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SEASONAL WIND
By
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
© copyright October 2007, Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright October 2007
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Prologue
He was prime beef and every woman whose hungry eyes were following him as he stalked through the room damned well knew it. Broad shoulders stretched a sweat dampened blue chambray shirt left unbuttoned halfway down to reveal a chest covered in curly dark hair. Long shirt sleeves had been rolled carelessly up to the elbows to display thick forearms that tapered to very capable looking hands with long, slender fingers. A hard, tight ass that seemed to be begging to be cupped shifted spectacularly beneath tight faded jeans that pulled across muscular thighs, his silver Concho belt buckle shifting back and forth as he strode. Amber eyes flashed hot as lightning one moment then glacial cold the next in a face that was knock-dead gorgeous with sensual full lips, a finely chiseled nose, and one helluva strong chin with a deep, sexy cleft. Add thick brown hair worn unfashionably long beneath a black Stetson with silver conchos and a silver hoop in a perfectly formed left ear and you had the recipe for one fine piece of mouthwatering eye candy. There wasn't a single diabetic among the women watching him strut his stuff and only one among them who didn't want a taste of his special kind of sweetness.
"Uh, oh," Beverly Shannon whispered to the woman sitting across from her. "He looks meaner than a junk yard dog today."
"Who?" the other woman inquired as she speared a shrimp.
"You know who," Beverly whispered.
Storm Landers glanced up from her shrimp cocktail and frowned when she saw who was bearing down on her. "Ah, shit," she hissed. "Who told him I was here?"
Stopping beside Storm's chair, the Adonis in jeans slapped a document down on her table-his tanned flesh in sharp contrast to the white linen tablecloth as he leaned toward her. "What the hell is this?" he demanded.
"You suddenly lose the ability to read, Wyndan?" Storm asked, lifting her head to give her unwanted visitor a disdainful look.
Wynd Landers narrowed his eyes to thin slits, a muscle working in his lean jaw. His fingers flexed on the paper as he snatched it up to crumple it. Coming to his full six foot two inch height, he tore the document down the middle before tearing it twice more before contemptuously tossing the pieces on the table.
"That's what I think of your goddamned divorce papers, Storm," he growled. "I have no intention of signing them."
Storm shrugged. "It doesn't matter whether you do or not. If I need to make a trip down to the Dominican Republic, I will." She locked stares with him. "I'm sure Drake will be happy to fly me there."
A collective gasp shot through the room and every ear became primed to hear what Wynd Landers' response to his wife's challenge would be. Breaths were held, waiting for the explosion.
With a hiss of unsuppressed fury, Wynd grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it. China, crystal, and silverware went flying, crashing to the floor, scattering food and spilling wine, causing shrieks that filtered like wildfire through those assembled. Eyes wide, mouths open, the diners scrambled away from the mess, linen napkins held before them like shields.
Storm sat where she was, flicked a casual glance over the destruction her husband had wrought in the dining room of the country club, then gave him a nasty smile. "Oh that was so mature," she said, "and so predictable."
"Fuck you, Storm," he growled before turning and striding off, his hands clenched into fists at his side.
Those who got a good look at Wynd Landers' stony face as he shoved his way out of the Bellington Country Club would later swear the devil had taken possession of the man and the fires of hell were burning in his golden glare. Even Clarence, the elderly doorman whom everyone loved and tipped handsomely at Christmastime, would say the young man actually snarled at him on the way out and no one was ever rude to dear Clarence.
Dirt crunching under his boot heels, Wynd stalked from the entrance of the country club to the parking lot like a feral beast, his shoulders hunched, his lips skinned back from his teeth. Jerking his truck door open, he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door behind him as hard as he could, rocking the pickup on its base. He sat there with his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel and fought the tears he refused to allow to fall. Straining to keep that weak, unmanly emotion at bay, he snatched his hands from the wheel, curled his fingers inward, and pounded the base of his palms brutally on the wheel, grunting like a wounded animal with every hit, wishing it was Drake Kimberly's smirking face he was striking.
"You are way out of her league, Landers," Drake had told him with a sneer. "Once the novelty wears off, she'll come to her senses and realize what a terrible mistake she made in marrying you."
The mistake-Wynd thought as he stared blindly through the dusty, streaked windshield-was his, not hers. He'd known better than to go after something he was never meant to possess but like a fool, he'd let his ego dictate to his brain. As a result, pride had gotten in the way of common sense simply because Storm Riley had smiled at him and he had dared to dream.
Now the dream had become a nightmare. The sweet taste of passion had turned to ashes lodged in his throat. He had learned the hard way that boys from the wrong side of the tracks rarely kept the uptown girl even when lucky enough to win her hand.
"You're a goddamn fool, Landers," he said and reached down to turn the key in the ignition. Putting the truck in reverse, he slung his arm over the back of the seat and twisted around to look out the sliding rear window before gunning the engine and tearing out of the parking spot. Tires squealing, he peeled out of the parking lot, not giving a damn if he hit something on the way.
From the dining room window, Storm watched the man she'd been married to for the last three years cut right in front of a delivery van, and she sucked in a worried breath that Wynd would get t-boned by the larger vehicle. A shrill blast of the van's horn accompanied by a shriek of braking tires caused her to tense and come half-way out of her chair before she saw Wynd's rigid middle finger jammed out the window in answer. She snorted at his juvenile display of temper. Once more her soon-to-be ex-husband had scraped by without even slowing down his reckless speed.
"Winning friends and influencing enemies, as usual," Beverly commented dryly as their table was righted and fresh linen spread over it.
"One day he isn't going to be quite so lucky," Storm said on a long sigh. She adjusted the folds of her ankle length, denim broomstick skirt and dusted away a piece of lettuce that clung to the fabric. "He's an accident waiting to happen."
"You were warned, my friend," Beverly said and took a sip of the complimentary Bloody Maria the hostess had offered while their table was re-set and fresh food brought.
