, twisting left and right, alternating as he alternated his sharp swats. She’d never gotten away from him, and she never would, but it always amazed him that she wasn’t all cramped up when he finally let her go, considering how many pretzelfied positions she attempted while trying to avoid the unavoidable.

After a first, somewhat short burst of spanks, he adjusted her so that she was draped over one knee, forcing her legs open, and positioning her so that he had to spend less time keeping her in position and could spend more time concentrating on delivering his painful message, quickly evening out the pinkness he’d just begin to ignite in her fair skin and heightening it to a deep shade of clearly uncomfortable red. But even that wasn’t the end. “The next time I say that you’re not to wear panties, what are you going to do?” It wasn’t said with any form of recriminations. When he lectured, and he almost always did, sometimes to an almost annoying extent - not that she ever let him know that - it was never to belittle her or to be nasty. It was purely to prove his point – that when he asked her to do something, or in some cases, not to do something – he expected to be obeyed. She thought it was exceedingly cruel of him to force her to answer him – coherently – while he continued to paddle her already throbbing bottom. Struggling was pretty much futile in this position – she’d rapidly discovered that the more she shifted, the more of her tender parts were exposed, and it was definitely not a good idea to give this guy access to more of her than was absolutely necessary, or he’d take swift, painful advantage of it. “N-not w-wear panties!” she managed to yell, but the last word descended into a scream as he brought the spanking to a blazing crescendo, delivering twenty crashing smacks in a row, then turning her to hold her on top of him as she cried. He rubbed her back gently and murmured soothing nothings, but at the same time, he kept her legs open, one to either side of him, deliberately keeping her feeling exposed. One curious finger had already confirmed what he knew; she was soaking wet at both ends, and outraged that he insisted on finding evidence of how her body felt about the terrible punishments he dealt. He kissed her deeply and shifted their positions, laying her on her back despite her protestations that her bottom was too sore to lie on. Two warm wet lips pressed against the font of her pleasure convinced her otherwise as she sank into the bliss he so delicately aroused in her. He was not a wham, bam, thank you ma’am lover by any stretch of the imagination, and he seemed to consider her infinite capacity for pleasure seemed as some sort of a challenge. Still, she’d made the mistake of telling him once that her first orgasm was usually the hardest of any bunch, and, damn him, he made it a point to remember when she told him such things. It came back to haunt her right now. After starting at the place he usually ended, and bringing her just to the brink multiple times, but not allowing her to cascade over the edge into blissful oblivion, he slipped to one side of her and, first things first, undid his zipper, releasing the hard on he’d dealt with since his business meetings had ended late this morning. His exceedingly creative mind had spent the rest of the day torturing him with the explicit sights and sounds of those things which he intended to do to her once he got his greedy hands on her this evening. And now she was his. He liked keeping her nude while he was clothed. He felt it added that extra feeling of submission that she definitely needed to experience. She was far from submissive, and he respected the fact that every rule he set was a challenge for her to obey. Yet he still expected it of her, and knew that there were a lot of small, almost psychological touches he could easily implement that would serve to reinforce his dominance within her mind, and being kept nude as much as possible, while he wasn’t, was one of them. That was why he hadn’t had her pack any clothes. He didn’t intend to let her wear much of anything for the next few days. He’d make whatever accommodations were necessary

temperature wise, knowing she got chillier than he did. But when he sat across the table from her, he wanted to know that her rosy red cheeks were connecting directly with the hard wood of the straight backed chairs. But now she lay before him, well spanked and still sniffling slightly, as he let his hand have free range of every curve she owned, gently hefting each breast then settling on top of the slight roundness of her belly, where he knew she least wanted him to be. She thought she was fat. He thought that was ridiculous, and he set her straight about trying to get him to move his hands to somewhere else very quickly. She’d never asked him again, not that he didn’t hear how her breath caught whenever his hand landed there. This time, though, he didn’t dwell. There was entirely too much bounty for him to explore to spend a lot of time in one place. Her dusty pink nipples called to him, and he teased and tortured them to the point where he knew she was mere tweaks away from exploding. But he couldn’t have that just yet. Every sensitive inch of her was explored and exploited for her pleasure – and his. By the time he whispered that final permission to let go, scraping that guttural scream from the bottom of her toes and out her mouth, nary a speck of flesh was left untouched. The orgasm he gave her, planned for her, was a full-body experience. He knew she’d felt the need to hold parts of her back when they’d come together before, not that they weren’t fantastic experiences in and of themselves, but he wanted to bring her here so that she didn’t have to think about anything – about the concierge pounding on their door, about one of his siblings or a guest or Nita hearing them, nothing. They were alone in the world, and he would accept nothing less than all of her, every time.

Chapter Two West Archer handled the controls of the light airplane like the master he was, lining himself up to land at the tiny airstrip just outside of Albuquerque with deft and careful movements. He’d been flying as long as he could remember, and he’d handled himself in some pretty awful situations. He was proud of the fact that he’d never lost a passenger, despite the best efforts of those shooting at him from the ground. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from seeing Cherie again, despite the fact that he was taking his life in his hands as far as Dutch was concerned. He was glad to see that she was on the mend, and doubly glad to see that Dutch had someone that so obviously loved him. Those two both deserved every bit of happiness they could squeeze out of life, and it seemed that Cherie was more than a match for the big Boss. It would be nice to get home. He felt a satisfaction at that idea that he’d never had before. Good thing, since he’d also decided to officially retire, and he was going to be spending a lot more time at the ranch than had since he was in his early adolescence. West had been made an instant parent when he was fifteen or so. At a time when most young men were just beginning to sow their wild fill in the blanks, West had to drop out of school to find a job that would support the three of them. Their parents were wonderful, but not the best planners, least of all their father, who was much more of a dreamer than anything else, so there wasn’t much in the way of insurance money, and the ranch had been run down long before that tragedy. But when he’d been forced into an adult role long before he should have, West did what West would always do in that type of situation – he stepped the hell up and dealt with everything in the best way possible at the time. For a while, he worked not one but three jobs – one full time at the gas station, one as a mechanic at the airport, and, on the weekends, he tried to hold together their small family ranch, that hadn’t been doing well when his Dad was running it and was doing even worse considering how little time he had to devote to it. West was burning the candle at both ends and trying to get at the middle, and he realized much too quickly that that couldn’t last. Not only was he exhausted, barely able to eek out three or four hours of sleep a night, but Social Services had started to sniff around them, which wasn’t helped by the fact that Bean seemed to be constantly in one small scrape after another since they’d lost their parents. If he had been able to take the time to think about it then, he would have thought it odd that it was Bean acting out instead of Ben. But then Bean had been the apple of her Daddy’s eye, and fairly doted on by the rest of the family. She’d been spoiled, but was one of those children that, generally, wasn’t given to tantrums or fits. She didn’t expect to get the things she wanted, but they often appeared to her anyway, since her father couldn’t bear the idea that his princess might not have everything she wanted at any given time. West’s disciplinary instincts were much stricter than his father’s had been, not that he’d followed them much yet. Of course, Dad hadn’t had to deal with an angry young woman who’d lost every iota of stability in her life on one terrible August night. She’d stopped doing her homework entirely not long after the funeral, and had begun cutting classes – sometimes whole days to go out into the desert with a very wrong crowd. His ability to deal with adverse situations and come out of them not only alive but the better for it was one of the things that got him into his unusual career. He’d already begun

looking elsewhere for employment, and one of the pilots who’d befriended the wide eyed kid who had begun hanging around the tiny airport when he was only eight or so had heard his tale and watched him starting to become an old man at barely twenty. Graham Wesson had taken him aside one day to sit on the uncomfortable folding metal chairs outside the main hangar where a lot of the ranchers stored their private planes and they watched the takeoffs and descents in an amiable silence for a while. “You need a better paying job.” “Duh.” That earned him a narrowed gaze. “You got your license?” He couldn’t be referring to anything other than his pilot’s license. “Yes.” West swallowed hard. He’d gotten it the week before his parents died, but he didn’t say that. He didn’t say that his parents had thrown him a surprise party in congratulations, and that they were the ones who had given him the leather flight jacket that he wore every day now. “You’re good with knives, too, if I remember correctly.” West nodded. Lots of people have freakish abilities, and his was the ability to throw a knife with outright deadly accuracy. His father had started him on his knife collection when he was only five, over his mother’s loud protests, as it was told and re- re- re-told later. To hear Dad tell it, it was one of the worst fights they’d ever had, and that must’ve been something, because West couldn’t remember a raised voice in their household, his father’s occasional loud guffaws at something his mother had said. His parents were a true love match, something to which West should have aspired, but strangely didn’t. His Dad had told him flat out when he gave him the intricate Swiss Army knife that if he saw him handling it irresponsibly at any time, it would be taken away with no reprieve whatsoever. He’d proven himself more than capable, even at that young age, of handling the responsibility of a weapon, and so his collection had grown at the rate of at least one or more a year, although West could watch his mother’s mouth pinch tight every time he unwrapped one as a present. He had to give it to her; she held her tongue and oohed and ahhed when he showed her his latest blade, although he could never get her to touch them, for some reason. “Can you shoot?” “Yes.” “How well?” “Well enough.” “What have you shot?” “A rifle, a Glock that my Dad had, a thirty-eight and a twenty-two. I got pretty good there, if I do say so myself.” West looked at Graham. “Why all the questions?” Graham had a proposal for West. He had a friend who ran a team of sorts who he knew was looking for new talent – talents which West definitely possessed. He didn’t downplay the dangers, however. This was not going to be summer camp. And he was right; it wasn’t. His initial meeting with the man that lead a team of what he eventually learned were mercenaries was somewhat less than spectacular. They met at a seedy motel outside of San Antonio. Dutch Lubec was Graham’s friend, and he was an enormous man. He looked like someone out of a WWF poster, only he didn’t need the ridiculous costumes or makeup to be intimidating. They shook hands, but Dutch hadn’t said a word since West had introduced himself. Instead, he turned and left the hotel room, and all West could do was follow him.