"Yeah, I know," Storm agreed. She fiddled with the new silverware. "I just wish I'd listened."
"You were thinking with something other than your noggin'," Beverly reminded her. She shrugged. "To give the boy his due, he was prime beef back then."
"Still is," Storm said. "That's part of the problem."
"And always will be, sweetie," Beverly stated. "No man should look that good and no woman can keep her hands off him when he does. Him straying had to happen sooner or later. A man like Wynd Landers can't be good no matter how hard he tries. It's in his genes."
Storm sat back as the waitress arrived. "The trouble was it didn't stay in his jeans," she mumbled and heard the waitress snicker. Glancing up at the girl, she gave the bleached blonde a derisive look. The girl returned the look with a raised brow then flounced away, her shapely butt gyrating.
"Bitch," Storm said beneath her breath.
"Not his type," Beverly said with a grunt. "He could do better even on a bad day."
"Why is it every woman in town wants me to think she's been laid by my husband?" Storm asked as she dove into her hot pastrami on rye. She chewed savagely as she swept the room with her angry eyes. Women were surreptitiously glancing her way and whispering to one another.
"Wishful thinking," Beverly replied. "He wouldn't give most of them the time of day."
Keenly feeling the weight of the gossipy eyes boring into her, Storm flexed her slim shoulders within the confines of the gauze peasant blouse she wore. With elasticized ruffles at the neck and short sleeves, the blouse left her bare along her shoulders and upper arms and she could feel the heat of embarrassment tinting flesh. She shifted again, squirming in her chair then let out a low, inaudible curse.
"I hate this," Storm said and pushed her chair back. Tossing her napkin to the table she snatched her shoulder bag from the back of the chair and strode off, ignoring the looks and whispers that followed in her wake.
Hating the women of the country club, furious with Wynd for having caused a scene that would further fuel the gossip about them, she headed for her convertible and once there, peeled out of the parking lot with as much recklessness as had her husband.
"Arrogant son of a bitch," she called him as she reached down and turned on the radio, cranking up the volume as the wind whipped her shoulder length brown hair into [a] wild tangle around her head.
Glancing down at her watch, she knew damned well where he would be right then, and when the road to the creek came into sight, she jerked on the wheel and the little sports car fishtailed into the turn, its rear wheels spraying gravel.
Wynd heard the approaching engine and snorted. Lifting the long neck to his lips, he took a deep sip of the beer-was taking another-when he heard the skid of tires on the dirt then the angry slam of her car door.
"You are a prick, Wynd Landers!" she shouted as she stomped over to where he was lounging on the creek bank, his shirt off, hat hanging on a branch, feet bare.
"And you're a cunt, Storm Landers," he answered her insult. "Guess that means we were made for one another."
She came to stand over him with her hands on her hips. It made her even angrier to note the lazy way he reclined there with one knee crooked, his buff body braced on an elbow, beer bottle in hand. "Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was at the club?"
He tilted his head back and looked up at her, squinting in the sun. "Do you think I give a shit how embarrassed you were at the club, baby cakes? Those uptight rich bitches can kiss this white trash bastard's ass."
Storm snorted. "I imagine most of them have at one time or another."
His eyes narrowed dangerously, Wynd shot her a hateful look. "Well, somebody's gotta kiss it since you've been slobbering all over Drake Kimberly's flaccid rump."
She drew back her foot-intending to kick him in the ribs-but he tossed the beer away to snake out his hand. She shrieked, her mouth open in shock as he caught her foot lightning fast and jerked, causing her to tumble backwards to the ground. She fell hard with the wind knocked out of her but before she could scramble away, he was up and over her, his hard as nails body pressing hers down into the soft grass, his long legs between hers, his knees pushing hers wide.
"Uh, unh, baby," he said, his low voice a predatory growl. "You've kicked me while I was down for the last damned time."
Storm tried to push him off her but that was futile. He was lying on her skirt and that effectively trapped her legs. He was over two hundred pounds of prime, muscled male-enraged male at that-and she had invaded his territory. She knew he considered her fair game.
"Get off me, Wynd!" she hissed, bucking beneath him but all she got for her struggle was the hard stab of his erection digging into her thigh.
"Be still," he ordered, grappling with her until he could enclose his strong fingers around her wrists to pin her arms above her. "I'm not letting you go until you listen to me!"
"You go to hell," she spat and writhed beneath him, trying to wiggle out from under him. In the process the elastic band on the neck ruffle of her blouse pulled downward to expose the lace of her strapless bra.
Wynd's gaze ricocheted down and was caught and held by her heaving bosom as she struggled with him. Instinctively, he ground his lower body into hers, his hips rocking against hers.
"Stop that!" she snarled, and when he slowly brought his stare from her chest to her flushed face, her breath stilled for she knew that bold, assessing look all too well. "No, Wynd." The two words were not only a denial but a warning, forced out from between tightly clenched teeth.
From years of working her father's fields, from hefting fifty pound bags of manure and fertilizer, from helping to wrangle the quarter horses that were Riley Farms new endeavor, Wynd's hands held a wealth of strength in them and he used that force to transferred her left wrist to her right, easily holding both her fragile wrists in the span of the long, tapered fingers of his right hand, leaving his left free to trail down her arm and over her shoulder onto the silky lace of her bra.
"Goddamn it, I said no!" she snapped but could not stop the groan that punctuated the denunciation, for her husband was caressing her, the rough pad of his work-worn thumb dragging over the lace.
"You want me, Princess," he said and lowered his lips to hers, but when she turned her face away, he wasn't in the least deterred. His mouth went to her ear instead and his hot breath sent shivers down her side. "You know you do."
"Wynd, don't," she pleaded. She could feel the weight of his erection, the probe of it as he ground it against her thigh.
He flicked his warm, wet tongue into her ear and smiled as she shuddered. His fingers were tugging down the cup of the bra, freeing her nipple to the abrading surface of his calloused thumb. When she stiffened, he rolled that sweet little peak between his fingers, plucking, pinching gently as he worked his hips on hers.
"Tell me you don't need what I can give you," he whispered in her ear and caught her earlobe between his teeth.
"I don't want what you can give me," she insisted and had to bite her lip to keep from groaning as his lips slid from her ear, down her neck, over the swell of her breast to graze the dusky silk of her areola. She could feel the tip of his tongue fluttering just above the engorged nipple and dared not move.
"Baby, you may not want it, but you sure as hell need it," he countered.
Pulling her breast free of its silky protection he held it taut in his hand-kneading it, needing it, aching to taste it-easing his lips over the nipple, drawing that puckered bud deep into his mouth.
"Wynd...." Her protest was one long whimper of his name. She trembled as his hand left her breast and moved down her body, clutching at the long skirt covering her legs, shifting his lean torso so he could drag the fabric up, inching it up until she felt the sun and the wind playing across her flesh.
She smelled of the mango shower gel she used and the gardenia scented perfume that was her trademark. Her flesh was soft as satin, her nipple as sweet as any confection ever created. He became lost each time he put his hands to this woman and in the deepest part of his being he hoped he would never be found. Lying there with her beneath him, his hand smoothing up her silky thigh, touching the lacy edge of her panties, he was in a place he never wanted to leave.
"Please don't do this," she said, then gasped as his hand moved between her thighs to cup her.
Looking at her, reluctantly withdrawing his mouth from her breast, he willed her to meet his gaze. "You're wet," he said.
Storm didn't need him to tell her. She felt this way every time he touched her whether in love or lust or anger. It had always been this way and she feared it always would.
He held her trapped in his dark intensity as he rubbed her between the legs, the heat of his palm, the rasp of his calluses plucking at the silk, the scent of her juices flowing making his blood pound in his ears.
"Tell me you don't want me," he said, and he moved his hand high so his fingertips were at the waistband of her panties.
"You don't play fair," was all she could say.
He smiled that cocky, irritating-and endearing-grin that never failed to break her heart every time she saw it.
"Never said I did, Princess," he told her.
His fingers threaded through the curls covering her mound but stopped just short of touching that part of her she ached to have him stroke.
"Tell me," he repeated.
Storm shook her head from side to side. She wouldn't lie to him. Despite the lies he'd told her, the promises he'd broken, the trust he'd betrayed, she could not deny that he had been and always would be the only man she ever really wanted.
"Tell me." It was a whisper as soft as a breeze.
"I can't," she admitted in resignation.
She saw triumph in his golden gaze just a fleeting second before he lowered his mouth to hers, parted her lips with his questing tongue, and took her mouth as she knew he would soon take her body.
Wynd's middle finger claimed her clit as he swept his tongue into her mouth and withdrew, moved in again to taste her honeyed sweetness. He rubbed that swollen nub and circled it, turning soft flesh to hard. As his kiss deepened, he moved his finger lower until he was stroking the opening of her channel, her wetness clinging to him.
Overhead the sun beat down upon them and the fickle southeast Georgia wind shook the leaves of the live oak and the swags of the Spanish moss under which they lay. The smell of honeysuckle and clover washed over and around them and the bubbling creek splashed against rocks half-hidden in its current. Somewhere a cow lowed and another answered. A dog barked. The lazy drone of an airliner passing far overhead echoed back to them.
Storm ached to put her arms around her husband. She wanted to hold him, to run her fingers through the dark curly hair that lay at the nape of his strong neck. She wanted to encircle him with her legs. But he held her wrists captive and in some wayward, feminist part of her brain, she reckoned that was better than giving in to him as she yearned to. After all, she was divorcing him. He had been unfaithful and…
"Love me, Princess," he said against her mouth. "Love me like I love you."
She didn't get a chance to answer him for his finger dipped into her wet sheath and a flood of passion curled low in her belly. She arched her hips up to him, impaling herself on his probing finger and once more his lips were on hers, drawing, and his tongue raping her mouth. She was barely aware of him ripping her fragile panties from her hips, of him fumbling with the zipper of his jeans.
Wynd pulled his cock from the constriction of his pants. He was achingly hard, the tip wet and throbbing, needing to be inside its woman's sheath. Guiding himself into her, he sank down into her sweet, moist heat and groaned. He let go of her wrists and jammed both his hands beneath her shapely ass and lifted her to him even as her right leg crooked over his hip, anchoring him to her. Tearing his mouth from hers, he buried his face in her shoulder.
"Love me, Storm," he pleaded as he began to pump inside her, his hips rotating as he withdrew and advanced within her creamy channel.
Storm draped her arms around his neck and one hand spiked through the thick hair at the back of his head. She took a handful of that dark brown silk and held on as his thrusts lengthened and deepened and increased in force.
"I do love you, Wynd," she whispered. She closed her eyes to better experience the special bond their lovemaking always wrought between them. If nothing else was right with their joining, the sex was nothing less than spectacular.
It had been months since they had lain together but the rhythm of their passion never faltered. The desire would never fade and the need their bodies had for the other could not be denied.
Digging the heel of her left foot into the grass, Storm met him thrust for thrust, lifting her hips to him. She could feel the muscles of his back flexing and contracting as he pushed into her and sweat fell from his forehead onto her cheek as he lay there with his face against her shoulder. His fingers were digging into her rump as he held her and his long, powerful strokes rubbed her spine along the ground.
"Yes," she said, feeling the coiling of her release tightening like a spring inside her womb. "Yes, Wynd. Yes."
His speed increased until he was slamming into her, grunting with the effort. Her sheath was tightening around him and the first faint spasm, that first sweet clench, took hold of his cock and then the dam broke and she was keening in that precious little girl voice as she came again and again, her body milking his, her sex pulling him as deep inside her as his root would go.
"Storm!" he cried out and stilled, his hot cum shooting deep and powerfully into her. He grunted, surged against her two more times until the last of his seed was released. He was quivering, his arms trembling, his belly shuddering as he hovered over her then he was dragging breath into his depleted lungs, gasping as he collapsed atop her-spent and satiated-secure in the arms she wrapped so tightly around him.