It was a night in a series of nights that West would never forget. He was tested in every possible way. He’d never been in the military, but he could well imagine what boot camp was like just from that night, and it seemed like every other member of the group had been in some branch of the service for one country or another. Everything he thought he knew was turned on its head, from his knife and flying abilities to his judgment and interpersonal skills. And every step along the way, every move he made was evaluated and criticized to the point he wasn’t sure which way was up, and he couldn’t believe that he’d ever thought he had any kind of abilities at all. And Dutch wasn’t the only one doing the criticizing, although as the leader of this strange collection of characters, the few things he did say carried more weight than anyone else’s opinion. There was a bright, white blonde, almost albino looking man who was tall and lean with eyes so light they really weren’t any color at all. He was Swedish, and hence his nickname was Swede, although his full name was Sven something he’d never be able to pronounce. He seemed nice enough, and was apparently their communications person. There was a short, round guy who seemed to be the oldest of the bunch, whose unglamorous nickname was Dump. Apparently he had the ability to take care of any of the nasty leftover bits after a mission, which was good, since he was also their demolitions guy, so he ended up cleaning up after his own messes, which tended to motivate him to make as little of one as possible. At least, that was what West was able to glean. None of these gentlemen was in the least forthcoming about themselves or their occupation. They were friendly enough, some of them, but the majority of them took after their taciturn leader. The last member of the tribe was a lithe, dark skinned gentleman with a Spanish accent named Raphael Castillo who was the only fellow to rise and shake West’s hand upon their introduction. Despite the civility of his greeting, West saw something in those dark eyes that made him not want to delve into them too deeply. No one mentioned – all evening – what this elegant man did for them, and West was somehow very sure – even after such a short meeting that he never wanted to find out. It turned out that this was only the first in a series of what West came to laughingly refer to as “the interviews”. It certainly wasn’t like any processed he’d ever gone through to get a job, but then he’d gathered from all of the secrecy that what they did wasn’t entirely above board. Hell, it probably wasn’t anywhere near the board. But, at the fifth all night meeting, during which he was going to tell them to take whatever the job was and shove it because he didn’t have the time to be doing this for however much longer this weird initiation process took, they finally started to talk money. West soon realized he couldn’t afford to tell them to shove the job. If they let him in, and he survived, he was pretty sure he’d be raking in movie star money to do what he liked to do anyway, and certainly buckets more than he would ever make at the dead end jobs he was currently killing himself at. They’d ended up at a disreputable bar near downtown Albuquerque, relaxed for the first time since this grueling process had begun. The last thing he’d had to do was fight each of them, in turn, even Dutch. The idea wasn’t to win, per se, he’d been told, but just to hold out as long as he could. They’d try to keep from hurting him, but they needed to see what he was made of in a fight. Dutch impressed on him the fact that he could stop the fighting at any time. But it went without saying that if he did that, he was out of consideration for the team. The last man he fought was Dutch, and West was inches away from calling it quits as he faced the giant of a man inside a ring that was loosely formed by the other men. In their quest to keep from hurting him, he’d gathered a mother of a shiner, several badly bruised, if not broken,

ribs, and a gash in his arm that Rafe had bandaged quite expertly. Apparently, the man with the classically good looks was a doctor, among other things, West was sure. If he’d learned anything about these men in their few intense meetings, it was that there was nothing concrete about any of them. They could all do each other’s jobs, in a pinch. Swede was a great knifeman, better than any of the other members, but not quite as good as he was, West thought with no ego at all. Dutch pulled no punches as he set out to truly test this young man’s limits. He, and the other members of the team, would be putting their lives in this guy’s hands, and it was up to Dutch to make sure that they weren’t making a mistake by bringing him into their exclusive little club. Luckily, Graham had begun to teach West how to fight as soon as they met, or he’d never have lasted as long as he did. West almost laughed at the thought of whether or not that was lucky, considering that every blow Dutch landed – which was nearly every punch he threw – felt like he’d run face – or body - first into a sledgehammer. He’d been able to avoid those awesome fists at the beginning of their encounter, but he was so wiped from having fought off the first four that it wasn’t long before he was unable to make any pretense of fending him off. “That’s enough,” Rafe called, jumping between the two of them without regard to his own safety, just as Dutch drew back his arm to deliver another blow. “Let’s not kill him ourselves, shall we?” West was lead to a very comfortable leather chair at the head of a table in the back room. Somehow he sensed through the fog in his mind that this was Dutch’s chair, but the boss man sat to his right instead. West grimaced. Dutch didn’t need a chair to enforce his position. Not when he carried two lethal weapons at the end of his arms. Dutch had said the least of any of them to him during his trial by fire, until now. “West, if you’d like it, there’s a place for you on this team –” He leaned forward a little uncontrollably, and ground out from his swollen lips, “I’ll take it,” not much caring that he was interrupting Dutch at this point; just glad for a chance to relax a little. Dutch didn’t look any too happy at the interruption, but then, from what West could tell, he never looked very happy. “The reason there’s an opening is that our last pilot was shot out of the sky and was dead before he hit the ground.” Through his one good eye he saw Rafe cross himself, while the other guys stared avidly at the floor. He appreciated the candor, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected something like that. They could hardly place a want ad for the type of man they needed. “What we do is what the military can’t do for political reasons. We have no such considerations. What we do isn’t necessarily always on the right side of the law. Again, we have no such considerations. If their money is green, we take it. “Now, we don’t go out of our way to hurt innocent people – just the opposite. We’re well trained, well planned, and well provisioned. We try to think of every angle. Sometimes we’re successful, sometimes not. But we do our best to minimize civilian...“ The word he was searching for was casualties, but West remained silent. “—impact. Especially any involving women or children.” That statement alone spoke volumes for the group, as far as West was concerned. He was extremely protective of his family, as his Dad had been before him, and his Mom had raised him to be more of a gentlemen than most women recognized nowadays.

Dutch motioned for Dump to bring a bottle and shot glasses over. “Now for the compensation package. Everyone gets a cut of whatever fee we’re paid, based on their length of service. You’re low man on the totem pole, so you’ll get the least of any of us.” The figure he quoted – which would vary depending on the assignment and his part in it – was more than he’d ever hoped to earn in a lifetime, much less for one job, and it would go up every year he was a part of the team. “You have family?” West nodded. “A sister and a brother. Twins.” Dutch grimaced. “It would be better if you didn’t, but it can be done. No wife, no kids?” Shaking his head, West answered, “But they’re younger than me. I’m responsible for them.” He heard the collective sighs of the men around him. “You’ll need to find someone you trust to look after them. You’re not going to be home much.” West already had someone in mind. Graham’s wife had already stepped in as a grandmotherly figure for the twins - and him, as much as he would let her. Nita would jump at the idea of spending more time with them. Dutch had cracked a bottle of JD and was pouring the shots, but stopped before distributing them. “Were you’re family now, cowboy,” he said, indelibly stamping West with the nick he’d have for the rest of his association with this group of gentlemen. “Every one of us will be counting on you to save our lives in some way, and you’ll be counting on us for the same courtesy.” He leaned forward in his chair, his face inches from West’s. Everyone else around the table did the same thing, until he felt at least as uncomfortable as he had when he’d first met these guys weeks ago. The Boss’s voice was barely above a whisper but he heard every syllable as if it was carved into his brain. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that you’re never to talk about this job to anyone – and I do mean anyone. We’ve all settled on a story that we tell our loved ones,” Dutch didn’t bother to mention that they were few and far between, especially for him, “and you are to tow the party line at all times with non-team members.” He leaned impossibly closer, so that his face was the only thing West could see. “You really don’t want to know what would happen if any of us found out that you’d been... indiscreet.” He cleared his throat. “Of course.” They drank to the initiate and a long, profitable association, and, the next day, West said goodbye to working three jobs and hello to working one that was more grueling by far, both mentally and physically. But he rapidly found that facing life and death every day for months at a time brought men closer together than he’d ever imagined. He learned more in one day on this job than he would in a lifetime of living in Podunk, New Mexico. Bean’s behavior problems, though, didn’t go away just because Nita and Graham came to stay at the ranch. Despite what West knew was Nita’s loving care, she just got more and more rebellious. The letters from Nita were one of the few clouds on the horizon, but they were rapidly becoming big thunderclouds. Dutch tried to arrange it that the guys worked for no more than six to nine months on what he euphemistically referred to as “projects”, and then had the rest of a year – whatever that ended up being – off, to do with as they pleased. They were in London, which was loosely their home base, having just finished up a particularly long, bloody project in a Latin American country, and

they’d decided that what was needed to shrug off the tendrils of the jungle’s hold on them was a good old fashioned pub crawl. Sometime during that much more pleasant all night pursuit, he spilled the beans about Bean to his comrades, expecting to be teased mercilessly, as was their usual favorite response. Instead, some distinctly wise council came from an unexpected quarter. “You need to take her in hand,” Rafe murmured gently. West had been impressed with how Rafe did everything gently, from setting bones to slitting throats. He caught the other man’s eye as everyone around them nodded sagely. “Women – and children – need to know that there are boundaries they cannot cross. She needs you to set rules and stick to them.” “How can I? I’m never there.” The older man – who wasn’t that much older than he was chronologically, but who seemed to be worlds more mature than he was – took a deep drag on an expensive Cuban cigar. “With siblings, if you do it right, you’ll only have to do it once.” He’d heard that phrase more than once during this campaign. It was something of a slogan with these guys. Dutch added, “Women can require a bit more in the way of motivation. They can be more headstrong by far, depending on the woman.” West’s brows furrowed. “Do what right?” *** A week later, when he stepped off the plane after not having seen the twins for almost ten months that first time, Ben, at thirteen, ran into his arms and hugged him unabashedly. Bean, most distinctly, did not. She hung back, biting her nails nervously. And this time, she had a right to be nervous, West thought, setting his jaw and deciding, right then and there, to take the advice of his partners. And it worked like a charm. Rafe – and everyone else who had chimed in along the same lines – had been absolutely right. Now, for taking control of a Bean’s behavior, what they’d recommended made some sense: spanking. But the other men had advocated applying the same logic to the treatment of women. West had balked immediately. He’d balked at the idea of spanking Bean, too, but he was at the end of his rope. He didn’t know any woman in this day and age that would stand still for being spanked for whatever her partner considered was bad behavior, and he said as much. Dump had chimed in at that. “You’re right. If all you’re looking for is a good lay, then it’s probably out –” “Or they’re going to charge you more for it,” Swede interrupted with a snicker. “Look at him, Swede – he’s not going to have to pay for it in this lifetime. He’s going to have to beat them off with a stick.” “I thought that was what we were talking about,” West interjected with a chuckle and even Dutch grinned. “What I mean is, this isn’t something you waste on a one night stand–” Rafe leaned his elbows on the table, a social gaffe he would only commit when half in the bag. “What Dump’s trying to work his clumsy way towards is this is something you only do for the woman you love; the one woman in your lifetime, when it won’t be a chore, but rather a very tangible method of showing her exactly how much you love her.”