They were both breathing heavily, their hearts pounding, blood racing, and sweat glistening where their flesh touched. A trickle of salty moisture eased down the side of his face and fell to the hollow of her throat. He lapped at it with his tongue, almost too tired to move.
Off to the west, a low, ominous rumbling began, and Storm opened her eyes and turned her head to look that way. Dark clouds were building and even as she watched, lightning stair stepped down from the heavens. The ground beneath them echoed with the vibration of the approaching storm.
"Come home with me, baby," he asked softly.
Storm gazed up at the spreading tree above them. "This doesn't change anything, Wynd," she told him as she uncoiled her arms from around his neck and tugged her bra back into place, hiding herself from his view.
He pushed himself up, his rod sliding out of her slick body. "Damn it, Storm. How many times do I have to swear to you that I didn't touch her?"
Tears gathered in Storm's eyes. "I saw you," she said.
Wynd blinked and his lips parted with surprise. "What?"
"I saw you with her," she said.
He shook his head. "No, you didn't," he stated. "You couldn't have because I haven't been with her. I told you..."
"I have a tape of it!" she blurted out, wishing she hadn't, for it was the one piece of leverage her lawyer had insisted she keep to herself. Her lower lip quivered.
Stunned by her admission, Wynd could do nothing but stare at her. When she put her hands on his chest and pushed him, he came to his knees, absently tucking himself back into his jeans as she scooted backward and got to her feet, stumbling in her haste.
"When?" he asked, lifting his head to look up at her. He was on his knees in front of her, his hands on his thighs, the waistband of his jeans undone.
"Oh, I'm not likely to forget the date, Wynd," she threw at him as she bent down to retrieve her torn panties. "The time and date stamp is right there on the tape!"
"When?" he repeated, a tic developing in his jaw.
"March 14, 2006 at 3:45 AM," she answered.
Wynd looked down at the ground, his eyes moving back and forth as though searching the grass for an answer to her charge. His brow furrowed, dragging deep lines between his golden eyes. For the life of him he could not recall where he'd been on that day or even what day of the week it had been. Then the date registered, and his head snapped up as she headed for her car.
"I was in Atlanta on March 14th," he said. He got to his feet and started after her.
"I know damned well where you were supposed to have been!" she accused.
"She wasn't with me," he said, reaching out to grab his wife's arm and spin her around to face him. "I flew to Atlanta alone in the Cessna Monday night. I checked into that hotel alone."
Storm tried to jerk her arm away from him, but his fingers tightened just above her elbow. "Then she either came up later or was already there because it's all right there on the tape!"
"What tape?" he challenged, his eyes boring into hers. "Where the hell did the tape come from, Storm?"
She managed to pull her arm free of his grip and opened her car door, but he reached around her and slammed it shut again, pushing her up against the vehicle, and pinning her there with his body.
"Who gave you the tape?" he demanded.
"I don't know," she said and strove to push him away. "It was delivered to the house. I didn't see who brought it." She was unaware that tears were sliding down her cheeks. "Maybe good old Rachel brought it by as a memento of your time together."
"I have never been with Rachel Dodd!" he shouted at her, making her flinch. His hands were on her shoulders now and he shook her. "I swear to God I have never touched that lying bitch!"
"I saw you," Storm said in a small, hurt little voice that broke his heart. He would have gathered her to him but she thrust her arms up through his and slapped them sideways, breaking his hold. Before he could stop her, she'd shoved him as hard as she could and he stumbled backward and away from her. She took advantage of that to wrench open her door and get into the car.
"If that tape really exists, it's a forgery," he told her.
"Don't you think I know my own husband's body, Wynd?" she yelled at him. "How many men have the same tattoo on their shoulder that you do? It was you, goddamn it. It was you!"
"It's a forgery," he repeated. "Who made that tape, Storm? Ask yourself who made that tape and why."
"Obviously Rachel did," she hissed.
Wynd stood there looking at her. "I never touched her," he said, but his words were lost in the whirl of her motor as she cranked the car and gunned it, whipping it around in a circle-narrowly missing a stand of pines-and raced back down the lane.
As the wind quickened and the smell of moisture made the air cloying, Wynd reached up to stab a hand through his hair. News of a tape showing him with Rachel Dodd was a damning thing. No wonder Storm was mad as hell.
Going back to the tree to retrieve his hat and boots, he got into his pickup, grimacing as his bare back touched the hot, sticky vinyl of the seat. He glanced at the shirt he'd removed earlier and tossed onto the seat but didn't have the energy or the inclination to put it on. He should pick up the two beer bottles lying on the grass, but [he] didn't have the vigor to do that, either. His gaze moved to the other four bottles in the cardboard carrying case. The mature, sensible, legal thing to do would be to get out and get the remaining long necks, but he wasn't feeling mature or sensible at the moment. He decided he'd leave the beer to whoever found it.
Turning on the engine, he flinched as the radio came blaring into life and reached over to turn down the volume. It didn't help that the song playing was one of those you-cheated-now-I'm-outta-here songs by some slinky country chanteuse wannabe. He turned off the noise and drew in a long breath, exhaling slowly as he put the truck in gear and drove slowly down the lane, deep in thought.
As he pulled onto the cut off to Riley Farms and the job he'd been avoiding since being served with the divorce papers, his mind went back to the first day he'd seen Storm Riley. It had been the day he lost his heart to her.
Chapter One
"The crew is here, boss man," Hector Rodriquez, the farm foreman, told Shane Riley.
Dilapidated pickup trucks and a few rusted out station wagons were coming down the dusty road toward them. The migrant workers had arrived to work the fields for the summer harvest.
Storm had come down to the staging area to clarify a problem with one of her father's account books but with the arrival of the crew, she knew she'd have to wait. She didn't want to hang around, wasn't interested in the dirty-looking men who worked her father's fields every year, and she was about to head back to the house when a young man sitting in the bed of one of the trucks caught her eye. She did a double take, unaware she was staring openly at him.
It was his handsome face she had noticed first but set among those chiseled features were the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen and those eyes were looking back at her with such raw hunger, she was taken aback. No one had ever looked at her like that. No one had ever dared look at her like that, and she didn't like it. Lifting her chin, she gave him her most withering glare.
And he smiled very slowly, eyes the color of dark topaz crinkling at the corners as straight, white teeth gleamed behind full, sensuous lips. Insolently, he put his right index finger up to his straw cowboy hat and saluted her, acknowledging her insult.
"Creep," she said beneath her breath and spun around. As she walked away, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her and had to force herself not to turn around to shoot him another glower.
"She was staring at you," Juan Sanchez commented, jostling Wynd's shoulder with his own. "She wants you, tipo."
Wynd laughed as he reached up to settle his hat more comfortably before hopping down from the truck. He was used to girls-of every age-staring openly at him. He had his father's Anglo features and height but his mother's dark Native American coloring and thick dark hair. Girls hovered around him like flies to warm honey but none of them had ever dismissed him as the Anglo girl just had.
"That's the boss man's daughter," Manuel Perez told them. "She just graduated from A.B.A.C."
"Aback from what?" Juan asked.
"Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College," Wynd supplied. "It's a college over in Tifton."
"Listen to Mr. Know-it-all," Juan quipped.
Wynd shrugged. "I read the highway signs, guys. Try it, you might learn something," he said. He saw Gil Rodriquez, the crew leader motioning him over to where the farm owner and his assistant were standing. "I'll catch up with you guys later," he said and headed toward the other men.
"Mr. Riley," Gil said, "this is Wynd Landers. He's the guy I mentioned who'll be working with the crew this summer."
Shane Riley stuck out his hand. "Rick tells me you just graduated A & M?" he inquired, clasping Wynd's hand.
"I received my Masters of Agribusiness," Wynd replied in a low voice, "but I'd just as soon keep that between the four of us."
"May I ask why?" Shane queried.
"I'll be working alongside the crews and as far as they are concerned, I'm just another bent back in the field."
"The men were told that Wynd is training to be a crew leader. It's best they don't know any differently, Mr. Riley," Ricardo said. "They won't trust him if they know he's not really one of them."
Shane folded his arms over his chest. "What's your motivation for doing this, son?" he asked. He narrowed his eyes. "Is this one of those exposé type things?"
"No, sir," Wynd said. "I'm working on a book about migrant workers and knowing the mindset of the men, experiencing the work itself firsthand will give me insight into what it is like to do the job. I was told you had the best record in the state of Georgia in how you treat your workers. After seeing the worst in the state last summer, this should be a piece of cake."
Hector's eyebrows shot up. "You worked the Triple Bar B?" he asked.
Wynd nodded.
Hector whistled. "That took balls."
"Or a lack of sense," Wynd stated.
"Well, we'll be sure to treat you like all the rest of our workers. I won't even tell my wife and daughter," Shane said with a grin. "Give us an honest day's work and we'll feed you two square meals a day and a cold sack lunch. There are four air conditioned barracks with fourteen beds in each barracks, a bathroom with two shower stalls, two johns and two sinks. There's also a communal hall where breakfast and supper are served and you can do your laundry, watch a bit of TV at the end of the day if you're not too tired. On Saturdays, we show a movie and on Sunday we provide a van to take you into town to church services if you're inclined to go. The local Catholic Church is Immaculate Conception. We have a nurse practitioner who comes in if needed and there's a small commissary stocked with sundry personal items we sell at fair prices."
"Compared to the hell I lived in last summer, I'll think I've died and gone to heaven," Wynd replied.
"Anything you want to know, just ask me if I'm around, or else look for Hector," Shane told him.
"I do have one question?" Wynd ventured.
Shane inclined his head.
"Is your daughter seeing someone?"
Riley frowned. "And just what is that to you?" Shane challenged.
Wynd looked him in the eye. "Have you ever heard of Eagle-Land Enterprises?"
A surprised look came over Shane's face. "Eagle-Land as in John Eaglehawk and Jackson Landers? The mega mart chain out west?" He blinked. "Is Jackson your father?"
Wynd nodded politely. "That he is, sir."
Riley's lips twitched, and Hector chuckled, giving Ricardo a wink. "No, my daughter isn't seeing anyone special, but she does date a guy on a somewhat regular basis and has since high school. He's someone I don't much care for," Shane replied. "A spoiled brat by the name of Drake Kimberly who thinks his shit doesn't stink, who wears designer labels that make him look like a New York City fashion model or a refugee from Miami's South Beach." He arched a brow. "If you want to try squeezing Drake out you have my blessing but don't expect Storm to give you the time of day. No offense, son, but being a migrant worker, she won't see much potential in you and neither will her mama."
"Well, we'll just have to teach her to look past the label and see the man beneath, now, won't we, sir?" Wynd inquired.
Shane laughed. "If you can do that, I'll buy you a case of your favorite beer, son! I love my only child more than life, itself, but she can be a real snob thanks to her mother's side of the family."
"That would be Corona Extra, sir," Wynd said, tipping his hat. "Ice cold."
* * * *
Storm was in the farm office later that afternoon when Wynd came strolling in. His shirt was plastered to his muscular body, his face gleaming with sweat. Dirty streaks ran along his chiseled jaw. She gave him a disgusted look, recognizing him from earlier. "What is it?" she barked.
"I'm supposed to get the fertilizer invoice for Hector," he said in his slow Texas drawl. He took off his hat and armed the sweat from his brow. "Looks like the feed and seed sent the wrong mix."
"That's not likely," she snapped and slid her chair back so she could open the file drawer to her left.
"Storm, isn't it?" he asked as he put his hat back on.
"It's Miss Storm to you," she countered, not bothering to look up at him as she searched for the invoice.