His snort was half snort, half burp, but even the burp was derisive. “Right. Some woman’s just going to let me turn her over my knee and wale the tar out of her because she did something I don’t like.” As drunk as he was, he heard Dutch’s loud, exasperated sigh. Dutch drank as much as the rest of them, but never seemed to get anywhere near as plastered. Probably something to do with his size, West mused. “First of all, it’s something you talk to her about from the beginning. You don’t just haul her over your lap one day out of the blue. Secondly, you don’t tell her she can’t – I don’t know... Buy a new pair of shoes – unless you’re in dire financial straits or something. You tell her that you expect that she’s not going to get arrested or speed or something that could have a negative effect on your life together. You set rules that mean something to the both of you. Not smoking. Keeping doctor appointments, taking medicines, important things. Nothing frivolous, because the spankings won’t be.” It was the longest speech West had ever heard the big man give. “And I want it fully understood that there isn’t a man here that’s in any way condoning the idea of beating anyone, let alone women. Do you understand the difference?” With Dutch’s face inches from his, West knew he needed to nod, and did so, however haphazardly. “We better have this conversation again when he’s sober,” Dump suggested, knowing he was at least as polluted as the man they were talking about. “We will,” Dutch growled. And they did, of course. At great length. And it was a philosophy that rang true with him, and the Cowboy took to heart.

Chapter Three His landing was right out of a textbook, and as he’d made his approach he’d seen a little band of people to one side of the runway that he knew were his. It was Bean, definitely, and probably Ben, although he’d just started a job at a nearby feedlot, and it was harder for him to get away than it had been. Bean’s beau was there, a man that he’d hated to find he thoroughly approved of, Red Shaunessy, who was the manager of the bank at which Bean worked. Bean launched herself at him like a ton of bricks, always sure of her reception. He swung her around as he always had, not taking into consideration that she was no longer a kid. To him, she would always be about eight years old. “I missed you!” she said, keeping up the tradition of sobbing at his arrival. He’d always pointed out to her that, since he was back it didn’t make any sense to cry, but she’d only smacked his shoulder and continued to blubber quietly as he held her. “I missed you too, Jillybean,” he said, kissing the top of her head in a brotherly way that he knew she detested, because it reminded her of how short she was. He set her down more quickly than he used to, because this time there was someone else there who he was sure would much rather be holding her. “Red, it’s good to see you.” The two men shook hands. He genuinely liked Red, and had already had a talk with him about what West expected from him in regards to taking care of his Bean. Luckily, and surprisingly, Red was way ahead of him in that department. “Good to see you, West,” Red responded, a big grin on his liberally freckled face. As he’d expected, Bean slipped right in under Red’s arm, hugging him tightly. West suspected that he was less and less missed by his family, but then, that was the way of things. He was happy that Jill had found someone to love. It was more than he’d been able to do, he thought with a wry twist of a smile. “Ben couldn’t get away from work, but he’s coming to dinner,” Jill explained as they all began walking towards the ranch’s big black SUV. One person in their small crowd conspicuously hadn’t come forward for a joyous reunion, and West just couldn’t let it her get away with it, of course. “Hello to you, too, Forest,” he threw back over his shoulder before tossing his bags into the trunk. “North,” came the frosty return from the usually bubbly redhead. Her name was Olivia Hamiton, but since he’d annoyed the bejeesus out of her by taking what she considered to be physical liberties – however Victorian the thought - she’d chosen to call him by other compass directions. He’d countered by referring to her in shades of green. But he had a lot more choices to work with than she did. Jill tsked as Red held open her door, and West did the same thing for Liv. “Are you two ever going to call a truce?” Liv settled into the back seat next to Jill and behind West as the men arranged themselves in the front seats. West was driving, of course. He rarely let anyone else drive for him. “Whenever he wants to wave the white flag, I’d be more than glad to accept his surrender.” West shook his head. She never gave an inch, that woman. How was it that everyone loved her but him? Jilly adored her; they’d met at the bank and became fast friends. He used to receive long, glowing emails about her new best friend, and she couldn’t wait for West to meet

her. He knew Jill was hoping that Olivia might be the one for him; she was over the moon about Red and people who were happily in love wanted everyone else to join in the fun. But it wasn’t meant to be. They got off on the wrong foot from day one. The bank they both worked at was in Santa Fe, but Jill had asked Olivia if she’d like to spend some vacation time at the ranch. Being a transplanted Easterner, she was intrigued by the idea and accepted almost before her friend got the words out. For his part, West had been unnaturally intrigued on first meeting. They had a big family lunch, served by, and then eaten with Nita, and of course Graham, Wesson. With all of the physical work that was ranching, meals were nothing to sneeze at, even lunches. This one consisted of steaks, of course, since they grew some of the best in the area now, thanks to West’s steady investments in the ranch, Nita’s famous strawberry spinach salad, biscuits with cinnamon butter, corn on the cob, and a three layer homemade German chocolate cake for dessert. Olivia had eaten some of everything, unlike some of the women West had dated infrequently, who were stick thin and merely pretended to eat by rearranging the food on their plates. In fact, he’d noticed that she’d taken a second helping of cake along with a second cup of coffee. “We should go for a ride after dinner,” Jill had suggested, and Olivia had eagerly agreed. Looking at the pretty pastel pink and green blouse their guest was wearing, along with what he was sure was dress pants, West asked deliberately, “You brought riding gear? Jeans?” Olivia nodded. “Boots?” Her face fell. “I don’t own boots, except dress boots, and I didn’t bring them with me.” “Can you borrow some of Be- Jill’s?” Her face reddened. “I wish. My feet are too big.” She’d always wanted to be a tiny woman, rather than five-eight and a good twenty pounds overweight, by her doctor’s standards. Bean’s tone revealed how disappointed she was. “And my car’s out of commission, so we can’t go into town until tomorrow, dammit.” It went without saying that West would need his truck around the ranch. “Have you ever ridden before?” West asked, taking a bite out of his slab of cake. “No, not since I was a little girl. But I’d love to learn anything I can about horses. I’ve always been fascinated by them, but haven’t spent a lot of time around them.” He leaned back in his chair after wiping his mouth. “Well, then why don’t we all go into town tomorrow and get you some. Today, though, I don’t want you riding. There are plenty of other things to do around here, or you can take the day to recover and just laze around the pool. Go to the stables and get introduced to the horses, pick out one you’d like to ride tomorrow. Lots to do that doesn’t involve riding.” West stared pointedly at the both of them before kissing Jill on the top of the head and leaving for the stables himself. “I take it it’s been decreed that we’re not to go riding.” Jill thought her face would never return to its normal color. Sometimes living with her brother and his distinctly autocratic ways wasn’t easy, especially when it was so obvious to someone else. He’d gotten her back on track when she was younger and definitely not headed in the right direction. She’d figured he’d ease off as she got older, but he’d proven her entirely wrong, and this situation only emphasized that point. “Uh, yeah.” She wished Liv wouldn’t dwell on the topic.

“And, of course, what King West says, goes, with no argument.” She was just trying to confirm the sketchy and somewhat alarming impression that Jill had given her about her relationship with her autocratic, old fashioned older brother. “Pretty much.” Jill didn’t add that there would be consequences if they disobeyed, but she thought that Livvy probably got that idea already, and she’d really like not to have to spell it out for her, if it was at all possible. Liv didn’t press any further, sensing Jill’s unease at the topic. If what she thought was going on was going on, then Jill had every right to be uncomfortable, in several senses of the word. They finished up and helped Nita clear the table, then were shooed off in the direction of the stables. Liv was a soft-hearted animal lover, and she fell in love with each horse as she was introduced to them. The stables was cleaner than her apartment, she was sure, with each beautifully groomed horse housed in a roomy stall, and bags of hard peppermint candies everywhere to be given as treats. The foals were gorgeous, wide eyed little creatures, most of whom were brave enough to greet the stranger and tickle her palm with their tiny muzzles. Jill was trying to join in Olivia’s enthusiasm but she couldn’t quite make it. She knew that Olivia was appalled at just the thought that West spanked Jill whenever she disobeyed him. And it was never a glossed over, this is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you pretend spanking. It definitely hurt her much more than it hurt him, although he always managed to sound terribly regretful before, during and after, he still did it. And Jill knew she needed to be thankful that he had, or she’d probably be in jail somewhere, having joined a gang or worse. But that didn’t make it any easier to admit to one’s best friend. “Let’s go riding,” Jill suggested, throwing caution to the wind and saying to hell with her brother and his rules, just this once. Besides, he was out with a crew of cowboys, and they’d be back before he knew they’d gone. She’d make damned sure of that. So they saddled up and Jill gave Liv a quick lesson, stressing more than once the need for her to keep her heels down, since she was just wearing sneakers and there was more of a possibility that if she fell off, her foot would be caught in a stirrup and she’d be dragged by a frightened horse. The ride was short and tense and had Liv wishing they hadn’t decided to disobey West – not because he’d laid down the law, but because Jill had been so tense that neither one of them had been able to really enjoy the ride. Of course, who met them at the door to the stables but West? Liv was sure she heard Jill say something in angry wonder about who her brother’s informants were, but they didn’t have time for discussion before West stepped forward and grabbed the bridles of both of their mounts. “Get down, Jill. Olivia, I’ll help you down in a second.” Liv was already had her right leg over the saddle horn and slid down in a second act that was consciously against King West’s orders. She saw his tight lipped mouth become even tighter as her feet hit the ground, but then he turned his attention to his sister, who was already beginning to blubber. “It was just a short ride, West. We barely got out of the yard, and we didn’t take the horses out of a w-walk –”