"Hey, don't mince words, Princess," he said and locked eyes with her when her head snapped up, and she stared at him with her mouth ajar. "Let's put that wetback in his rightful place right up front. Don't dare give him any ideas."
Fury flitted across Storm's face for just a moment before her gaze narrowed dangerously. "You tell Hector to send someone else next time," she said. She jerked the invoice out of the file and practically threw it at him. "I won't have you in my office."
"Where would you like to have me then?" he asked in a low, throaty growl.
A tight curl rippled through Storm's belly, and she snapped her mouth shut, forcing herself to swallow against the lump suddenly lodged in her throat. The eyes of the man staring back at her were devouring her where she sat and she felt her cheeks burning. When he smiled slowly, knowingly, obviously aware of the effect he was having on her senses, all the spit dried up in her mouth.
"Get the hell out of here!" she ordered, pointing at the door.
"Yes, ma'am," he agreed. "Right away." He leaned over and picked up the invoice, tipped his hat and turned to go, his lean body moving like that of a stealthy jungle animal, his jeans so tight they left nothing to her imagination, and his gait was more strut than walk.
Storm stared after him, unable to move, barely able to breathe as she watched his ass shifting in those jeans. No man should look that good in a pair of dirty pants frayed at the cuff with holes in the knees. As soon as the door closed on his departure, she slumped back in her seat and realized her hands were trembling.
For the next several weeks Storm saw the hot-looking farm worker whom Hector seemed to have taken a particular shine to-her father as well-all over the place. In the mornings he was climbing up into the back of the truck beds that took the workers to the field, but all during the day she'd see him running errands in her father's truck and more than likely those errands brought him to her office. When she'd tried to talk to both Hector and her father about assigning someone else the task, they had not been agreeable. If anything, they'd been downright adamant.
"Wynd is a hard worker and he's smart as a whip," her father had complimented. "I trust him."
"Wynd is the best man for the job," Hector pronounced. "I trust him."
"Well, I don't!" Storm had complained to her mother.
Margie Riley agreed with her daughter. After one look at the sexy young man, she had also tried to dissuade Shane from allowing Wynd free rein of the farm. Her arguments had been met with a stony look and a set mouth.
"Wynd's a good man," Shane told his wife. "Leave him be, Margie." He'd shaken a finger at her. "I won't have any of your interfering."
Mother and daughter had tried to contrive a way to keep the tall Texan from being alone in the office with Storm and the solution had come when Margie suggested Storm ask her best friend, Beverly, to help out for the summer. On the day Beverly started work, it was raining cats and dogs with lightning popping all around the farm. There would be no working in the fields that day for Shane had declared it too dangerous.
"At least I don't have to worry about that man showing up...." Storm was telling Beverly when the office door opened and the object of her disapproval came inside, taking off his hat and shaking his thick dark hair as though he were a terrier. She groaned.
"The bottom opened up out there," he said with a grin.
"Too bad it didn't drown you in the process," Storm insulted him.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he said and his golden gaze skipped over to Beverly. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Beverly said.
"What now?" Storm asked.
"Since we can't get out in the fields, your father suggested I come over and annoy you," he answered. "He wants me to learn the coding system for…."
"Why?" Storm demanded, her eyes blazing. "For what?"
He grinned. "So I can take over for him when you and I get married and he retires and...."
Storm shot to her feet. "You are so full of shit your eyes should be brown instead of amber!" she yelled at him.
He shrugged. "Happy to know you have noticed the color of my eyes, Princess." He took a step toward her desk. "What color are yours, by the way? I've never gotten close enough to tell. Are they hazel or are they--?"
"You're never going to get close enough to tell, you insufferable irritant!" Storm practically bellowed.
"Insufferable irritant?" he echoed. He gave Beverly a wounded look. "I just seem to rub her the wrong way, don't I?"
"Get out!" Storm ordered.
"Now, Princess...." he began.
"Get out of here! Now!"
Beverly sat like a spectator at a tennis match, her head swiveling back and forth between them as they sparred. The sexual tension in the room was so thick it could have been cut with a knife.
"Temper, temper, Princess," he said, holding his hands palm out to her. "I'm going." He backed toward the door. He stopped. "Oh, you want me to turn around so you can watch my ass some more?"
"Oohh!" Storm shrieked and picked up her paperweight to throw at him. Before she could release it, he was scrambling out the door, laughing as he went.
"Holy Mother of God, Storm Lynn," Beverly said as thunder rumbled over the building. "You've got to be kidding me." She fanned herself with a magazine.
"Do you see what he does?" Storm said, plopping down in her chair. "He drives me crazy."
"He would drive any girl crazy," Beverly said. "Have you taken a good look at him?"
Storm buried her face in her hands. "I've done nothing but look at him," she complained with a whine.
"But no touching, I hope," Beverly quipped.
"Of course not!" Storm hissed.
"Good, because he might look good, sweetie, but he's most definitely off limits," Beverly reminded her.
"Don't you think I know that?"
"I'm surprised Mr. Shane allows him anywhere near you," Beverly commented. "But then I suppose your daddy trusts you not to jump that hunkie boy's bones."
Storm whimpered and laid her head on the desk top, lightly pretending to bang her forehead against the surface. "He won't leave me alone, Bev! Every time I turn around, he's in here with his too-tight jeans and his smirk. I could just scream!"
"Maybe you need Drake to have a little talk with him," Beverly suggested.
Ceasing to bump her head against the desk, Storm looked up. "Maybe you're right. What are boyfriends for if not to discourage unwanted suitors?"
"Well, I wouldn't call a migrant worker a suitor of any kind, but I'm sure Drake will handle it."
"He's in Birmingham until next weekend," Storm said, "but as soon as he's home, I'm gonna have a talk with him. He'll put that man in his place!"