Jill could see that her rambling confession wasn’t easing her plight any, and tears began to fall down her cheeks. But West wasn’t having any of it. “Was I not clear at dinner, Jillian?” he asked in a frighteningly firm tone. “But – “ “What did I say?” His sister’s gaze fixed on her own boots as her hair fell around her face. “You said n-not to r-ride till we got b-boots for Liv.” West sighed loudly, and with what Liv wanted to think was not a little reluctance. But his voice was no less rock hard than it had been before, and there was no lenience in those eyes. “Study. Now.” Jill turned immediately to obey, but not fast enough to escape a hard swat to her bottom that sent her scurrying even faster than she’d intended in the first place. West turned his attention to the person he erroneously thought was the instigator of this particular incident. He hadn’t had to spank Jill in a while. His eyes narrowed at Olivia. Maybe she wasn’t the best of influences on his younger sister. He took the reins of both horses and began to lead them into the stables, assuming their guest would follow, but Olivia stood her ground. West cross tied the animals in short order after noticing that he was alone in the barn. He took a deep breath, and fought unsuccessfully against his instincts. She was a guest in his house, and he decided to give her a hair’s breadth more leeway than he gave Jilly, who definitely knew better than to disobey him so blatantly. He leaned around the corner of the building and ground out with no small touch of sarcasm, “May I have the pleasure of your company in the barn, please?” He could have been knocked over with a feather when she replied quite nonchalantly, “No, thanks, I’m fine where I am right now.” It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He managed – barely – to keep it in his head that she was a guest, which meant that once he picked her up and carried her into the barn, he deposited her with almost absurd gentility next to the horse he wasn’t working on, instead of bracing his foot on a bale of hay and turning her over his knee, as he desperately wanted to. Liv was so surprise by his actions that she barely protested at all. No man had ever done anything like that to her in her life. Most men stayed the heck away from her, which was pretty much what she wanted. She could out think the majority of them, and her father hadn’t left her with a very positive impression of his gender, overall. And Jill’s relationship with her brother seemed to fit right into Olivia’s generally negative attitude towards men. They all seemed to be money and/or power grubbing louts, the lot of them. She hadn’t seen much in her life that dispelled that notion, and this was just one case in point out of thousands. She was spoiling for a fight, and West could read the signs very clearly, but a fight was the last thing he wanted right now, so, when she opened her mouth for what he anticipated was a long diatribe about his autocratic ways, probably not unlike those he’d received from other women who turned out to be the wrong one, he pressed a currycomb into her hand and showed her, silently, how to brush the horse in front of her. Sometimes that trick worked. Dutch had shown it to him. Distraction or redirection – especially if the person you were dealing with was smart – was a powerful tool that helped the team avoid countless entirely unnecessary conflicts. They worked with the horses in an amiable silence for a while, but West knew it was only a matter of time before her resentment at his high handedness bubbled to the surface.

“I can’t believe you did that.” He didn’t respond. “I am not some sack of grain you can move around at your convenience,” he could hear her fury gathering strength. “I’m a guest in your home – “ West was efficiently working his way towards the horse’s rump. His response was even and calm. “And that’s why you didn’t find yourself getting the spanking you deserve.” She stopped combing at that, but he could hear her erratic breathing and knew she was building up to something explosive, and he didn’t want that around the horses, so he walked up to where she was standing with her mouth open, staring at him in total disbelief, and relieved her of the combs, which could become potential weapons. “You cannot possibly mean what you just said.” “Lady, you don’t know me, but I always mean what I say.” He untied the horses and put them in their stalls. Liv was so stunned that she just blurted out the next thing that came into her head. “But I’m not finished grooming...“ “Yes, you are,” as he closed Sundance’s stall. “You’re upset, and I don’t like raised voices around my horses. They’re very sensitive to humans, women in particular, and I won’t have them upset unnecessarily.” He was amazed to see how that seemed to make her feel sheepish. Apparently, she was a true animal lover. It was just him that she hated, apparently. He almost smiled at the thought. It wasn’t an attitude that he was used to from the female of the species. Most women liked him. He was tall and muscular, but leanish, with deep green eyes and brownish blonde hair. But beyond his physical looks – which the team always teased him about – he treated every woman he met like a lady. It didn’t matter whether she was the town whore or a reigning monarch. Before, during, and after an operation, he saw to the womenfolk first, after the children, of course. This was something that Dutch encouraged, much to his surprise. That attitude alone had gotten him more offers from the opposite sex than he would ever have cared to accept. He was picky along those lines, which also earned him some good natured ribbing from the guys. The older he got, the fussier he got, until he turned down ninety-nine percent of the women who literally threw themselves at him, especially if he’d rescued them, usually from a fate worse than death. But this woman didn’t know much about him, except that he spanked his sister, and it was obviously not a popular decision with her. Maybe she didn’t know how that came about, and what it had done for Jill. So, once they were out of the barn, headed towards the house, he filled her in, in no uncertain terms. “I know you don’t like me because of the way I discipline my sister. And, first of all, it’s really none of your business –” Liv whirled on him, striking him in the shoulder with surprising force. “None of my business? So I’m just supposed to look the other way when my best friend is physically assaulted by a male member of her family?” His reactions were not to be played with, not that she knew that. He hadn’t expected her to hit him, but when she did, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed her wrist automatically, with no thought at all to his actions, and twisting her arm around her back, forcing her up against him and pinning her against the brick wall of his body, in much too intimate a position for such a short acquaintance.

Olivia was incensed. She could feel every ripple of muscle in his chest, his six pack abs, and points south that she didn’t want to know about. She drew a deep breath and reached deep within herself to suppress the need to scream. Instead, she said very slowly and quietly, “Let... me... go.” “Not until I’ve had a chance to talk to you,” came the equally, slow, quiet response. Olivia had taken several self defense classes, but the simplicity with which he blocked every one of the maneuvers she tried stripped away the sense of safety she’d carefully built around herself by taking those classes. This man wasn’t going to let her go. No one, in her adult life, had ever been able to physically force her to do what she didn’t want to do, and she found the thought – and the fact – absolutely devastating. He didn’t brag about his abilities. He merely kept her safe while she exhausted herself trying to make an escape that was pretty much impossible. She wasn’t going anywhere until he decided to let her go, and it seemed to be a horrible concept for her to come to grips with. Only when she finally fell silent and stopped her futile gyrations did he begin to speak. He kept his tone neutral and as nonthreatening as he could manage. “After our parents died, when Jill was younger, she was on a very wrong road. She’d gotten in with not just a bad crowd, but a dangerous one. That’s when I started to spank her, and it turned her around. She’s a successful young woman now, instead of a drug addicted gang banger doing a nickel in the Pen for dealing drugs. “You might not agree with my methods, Ms. Hamilton, but it’s not necessary that you do. Jill’s success is all I need to know that I made the right choice.” Figuring that he’d said his piece, she renewed her struggles, only to have them neutralized in embarrassingly short seconds. “When you stay with us, you’ll be living in my house, and you’ll be subject to my authority. I don’t know whose idea it was to disobey me – I’m hoping it wasn’t Jill’s, because she’s supposed to know better than that. But if it was yours, this is your one and only freebie. “The next time, if I say something isn’t to be done, then it better hadn’t, or Jill won’t be the only one waiting for me in my study, and sitting on a pillow at the dinner table tonight.” Olivia stared directly at his chest through the gap in his shirt, refusing to look anywhere else, her jaw working furiously but otherwise quiet. “Am I making myself perfectly clear?” She nodded once, barely able to force herself to make that concession to this bully of a man, and he let her go. She turned immediately to walk – not run, not run, not run, she chanted to herself – into the house, but not quickly enough to avoid his unbelievably hard swat to her rear. It crossed her mind to turn and give him the finger – both of them at once, actually, along with every other obscene gesture she could think of, but first and foremost she felt the need to get away from him - above and beyond anything else. So she walked, very quickly, but walked into the house and through the foyer and down the hall to the bedroom that was to be hers for the duration of her stay – however short that ended up being – thankful that it was well away from whatever awfulness was happening in his study. She lay on the bed, not enticed by the huge TV or the beautiful stereo system, or any of the various bodice busters she’d brought for her vacation. Her mind was uncomfortably crowded with images she could seem to reconcile – how Jill’s brother seemed to genuinely love her, embracing her as if she’d been gone for months instead of minutes when she arrived back from picking Olivia up at the airport. How, so far, he’d only set a rule that actually made sense, and was for her own personal safety – not even Jill’s, although Jill was bearing the brunt of the results of having broken his rule.