* * * *
Two afternoons later, Wynd Landers was leaning with his hip against the hood of her father's pickup truck when Storm came out of the office. Muscular arms were folded over a broad chest and the deep tan of his arms against the rolled up sleeves of the white shirt that strained at impossibly wide shoulders made something clench deep inside her. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway down that taut chest and dark, crisp hair lay in curls in the opening where a golden medallion hung on a chain around his neck. One long jeans-clad leg was crossed over the other, one booted ankle atop the other as he stood there with the brim of his white straw hat shading the amber heat that was pouring from his eyes.
"What do you want now?" she asked with a sigh.
"It's Saturday," he stated.
"I'm impressed you know the day of the week," she said. "So?"
"I'll be at the dance in town tonight," he informed her.
Storm's eyes narrowed. "And that should be of interest to me because…?"
"You can see if my ass moves as well to music as it does the rest of the time," he said huskily.
She threw her hands into the air. "I give up with you, Landers!" she snapped. "Why can't you get it through your head that I'm not interested in what you are offering?"
He arched a brow then uncrossed his booted feet and pushed his hip from the truck in a single lithe move. "How do you know?" he countered.
Deciding she'd had enough of him, she stomped over to him and glared up into his lean face. "You are one of my father's seasonal workers, not even a full-time employee. We are not of the same socio-economic background nor the same religion or even the same educational strata. I am a college graduate with an Associate of Applied Science degree in Agricultural Business Technology and I'll be going on to Valdosta State in the fall to get my Bachelor's. You...." She let her gaze slide down him with contempt. "You are a migrant worker whom I would venture to say barely finished high school, if, indeed, you even did."
"And therefore beneath you," he said, a muscle working in his jaw.
She lifted her chin. "Precisely."
One moment she was turning away from him, her broadside delivered, his set down handed to him cold, and the next he had shot out one arm to encircle her waist and drag her up against him, slamming her body into his, slanting his mouth over hers as he used his other hand to anchor her head for his assault. One taut thigh jammed possessively between hers as she pushed at his broad shoulders in a vain attempt to make him release her, but that maneuver only deepened his kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips to scald her mouth with passionate heat. Almost as though they had a mind of their own her fingers suddenly clutched the sleeves of his shirt and she pressed herself closer to him, her hips arched toward his, dueling with his tongue, giving as good as she was getting.
He tore his mouth from hers and stared down into her stunned eyes with such intensity, she trembled. "How 'bout you being beneath me, Princess?" he growled. "On a bed with my body on yours? How's that for precise?"
Storm shoved away from him as though she'd been doused with cold water. Her hand came up, and she slapped him so hard he staggered beneath the impact. The imprint of her hit was stamped on his lean jaw and the look he gave her let her know no one had ever slapped him before. He was as stunned by her reaction as she was to realize she was capable of doing such a thing.
"I'm…m sorry," she stammered. "I shouldn't have done that."
He put a hand to his stinging face. "I deserved it," he said. "I shouldn't have said something so vulgar. I apologize."
For a long moment she looked at him with myriad emotions roiling around inside her, then she lifted her chin. "Seven o'clock?" she said.
He nodded slowly.
"You'll pick me up at the door," she said. It wasn't a question but a command.
"Yes, ma'am," he agreed.
Storm turned away from him and strode quickly to the little red convertible that had been her high school graduation present. She climbed behind the wheel and left without another glance his way.
"Damn woman," he said beneath his breath as he rubbed his face. "You sure do hit hard for being such a little thing."
He didn't realize he was grinning broadly as he headed for the barracks.
* * * *
Shane Riley answered the door that evening and gave his daughter's escort a wry grin. "Wynd," he greeted, stepping back so Wynd could come into the living room.
Margie Riley did not smile at the young man. Her blue eyes were narrowed with barely concealed animosity, and when Storm came down the stairs, she gave her daughter a look that could have curdled milk. The older woman's demeanor made it clear how she felt as she took a seat on the sofa. "Tomorrow is church," Margie stated.
"I'll be home before midnight, Mama," Storm said.
Wynd exchanged a look with his boss then the two men looked away from one another. Opening the door for his date, Wynd smiled gently at Storm.
"What was that about?" Storm asked as Wynd escorted her to her father's truck. She wasn't in the least surprised that was to be her transportation since Wynd had been seen all over the farm in her dad's pickup.
"What was what?" he asked, opening the truck door for her.
"That look that passed between you and Daddy," she said. She paused before climbing into the truck. Over the last two hours her suspicions had been fluttering like butterflies in her belly.
"He trusts me," Wynd said, "to have you back before midnight. It was just a little reminder."
She stared into his guileless golden eyes for a moment. "Uh, huh," she said, then hopped up on the seat, making sure the skirt of her dress was out of the way of the door closing.
Watching him skirt the front of the truck, she realized what was different about him. He didn't have the omnipresent white hat she normally saw him wearing and his dark hair glistened beneath the mercury security light that lit the driveway. When he got into the truck, she also noticed the cologne he was wearing and realized it was a rather expensive one and that surprised her.
"You like Z-12?" she said as he turned on the truck engine.
"Yeah. It's my favorite," he said then seemed to think better of his answer. He cut his eyes across to her. "It was a present from my mom for Christmas."
Storm knew that was a blatant lie by the way he said it, but she let it pass. There was more to the man sitting beside her than he presented. She'd known that from the moment she began noticing Wynd Landers showing up all over the farm doing things that normally Hector or her dad did. Never had either man allowed one of the seasonal workers the liberties or the freedom Wynd was enjoying on Riley Farms.
"So where did you live out in Texas?" she asked.
"Houston," he supplied as they pulled out onto the roadway.
He was driving with his left arm braced on the ledge of the driver side door, his fingers toying with the headliner above. His left leg was crooked comfortably, leaning against the door, his right wrist hooked over the top of the steering wheel. To Storm's way of thinking, he was far too at ease and relaxed, too self assured and confident to be what and whom he was pretending to be.
She twisted in the seat to face him. "Okay, cowboy," she said. "So who are you really?"
Wynd grinned slowly then shot her a quick glance. "Would you believe the sole heir to a billionaire enterprise?"