But she didn’t want to be making excuses for him, most especially since her body seemed to want just that. She had never hated a man before. She’d never really hated anyone, and she could at least have come to terms with it if that was the only thing she felt towards him. If she was honest with herself, though, not that that was something she was much interested in, since she knew that it was just going to add to the enormity of the confusion she was feeling, he made her feel much more than that. He enraged her. And he annoyed her down to her very last cell. Worst than that, he excited her. And when he clamped her body up against his, and just held her there, all her traitorous body had wanted her to do was relax against him, and let him control things, if it meant that much to him. Suddenly, her body had wanted her to believe that her way wasn’t worth fighting for, if it meant he was going to turn her lose any time soon. She’d never had such conflicting feelings towards a human being in her life. Either she liked someone, which was a huge percentage of the time, or she didn’t, and she did her level best to avoid contact with those people, few and far between though they were. Most of the people she didn’t like were men, but she’d never met a man with such an interesting code before. Olivia couldn’t decide if she hated every bone in his body, or was interested in one particular bone that managed to press itself into her stomach as he held her. But he was wrong to physically punish his sister. She couldn’t reconcile that with the man she’d seen. She had half a mind to pack and leave. This was just too strange a situation for her to come to grips with. It had been a mistake to come down here. But a part of her, buried deep within her, was undeniably intrigued with West Archer, as much as she didn’t want to be, and that part was not to be denied. It had bloomed within her the moment his palm connected with her jean covered bottom. She wanted to learn more about him, spend more time around him – always obeying him carefully, of course, she admitted wryly as she absently reached beneath her to rub her butt, no matter how distinctly against the grain that might be for her. As a matter of fact, she might just try to trip him up in it, by following his demands to the absolute letter. That might just prove to him how absurd this entire situation was. Besides, she could use the vacation, and she didn’t want to embarrass poor Jill by leaving precipitously. *** The rest of her stay was uneventful, much to Jill’s relief, and Olivia’s, if she’d admit it. They stayed as far away from West as they could, and Olivia bought a pair of boots the second day she was there. They spent a lot of time riding and watching movies and, Olivia was surprised to find out, cooking and eating. The family had dinner together every night and breakfast every morning they could manage it, and she had to admit their raucous meals beat the heck out of the silent affairs she was used to in her own family. Ben seemed to be a bit sweet on her; he’d come to stay a couple of days after she did, and they became a threesome, although Olivia did her best not to lead Ben on. At one point, long before it became a sore spot, she spoke with him frankly about the fact that she wasn’t interested in a relationship with anyone any time soon, even a casual one, which, she also admitted, was the least type of relationship she’d be interested in. He took it gracefully and didn’t slink away in a funk, which got him high points in her book.

Olivia had a strong feeling that if she hadn’t taken the high road and gotten things straight with Ben as soon as possible, West would have stepped in a heartbeat to prevent his brother from being hurt. So she beat him to it. She was never able to trip him up in regards to rules, mostly because he didn’t set any overt ones that she knew of. She had to admit – to herself, of course, quietly, in the dark of night – that he wasn’t the control freak she wanted to think of him as. He didn’t concern himself with enforcing stupid rules, and he didn’t ask Jill to do anything that was anything more than a doting pseudo-parent would ask. When they went out at night, she didn’t have a curfew that anyone ever mentioned, but if she was going to be past one she called him, just because she knew he’d worry. He’d already told the both of them that, if they were going to drink, that they could call him for a ride, no questions asked. They never needed to take him up on that because Olivia rarely drank, so she became the designated driver for the trio. She never heard any recriminations from him at the breakfast table when his siblings could barely drag themselves to the table. As a matter of face, he was usually grinning broadly at them, and always greeting them with an exceptionally loud and disgustingly cheery, “Good morning!” The man had a sense of humor, and was surprisingly literate for someone who had had to drop out of school. The more she saw of him, the more she liked him, and the less she liked liking him. She couldn’t forget what happened at the beginning of her stay. Her mind and her body were working at cross purposes, and her body was winning. She found herself staring at him over dinner, or cards when they played the occasional game at night. She hated it when he came out to join them at the pool, and always threw a wrap over herself, terribly self conscious about her figure - or the lumpy lack thereof - around such a beautiful man. That was a first for her. Granted, the men she’d been around were more average looking. But she’d never been quite this insecure about her looks. Of course, Liv had always wished she was skinnier, and she had been skinnier at certain times in her life, usually when she was so depressed she couldn’t eat. At that was plenty depressed, considering that the usual level of depression sent her fleeing into the creamy, luscious waiting arms of a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra. With hot fudge. And whipped cream. The kind from a can, that had no real resemblance to whipped cream. And a bag of chips. Lay’s Kettle Cooked Salt and Pepper, preferably. And the people around her would keep ‘em coming, if they knew what was good for them. West noticed that every time he approached her when she was wearing anything less than jeans and a shirt she reached for a robe, or a towel, or raced for her room to don a burqua. He didn’t know what kind of vibe he was putting off – well, besides the one that he knew she found particularly off-putting. But he’d certainly never said anything to her about her body. That would have been uncouth in the extreme. Besides, the only thing he would have said would have been very complimentary. He preferred normal women, who laughed and ate and drank and laughed some more. Not the usual type that popped up like weeds in front of him, who ate one meal of steamed veggies a day and couldn’t stomach the thought of anything else. He detested it when he finally found someone he wanted to date and brought her to an expensive restaurant, and she excused herself minutes after eating to divest herself of the meal in the ladies’ room. He knew she’d felt his response to her when he’d held her that one time. Did she think he just walked around like that all day? Granted, her wiggling attempts at escape hadn’t done anything to discourage his body’s reaction, but he’d had to struggle with himself in multiple ways

– not to give her an appointment to appear before him as Jilly had, but also not to bend her back over his arm and kiss the living daylights out of her. West knew that neither approach would be welcomed – at least not at this point – so he settled for getting in a parting shot that he knew wouldn’t ingratiate him with her, but he felt it needed doing anyway. *** When she left to go back to her small apartment in the city, the entire family turned out to say good bye after a big feast that Liv helped cook. She rose, patting her stomach and musing aloud that she hoped she could stay awake after a dinner like that. “Do you want me to follow you home?” he offered, seriously considering not giving her the choice. Olivia didn’t want to like him, but he wasn’t making it easy. “I’ll be fine, thanks.” “Call when you get there so we know you’re safe,” Nita commanded, and Olivia smiled. That exact thought was on West’s mind, too, but he was glad it came from Nita or he was sure there would be World War III over him setting rules for her. “I will.” Everyone hugged her, even West, who made sure it was relatively perfunctory. The family knew of the animosity between the two, although they’d done their level best to tamp it down. Their money, for what it was worth, was on West. He and Ben had already carried her bags out to her car, which was crammed full of trinkets and baubles she’d accumulated, even in such a relatively short time. As they drove away, Jilly smacked both of her brothers none too gently. “Do you see now why I never have friends over? Between the two of you – you, mostly, though,” she glared at West, “I’ll be lucky if I can ever get her to come back. I’ll be lucky if she speaks to me when I get back to the city myself. What if she tells everyone at work about – about - ?” she couldn’t even say it. West raised an eyebrow but said only, “Is she a really a good friend, then, if she’s that indiscreet?” Jilly stomped away in a huff before she massacred the two of them where they stood.

Chapter Four It turned out she was worrying for nothing, which she kind of thought would be the case, but her brothers didn’t need to know that. Things at work were much the same, and, to Jill’s surprise, Liv did accept her invitations to go down to the ranch. She was happier when West wasn’t going to be there, and luckily, that was most of the time. The few times he was there, there was barely concealed animosity between the two of them. Liv had taken to calling him anything but his real name – usually some form of another direction, and he had countered by calling her every possible version of green, including, once, puke. Now he was home to stay, and she was here. Of course. He certainly didn’t want to restrict Jilly from coming down here, and it seemed as if the two were joined at the hip. West’s response to her gracious offer of accepting his surrender was a muttered, “Not friggin’ likely,” which was exactly what everyone expected. The ride back to the ranch was accomplished without World War III erupting, mostly because Red and Jill kept up a steady stream of innocuous patter. Olivia seemed preoccupied, and West noticed that she spent most of the drive just staring out the window. The dinner table was set and Nita, as usual, had it timed perfectly that the just had to sit down to a delicious meal of chicken fried steak, fluffy biscuits, white gravy, garlic mashed potatoes, and baby carrots right from her garden cooked to tender perfection and then glazed with maple syrup and slight hint of cinnamon. And a vicious rumor had been confirmed that dessert was one of her famous three layer coconut cakes. Ben came in the middle of the meal, hugging his brother almost absently when he saw the spread before them. “Man, I don’t eat like this in the city,” he exclaimed, slathering gravy over everything on his groaning plate. “You probably can’t afford to,” West teased. “I know since you moved out, our grocery bill’s almost non-existent.” Nita leaned over and patted Ben’s hand in a motherly fashion. “He’s a growing boy.” “He’s twenty five! The only way he’s growing now is sideways!” To show just how unconcerned he was about his brother’s comments, Ben reached for a second spoonful of potatoes. Still grinning, West took a look around the table. Everyone seemed to be eating with at least as much gusto as Ben was, with one exception. Miss Olivia had a small portion of salad on her plate, and that was it. “Surely you’re going to eat more than that, Army,” he inquired loudly from the head of the big table, causing everyone’s head to turn to see how little she had on her plate. Olivia didn’t have a chance to respond – not that she wanted to, since he childishly refused to use her name – before Jill jumped in. “She’s on a diet. Leave her alone.” West was truly appalled. “What in the hell are you doing on a diet?” To Liv’s surprise, the other men at the table we also shaking their heads. Nita spoke up with characteristic spunk. “Nowadays, a woman’s not supposed to look like a woman. She’s supposed to look like a stick figure. Do you know I was looking at jeans for my niece in one of the stores in the Coranado Center and there was a size ZERO?! Shouldn’t someone who wears a size zero be dead?”

“You should have some chicken fried steak there, little lady. Nita made it. It’ll melt in your mouth. Of course, then you’ll just have to chase it with a ladle of gravy, and some potatoes...” He wasn’t getting very far, but he could see that she would certainly prefer to be eating what the rest of them were. To him, the salad was an addenda that he’d get to if he could. But not before he’d indulged himself in the other wonderful things on the table. Of course, he’d always been so physically active that he’d had to eat to maintain his weight, rather than lose. All that time in various jungles all over the world would sweat everything you’d eaten since you were a kid right off you. But he couldn’t understand what society told women about themselves lately. Apparently, no woman was ever meant to be happy with herself the way she was born. She needed to lose weight, dye her hair, have loads of plastic surgery to nip this or expand that, injecting poisons into their faces so that there were fewer lines in it...no woman of his would ever have to do anything like that. He liked natural women who were comfortable with the way they were made. He didn’t mind a bit of makeup here or there, as long as it was judiciously applied, but that was about the extent of it. When he looked down the table at Olivia, though, the thought came into his mind that there wasn’t anything he’d change about her, except her attitude. Her face was pretty, but not gorgeous, and the only lines he could see in that creamy complexion were laugh lines around her eyes, which he welcomed. She’d been so defensive around him, it was nice to think she had a sense of humor in there somewhere, too. Her lips were a soft, full pink, but he’d seen some women who’d had that stuff injected into their lips, and they just looked like they’d been stung by a hoard of wasps. She wasn’t rail thin, but then he didn’t like that anyway. Her clothes were always pretty, he supposed. He’d really only seen her wearing jeans and a t-shirt or blouse, and she always smelled like sunshine to him, somehow. West had been staring at her for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Do I have something on my face?” she asked, reaching for her napkin. “No, and that’s good,” he said, recovering quickly. “Can’t stand tons of makeup, either.” It was so close to a compliment that she felt obligated to say thank you. “You’re welcome,” he said, gruffly. Family news dominated the rest of the meal – Red and Jill talked about a new place they were going to move into, and Ben was apparently dating someone he really liked, because he was talking about subjecting her to the family some time soon. Nita poked West with a fork. “All the young ‘uns are pairing up. Get with the program, boy!” “He’s blushing!” Jill teased, and he was, indeed, a shade of bright red. “West’ll never get married. He’s too picky.” Olivia muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I just thought he was gay.” The whole table gave a collective guffaw at the very idea that their macho-to-the-max West was gay. Everyone seemed to think the idea was hilarious, except the butt of the joke. Olivia was extremely glad that he was at the other end of the table from her. She felt a bit safer being out of reach after that comment. That night, the seven of them – with the inclusion of Graham – decided to play poker around the very same dining room table. Leftovers from dinner were raided from the fridge and put out on the cherry buffet, along with a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels and one of a fine

tequila, along with the usual accoutrements – Coke for the JD and salt and wedges of lime for the tequila. Ms. Hamilton declined to drink. “Health reasons? Religious?” he prodded, knowing he was being nosy, but he was curious about her and unable to stop himself, for some reason. They were playing five card draw, since it was dealer’s choice and that was Jill’s favorite game. Tens and threes were wild. Olivia’s father had taught her how to play poker, and it wasn’t with wild cards. She’d learned a lot of variations of the game since then – and had earned some decent spending money during college hustling her less experienced dorm mates. But she still preferred to play the game straight rather than trying to remember which was wild for that particular hand. She reached for her hand, saying, “I didn’t say I couldn’t drink. I just said I don’t...usually.” She felt compelled to explain further. “I don’t like feeling out of control. It’s unsafe.” West’s eyebrows rose. “Well, this is just about the safest place you could drink. You’re room’s about twenty steps away, and if you can’t make it that far, then the couch in the living room’s about ten.” He could see that his speech wasn’t working, but something drove him to push her. He wanted to see what this woman was like with less of a stick up her ass. A thought hit him suddenly, and he said, “You’re completely safe here. This isn’t a frat party, we’re all adults, and no one here will hurt you, I give you my word.” It seemed as if she was being corralled into drinking. She nodded her okay, and West was up at the makeshift bar before she could change her mind. “JD and coke?” She managed to surprise him yet again by saying, “Tequila and a shot glass. Bring me the bottle.” If his eyebrows rose any further, they’d disappear into his hairline. “Really? Well, it seems I’ve misjudged you.” He handed her the bottle, then said, “No salt? No lime? You’re sure?” “I’m sure.” They played and drank into the night, as if they were all college students. West set himself to matching her, shot for shot, just for the hell of it. He had no doubt that she’d be under the table long before he was. Again, she surprised him. Not only did she clean everyone’s clock and end up with a fortune in change amassed before her, but she was halfway through the bottle of tequila and still largely coherent, which was getting to be more than he could say for himself, and he was probably half again her size. Granted, he had eaten more at dinner than she had by a long shot, but he’d soon discovered her Achilles heel in the food department: cake. Somewhere during the night, Nita had produced the leftover dessert cake, along with some homemade milk chocolate chip cookies and a pan of magic layer bars that were all descended on by the hungry, tipsy hoard. West watched what Olivia took, and her poison of choice, all the way, was the cake. She had a couple of cookies, too, but it was the cake that she took a generous second helping of, all the while working her way carefully through that bottle and remaining startlingly sober. Around dawn, players began drifting away from the table until it was just the two of them, looking pretty ridiculous sitting where they had been all night, West at the head of the empty table, and Olivia at the right end of it.

There was still a little more than a shot or so left in their bottles, so West gathered his up, clumsily, along with his shot glass, and brought everything down to sit next to her, crashing the glassware down and chiding himself, with a slur, to be careful not to break anything. “Yeah, what would you do then? Spank yourself?” she snickered heartily at that idea, pouring her second to last shot. “I am going to spank you, you know,” he said, sitting facing her on the chair, admirably managing to remain stable in it. He lifted his own glass, and drank to that idea. It was Olivia’s turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t drink to that?” “Forgiven,” he said with much more solemnity than the occasion wrought. She raised her glass and said, “To never losing control of oneself.” That seemed to have sobered him up in a hurry, which had not at all been her intent. He peered at her intently. “Why are you not as drunk as I am?” Refilling with her last shot, Olivia answered, “I don’t know. I’ve always had a freakish ability to metabolize tequila. Well, most alcohols, but tequila best of all.” He leaned forward and said, in what she knew he thought was a whisper, “My freakish ability is with knives.” “Okay, well, that’s my signal to go upstairs, I think.” She began to gather her winnings into the bowl Nita’s provided and capped the empty tequila bottle. Unsure of what he’d said that might have made her want to leave, West sat back in his chair, hollering as she left, “I am going to spank you, you know.” “Yeah, yeah,” she replied loudly enough for him to hear the sarcasm in her tone, whispering to herself, she thought, “Promises, promises.”

Chapter Five Even though she only got about three hours of sleep that night, Olivia was up, bright eyed and bushy tailed not long after Nita that morning. Nita looked the worse for the wear, so Olivia tiptoed around her, got herself a big mug of coffee and went out onto the patio to wait for the rest of the crew to appear for breakfast, which Nita had informed her in a whisper wasn’t going to be anywhere near as elaborate as usual, if she had anything to say about it, and she had everything to say about it, since she was the one who’d be making it. All of the stragglers convened around ten or so, some looking worse than others, but all of them shooting daggers at her disgustingly cheerful demeanor. West was the last to get up, which was, apparently, absolutely unheard of in this household. When he finally appeared, each strand of his hair was in business for itself, and he was muttering something about how vile it was that someone had rubbed his tongue along the carpet last night before he went to bed. Olivia giggled at him. “I wish I’d thought of that last night...” West poured himself some coffee and sat down in the patio chair next to her. “I’m not so sure you didn’t,” he said, giving her a distrustful glance. “But that’s okay.” Somehow, even still badly hungover and partially drunk, he managed a stunningly self satisfied grin. “I heard what you said last night as you went off to bed,” he whispered loudly. He wished he’d kept his fat mouth shut when he saw every bone in her body go horridly tense. She remembered what she’d said, but she was sure she’d only muttered it under her breath, to herself. “You heard what?” she asked, not really wanted to know the answer. West turned his full attention to her, and she realized he was nowhere near as incapacitated as he would have everyone think. “You’re not going to be able to weasel out of it, you know, Ms. Hamilton. I heard that ‘promises, promises’ comment.” Wanting to twist under his intense scrutiny, but knowing that would just give her away, she remained preternaturally still. “It was just a smart aleck comeback. It didn’t mean anything.” She wasn’t sure if this was the truth or not. He was beginning to grow on her, kind of like mold, she thought nastily. He was too damned good looking for her tastes, and had more than one Neanderthal tendency, and she would have sworn that that kind of guy wouldn’t float her boat in the least. But she did like a lot about him, too. He was smart and funny and overtly protective. Not the megalomaniac she wanted to envision, but a guy who looked out for those people he cared about. She’d been surprised when he’d told her she was safe last night, and that no one would hurt her. He’d hit the nail on the head with the frat house comment; one bad experience in college had cured her for life of them. But she was touched, somehow, that, even though he obviously disliked her as much as she did him, he still extended his protection to her. And from what little she could glean from Jill about his former profession, she knew that it cost him a pretty penny. But then, so did the acceptance of that protection within his household. And, despite the taunting phrase she’d uttered off hand – and apparently aloud – last night, she wasn’t at all sure that that was a price she’d be willing to pay. It turned out that Jill and Red and Ben and his new girlfriend wanted to go golfing, but Olivia had a bit of a headache that made her turn down their invitation to join them. She’d just be a fifth wheel, anyway, she thought to herself. A nap had an unexpected appeal. She hadn’t stayed up that late in a very long time.

“I knew you had more of a hangover than you were letting on,” West joked, holding up the coffee carafe to ask silently if she wanted more. “I do get them, sometimes, although a glass of water before I go to sleep usually wards it off, since all a hangover is is dehydration.” She reached in her purse for her sunglasses. “This feels more like the beginnings of a migraine, though, actually.” His look of concern surprised her. “Oh, I’m sorry. My Mom used to get them real bad when I was a kid. She was a very involved, loving mother, but when she had a migraine, she’d shut herself away in their room with all the lights off and a hot cloth over her eyes. My Dad used to absolutely dance attendance on her, shushing Jill and I outdoors and away from the bedroom window so that she could have complete silence.” Olivia watched his eyes mist over as he remembered his folks. It made him seem much more human to her, that he still missed them so much after all these years. “My Dad was a really even tempered guy, but one of the few times I can remember him every getting really mad at me was when Mom was in bed with a migraine and I proceeded to shoot off my cap gun right outside their window.” She shuddered at the thought. “Why don’t you go lie down, Olivia. I’ve got some work to do, and Nita’ll pick up the breakfast mess. As a matter of fact, you’re welcome to use my room, if you like.” At her surprised, almost alarmed look, he explained, “My room has blackout curtains and gets less sun naturally than the other bedrooms. You might be more comfortable there; more able to sleep.” He offered his hand to help her up, which she took gratefully, feeling less cocky and sure of herself now that the incessant pounding had begun on the left side of her head. She wasn’t about to take him up on his suggestion about sleeping in his bed, but she had to admit it was a kind offer. His steadying hand on her arm remained there as he guided her to the pretty guest room she always stayed in that was only a door down from the master suite, which he occupied. “Lie down. I’ll arrange things.” She did exactly as he said, not much caring how he might interpret her obedience at this point. All she wanted was to sleep and escape the pain. West drew the curtains and made a mental note to have light-blocking shades put up in this room, too. He dampened a fresh wash cloth with water that was as hot as he could stand it, folded it lengthwise and laid it carefully over her eyes as he sat beside her on the bed. She looked like death warmed over, and he was amazed at just how alarming that felt to him. Ben and Bean were about the only two people – well, besides his teammates, of course – he cared about in this world, but apparently he was developing a soft spot for the termagant, too. She looked so miserable that his jaw clenched at how helpless he felt. “Don’t you have some kind of meds that would help?” “I do, but they’re at home.” The sound he made, low in his throat, caused her to open one eye. “Did you just growl at me, South?” He did it again, amazed that she could keep up the teasing when she obviously felt like hell. “I did. I’m going to do more than that when you’re feeling better, I promise you.” Because he couldn’t bear to just sit there while she was in agony and there seemed to be nothing he could do about it, he reached out and began to massage her forehead and scalp. “Tell me if I’m just making things worse.” He tried to keep his fingertips as gentle as possible, rubbing and stroking, hoping to help her fall asleep.

“You don’t have anything with you that might help?” He barely had aspirin in his medicine cabinet. He was health as a horse, as long as people weren’t shooting at him. “Alleve. In my purse. Four, please.” West quickly scouted the room and found her purse on the table next to the easy chair by the window. Four was twice the recommended dosage, but he wasn’t going to quibble. She took the meds with a small amount of water and then curled back up into a ball under the covers. He was at a bit of a loss, not knowing if he should massage again or just tiptoe out of the room, but he hated to leave her on her own like this. As if she was reading his mind, she reached out and grabbed his wrist, dragging it and his hand to her forehead as a hint. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Shhhh. Just relax as much as you can. I won’t leave you until you fall asleep,” he whispered back, running his fingers through her hair slowly. Through all the pain, she had the warming thought that it was nice to have someone taking care of her. That hadn’t happened in a very long time, longer than she wanted to remember. Maybe one of the reasons she was so outraged at his autocratic ways was that she just wasn’t used to having anyone care much about whether or not she was safe or hurting. It felt amazingly good, but then she was studiously avoiding his comment about what he was going to do to her when she was feeling better. *** Once she’d fallen asleep, he went to his study to get some work done, but he couldn’t keep himself from checking in on her every half hour or so. Nita clucked like a mother hen when she heard that their visitor had taken sick, and checked on her almost as often as West did, smiling to herself about the Boss not knowing he was sweet on this young woman, despite how much – or maybe because – she annoyed him the bejeesus out of him. When he checked her again, just before dinner time, her eyes fluttered open as he gazed down at her, forestalling his replacement of the washcloth over her eyes. “What time is it?” “Almost six.” She sat up, then regretted having done so. “Lie back down, Olivia. I don’t think you’re up to a family dinner tonight. I’ll have Nita bring you something light on a tray, later, if you like. You just go back to sleep.” “I love having dinner with your family, West. Everyone’s so fun and funny and everyone loves everyone else so much...” she trailed off sleepily. He grinned to himself. She must be feeling horrid – she was complimenting him and using his correct name. “I do, too, and we love having you visit, even if you do leave us all in the poorhouse at poker.” She rolled onto her side, away from him, mumbling, “Everyone does but you. You don’t like me because I won’t let you spank me.” His grin was becoming less and less something he could hide. “It’s no longer a matter of ‘let’, Olivia, but we’ll talk more about that later. You sleep as long as you can.” He patted her shoulder, resisting the tempting curve of her bottom beneath the sheets, and closed the door quietly on his way out. ***

When she finally awoke, it was in the middle of the night. The clock on the bedside said one thirty. She never did see a tray from Nita, who had apparently decided she needed sleep more than food, and she was starved. Someone, she shuddered to think who, had gotten her into one of her sleep shirts, which was a t-shirt that just said: NO. Olivia pulled on some leggings, just in case. She didn’t expect to encounter anyone at this hour, but one could never tell. The kitchen was deserted, and the fridge was crammed full of luscious leftovers, but she didn’t want anything heavy, so she got out a bowl and had some peanut butter Cap’n Crunch. West sauntered in to take a seat at the breakfast bar, across from where she was standing at the counter, eating. “I thought I heard someone out here.” “I thought your room was soundproof?” she piped up, crunching loudly. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?” “I am, thanks. And thank you very much for taking such wonderful care of me. I appreciate it.” “Of course. And in answer to your question, my room and my study are, but I was out by the pool.” “Oh.” And his study? She thought. That was an interesting bit of information to file away for future reference. She looked up to find he was staring intently at her. “So are you fully recovered?” Olivia didn’t think she’d like where this line of questioning was going to lead. She was sick last night, but she remembered everything that had happened - even her own embarrassing confession, but most of all his promise of a spanking because she hadn’t brought her meds down with her. But she wasn’t going to lie to him, either. “Pretty much.” He was in jeans, as usual, not that she objected. He could wear a potato sack, and he’d still be disgustingly gorgeous. She wanted him. She didn’t want to want him, but she did. She had to come to terms with the idea if she was going to continue to visit Jill here, but then, considering his intent was to wear out her bottom some time shortly, she certainly wasn’t going to come back here if he actually went through with his threat. He didn’t look like the type of man who reneged on his word. Olivia swallowed hard. She was going to get spanked. “So, should we take care of things tonight, or would you rather wait until tomorrow?” he asked, feeling magnanimous. He wouldn’t have given Jilly the choice. Olivia decided to play stupid, for as far as it got her. “What things?” She was proud of how lily white she sounded. Needing to keep herself busy, and not wanting to create any sort of a mess for Nita to deal with in the morning, she put the milk and cereal away and washed her bowl out in the sink. Before she could reach for a dishtowel to dry the bowl and put it away, she found her wrist captured and she was being tugged down the hallway and into his study. West closed the door behind her, then leaned against the door. “Don’t play dumb with me, Olivia Fleur Hamilton.” She took the four steps necessary to stand directly in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest, wishing desperately that she’d put on a bra. “And why would I do that, Weston Grange Archer?”

He was much quicker than she’d anticipated, and she was bottom up over his lap on the big green sofa before she could even register a protest. And once there, she found, to her great alarm, that she was going absolutely nowhere, and she knew screaming would do her no good. West made short work of her leggings, but, for her modesty’s sake, since they were not really even friends at this point, he let her retain her panties. She hadn’t given up the leggings easily, and he had to give it to her – she was flexible as all get out, and obviously very motivated. But she never managed to budge herself an inch off the rock hard platform of his denim clad legs beneath her. “You’ll forgive me if I say that you have a beautiful bottom.” “No,” she answered, her teeth clenched so tightly that she thought they were going to break. The problem with her angry front was that her body wasn’t buying it. In fact, this position only accented the ache she felt every time she was around him. She felt physically vulnerable for the first time in a long time, with a man she admittedly thought was damned fine looking, wearing next to nothing, and he was going to be disciplining her as if she was a child. Despite the fact that she knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant, she had to admit she didn’t feel scared. Nothing she’d seen West do in all of the times she’d been down here had made her think he would ever be a danger to her. Her bottom, yes. But her personal safety? No. In fact, just the opposite. She felt safer at this ranch than she did in her own apartment in the city. West chuckled. “Of course not.” His arm across the small of her back was relaxed, but she knew that didn’t mean anything. He controlled her completely, and she hated that more than anything else. His habit with Jill was to have her tell him what she’d done wrong before he spanked her, and he lectured throughout, also, just to drive the point home, and he’d never really spanked anyone else. He wasn’t into paying someone to let him spank the – that didn’t really mean anything. But Olivia, as much of a pain as she could be, was someone he’d come to care about, if he admitted it to himself. She was very important to Jill, and thus was important to him. But more than that, he realized that he really liked her. She was smart and funny and obviously cared about Jill, and was even willing to brave him to visit her. If he was truly honest with himself, he’d have to admit that it was more than that. He was attracted to her. Perhaps just because she was the first woman he could remember that seemed to take an instantaneous dislike to him. He wasn’t at all used to that. Usually he had to shake women out of his bed. But not her. She was opinionated and funny and natural, and he liked that. He definitely liked the idea of her lying over his lap, and she’d be able to tell that shortly if he wasn’t able to corral himself. This wasn’t about him, it was about her. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked. “Because you’re a Neanderthal who likes to hit women?” she shot back, trying to brace herself for what was to come. West wasn’t surprised at her words, but at her vehemence. “Is that what you really believe? That I spank Jilly for the fun of it? Because I like to?” Olivia wasn’t much interested in exploring his motivations. She wanted to get this over with. “Why else?” “Because I love her. I wasn’t willing to just lose my sister to her own bad choices. So I did something about it, and it’s worked.”

His tone made her turn and look at him. “What about me, though? You don’t love me.” But he could. And he probably did, West thought to himself. “I care about you. Everyone here cares about you. I wouldn’t bother – with your or Jilly – if I didn’t. I certainly don’t get off in any way shape or form spanking Jill. She’s my sister, for God’s sake.” The first swat was very unexpected, coming as it was in the middle of his little speech. And it hurt. Bad. Olivia couldn’t even begin to deal with the fact that there were going to be more on top of that. West had a sudden insight. “How long has it been since someone cared about you enough to make sure you were doing what you needed to do, Olivia Fleur?” She couldn’t think. He was spanking her and expecting her to answer questions coherently. She would not cry, she would not cry, she would not cry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She couldn’t. But he was probing into an area that was an emotional landmine for her at a time that she was desperately trying not to react to what was happening to her. He stepped up the rhythm of the swats, trying to encourage her to respond to him. “Answer me, Olivia.” “Ow, West, that hurts!” She opened her mouth to answer his question and that came out entirely unbidden, although it was the absolute truth. “I know, and I want you to remember this the next time you’re packing to come down here. I want you to remember that you’re over my lap like this, that you’re getting your fanny tanned, and that there are rules you have to adhere to when you’re down here, or else you’ll end up right back her, because I care about you. I care enough about you to take the time to make sure that you keep yourself safe. And you’d better get used to it.” He was spanking her at least as hard as he spanked Jill, and he felt a great sense of relief when she started to cry. In his experience, that meant that the miscreant had come to terms with what she’d done and was becoming remorseful. Olivia, however, was more mortified than she had ever been in her life. What this man was saying to her and doing to her was busting down the carefully constructed wall she’d had up around the inner core of herself since she was a neglected little girl. No one, but no one, had ever even known that wall was there, and she didn’t really think West knew for sure, but he was busily busting it down anyway. He’d never stopped a spanking before, but she was crying in great long moans, and he knew it was more than just this spanking. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it, darlin’,” he crooned, gathering her into his arms, where he immediately felt she belonged. She fit just perfectly against him. The humiliations were just piled on top of each other, as far as Olivia was concerned. Here she was, in his arms of a veritable Adonis, her pants around her ankles, bottom throbbing terribly in time with her pulse, and leaking all over from him various orifices. But he didn’t seem to see a problem, and held her wonderfully tight against that solid chest. “You’re safe, Olivia. You’re safe.” West rocked her gently back and forth, stroking that gorgeous blonde hair slowly. After a long while, she leaned away from him and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to bawl all over you.” A crooked, terribly endearing grin slanted across his face. “Well, it’s only fair since I contributed to the tears.” His hand patted her butt with more gentleness than she would have attributed to him a few minutes ago. “Since I was five,” she blurted out, answering the question he’d asked previously.

“Five?” He understood immediately what she meant. “Who made you feel safe then?” Feverishly looking around for a kleenex, she answered somewhat distractedly, “My grandmother. That was the year she died, and I was alone with my parents, who really didn’t care much about me. But grandma always loved me and showed it.” West located a box of tissues and handed them to her, reaching out to hug her back against him when she was finished. “I’m sorry you didn’t have the best of family situations while you were growing up, but you’re a part of this family, if you want to be.” Liv reached back to rub the recently abused, still tender potion of her anatomy. “Yeah, but that has its own drawbacks.” Smiling, West leaned down and kissed her. It was something he’d wanted to do for a long time, and he finally just figured what the heck. She’d been thoroughly spanked, and would probably never come back here, and he wanted a taste of her just once. It was sweeter than any kiss he’d ever known. She was still crying a bit, and obviously emotionally disheveled or she never would have responded to him like she did. Her arms crept cautiously around his broad shoulders, and he pulled her onto his lap rather than over it, which was a position he much preferred. The kiss was slow and tender, but she was the first to pull away, looking tentatively up at him. “Where’d that come from?” “I don’t know, but I liked it.” She chewed her lip and ducked her head so that she didn’t have to look him in the eye when she said, “Me, too.” He tipped her chin up. “Let’s try it again, then.” If you had told Olivia that afternoon when they went to pick him up at the airport that she’d be necking on the couch with West Archer that evening, she would have never believed it. But here they were. And the man was a damned fine kisser. She had to hand it to him. He didn’t try to push her into anything more intimate. Her mouth quirked. Thanks to her spanking, they were already more intimate than she’d ever thought she really wanted to be with him, but things changed. The more time she spent with Jill and her family, the more she knew just what she was missing. Granted, she could definitely do without the discipline side of things, but it certainly was wonderful to have a group of people to have dinner with, laugh and play cards, and to be there to take care of you when you were sick. “Thank you again for looking after me,” she whispered as he walked her to her bedroom door. If he’d walked her to his bedroom door, she probably wouldn’t have objected, although it wasn’t really her style and she was glad that he hadn’t. Well, her heart was. Her body didn’t agree. He hadn’t tried to cop a feel, he hadn’t assumed she was going to sleep with him, and his kiss goodnight was downright chaste. West certainly wasn’t feeling chaste when he left her. One of the hardest things he’d ever had to do was leave her at the door to her own room. But he intended to make up for his sacrifice later. *** She stopped calling him South and North. He stopped calling her Celery and Pea. The entire family noticed that something had changed between them, but they weren’t about to

comment on it in case they rocked the boat the wrong way. Jilly was feeling particularly good about how things were turning out, since she’d wanted them to get together from the beginning. When she needed to get back to the city, West flew Olivia to Albuquerque and drove her home from the airport. He wanted to see where she lived. It wasn’t in the best part of town, but it was clean and very cozy, and it reminded him of her. He took a very lingering leave, not really wanting to take one at all, but he didn’t want to rush into things. They just decided they could tolerate each other, and he wanted to make sure that they did things right. She was distinctly frustrated at his approach, and let him know in no uncertain terms, earning herself a sharp smack to her behind as he set her away from him for the last time. “What was that for?” she asked, indignantly. He loved how she looked when she reached behind her to rub her butt. “You heard me say that we weren’t going to make love tonight, didn’t you?” Olivia frowned. “Maybe.” West had to chuckle. “Well, as you know, what I say goes – “ “Don’t let that go to your head.” “And I want us to date. Like normal people.” She snorted. “I’ve never been a normal person.” West rolled his eyes. “I know. Believe me, I know.” *** The first time they were together, he pulled out all the stops and flew her to Vegas. He rented an extraordinarily expensive suite on the Strip, and they never stepped out of it – not once – for the whole of a long, four day weekend. It wasn’t long after that fateful trip home, but it seemed like forever for both of them. But West was a man of his word, and he didn’t want them to look back and regret anything. They kissed, they petted, they necked, and they fondled, but that was as far as it went until that first night in Vegas. Making love to her for the first time was like unwrapping every Christmas and birthday present he’d ever received. He didn’t think he would live through it, but somehow he managed to. They indulged themselves horribly the entire weekend. When they weren’t making love, which was most of the weekend, they ate sumptuous meals and rented movies. Everyone was on strict orders that they were not to be disturbed. He’d told the family that the only time they could call was if someone was either dying or already dead. And even then, they’d better think twice before they picked up the phone. It didn’t take West long to realize that, although she certainly responded to each and every touch, she was holding back during the culmination of her pleasure. And that wasn’t to be tolerated. He told her flat out that he didn’t want that. He wanted her to feel comfortable enough to really let go, but she even felt inhibited at the ranch with the family sleeping all around them. He would help her get over that in time, but he had a solution in the mean time, and that was how he ended up whisking her away to his cabin in Maine several weeks later. That morning, he served her breakfast in bed on a beautiful white wicker tray, completely with napkin and a pink rose: scrambled eggs with sausage and onions and just a touch of hot

sauce on both, toast with butter and seedless raspberry jam, and a thick, juicy slab of canary melon. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he said, putting the tray on his side of the king sized bed, away from her eager hands, and opened the curtains to reveal a perfect layer of new fallen snow. Unlike the rest of his family, she woke up in a reasonably good mood. Olivia sat up and yawned, then saw the breakfast tray. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that, West.” He slid carefully onto the bed, lifting the tray to place it over her legs and planting a wet, smoochie kiss on her cheek. “I know, but you love breakfast, so I wanted you to have a special one, because this is a special day.” She figured he was trying to make her blush, and, even now, it still didn’t take much. But she knew she was wrong when she lifted the lid off the plate and saw the jewelry box sitting on top of a folded napkin in the middle of her sausage and eggs. Her heart literally stopped. “What’s this?” “It’s a jewelry box, dear,” he said, as if he was speaking to someone who was slower than most. Olivia glared at him and smacked his shoulder. “I know that. What’s in it?” He just sat there with a huge grin on his face and didn’t say a thing. Liv took the box and opened it, revealing a beautiful square cut solitaire diamond in an antique gold setting. “It’s gorgeous!” West took the box out of her hand and took the ring out. “Olivia Fleur Hamilton, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?” Liv threw herself into his arms and dissolved into tears. This was something she hadn’t dared dream of, even when they began dating. Things like this didn’t happen to girls like her. “Is that a yes?” he asked, nearly fighting tears himself. “Yes!” She reached out and touched his face as if she couldn’t believe he was real. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, West. I really don’t.” It made his heart ache to hear her talk like that, as if she wasn’t deserving of his love, somehow. He shook his finger at her. “Uh-uh-uh. That kind of talk will get you spanked.” She whispered on a hoarse giggle, “Promises, promises.”

The End

Blushing Publications thanks you whole-heartedly for your purchase with us! There are plenty more stories such as the one you’ve purchased from Blushing Books! Visit our online store to view our might selection! http://www.blushingbooks.com This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.