"Cute," she scoffed. "But that makes more sense than my father allowing me to go to a dance with one of his seasonal workers."
He laughed and slowed the truck a bit, looking both ways at a railroad crossing before continuing on over the tracks. "Would you believe I'm an INS agent infiltrating your father's crew looking for illegals?"
"Not as much," she said. "I prefer the billionaire playboy scenario."
"Ever hear of the Eagle-Land Superstores?" he queried.
"There was a segment on them not long ago on 60 Minutes," she said. "They are starting to rival Wal-Mart in some areas out west."
"Eagle-Land was the brainchild of my father, Jackson, and my mother's brother, John Eaglehawk, when they were in Vietnam. The stores are all family-owned and operated across the southwest but are now expanding into the south and California."
"And that's your family?" she asked, eyes like saucers. At his grin she sighed. "I suppose you managed to finish high school then, huh?"
"And undergraduate school," he said with pride. "I have my Masters, by the way."
She flinched. "Opened mouth and inserted foot on that one," she mumbled.
They had arrived at the place where the Knights of Columbus were having a fundraiser for a local family that had suffered a devastating fire. The parking lot was jammed with cars and trucks, and he was lucky to find a place to park. It would be a bit of a walk, but the night was balmy with a light breeze and the moon overhead was bright.
"You can't tell anyone about me, Princess," he said as he turned off the truck. "The men I work alongside might not appreciate it."
She nodded. "I understand, but my mother should be told."
"I expect your dad will tell her," he said. "All set?"
"Yes," she said, and when he got out of the truck and came around to open her door for her, she gave him a shake of the head. "You had me going there for awhile."
"Class consciousness bothering you?" he teased, taking her hand to help her from the cab. With her hand clasped in his, they started for the building from which country music was pouring into the night.
She asked him questions about why he was hiding his identity and when he explained, she leaned against him. "Daddy's response to you makes a whole lot of sense now," she said.
"I think he just wanted me to get you away from the guy he doesn't like you dating," he said.
"Drake," she said. "No, he doesn't like Drake or his family for that matter."
"Then we won't invite them to our wedding," he said.
Storm laughed, thinking he was joking, but as they neared the building and the security lights lit his handsome face, she looked up into his eyes and what she saw there made her heart lurch in her chest. "You aren't serious?" she questioned.
"As the proverbial heart attack," he said. He stopped, put his free hand to his heart, and looked down at her without blinking. "I took one look at you and knew, Princess. It was the same with my dad and his dad." He shrugged. "Landers men just know when they see the right woman that it's gonna be her for them forever."
She stared into his golden eyes and was lost.
"Drake know you're slumming with the hired help?" a sneering voice asked from the side of the building.
Storm looked around to see Ty Carlton, one of Drake's friends, standing with a couple of their buddies from college. "What I do isn't any of your business, Tyler," she snapped and urged Wynd into the building.
"I saw you at the feed store last week," Ty said, strolling over, his buddies close behind. "You're one of them greasers from Texas."
Wynd tensed, his hand jerking within Storm's. She tugged on him, pleading silently with him not to buy into Ty's insults. He gave her a curt nod and escorted her on into the building with a hand to the small of her back.
"Your kind ain't welcome in Bellington, boy," Ty called out to them and his friends guffawed. "Why don't you stay on your side of the tracks?"
"Don't listen to him," Storm said. "He's a drunk."
Wynd had no illusions about the men standing outside. He'd come up against idiots just like them the summer before. Determined to show Storm a great evening, he pushed thoughts of the good old boys out of his mind for the time being.
Beverly Shannon, Storm's best friend, hurried over to her, her face pale as she saw who Storm was with. She cast Wynd a horrified look before grabbing hold of Storm's arm and pulling her off to one side. "What in the name of the Lord are you doing, Riley?" she demanded.
"Trust me to know what I'm doing, okay?" Storm said. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight, I'm with Wynd." She pulled her arm free and went back to her date, leaving Beverly staring after her with a worried look.
"Let's dance," Wynd said when she joined him.
Every eye in the place was on the two of them as they took the dance floor. With his ass in those tight jeans swaying sensuously to a slow Tim McGraw song, Wynd had the women's undivided attention, and with Storm's pale beauty held in the strong, tanned arms of her escort, the men who believed she was Drake Kimberly's property were glaring at him.
"That man moves like liquid sex," Sheila Tucker commented to Beverly, the words ending on a long sigh.
"He won't be moving at all once Drake gets hold of him," Ann Harrelson snorted.
"What was Storm thinking?" Patti Neil asked.
"Pretty to look at and pretty to hold," Beverly said as she watched Wynd dancing close to Storm, her friend's head on the Texan's shoulder. "I guess she had to get it out of her system."
Wynd felt the weight of the stares accompanying them across the floor. He glanced around, smiled at some of the women-who were quick to smile back-and caught the glares of some of the men. He held those glares until the men looked away, letting them know he wasn't intimidated by their hard looks.
"I'm afraid there'll be trouble, Wynd," Storm said, chewing on her bottom lip. She was seeing the glares as well and it made her nervous. "Maybe you should tell them who you really are."
"Wouldn't matter if I was one of the Kennedys," he said. "I'm an outsider and they want me to know it. Don't worry about it, Princess. I'm not."
But Storm was more than worried. She knew what the men in Drake's crowd were capable of doing. She'd seen it time and again after football games in high school and later at college events.
He waltzed her across the floor, and when the music ended, took her hand to lead her to the refreshment table where punch and cookies were being served.
"Who's your new friend, Storm?" a striking blond ladling the punch asked. Her blue eyes were crawling all over Wynd. She gave him a sultry smile. "How 'bout introducing us?"
"Lynette Forbes, Wynd Landers," Storm said in an offhand manner, taking the Styrofoam cup from Wynd's hand.
"I work for her father," Wynd said. "I pick cantaloupes for a living."
The smile on Lynette's face flickered. Her left eyebrow arched upward. "Oh, really?" she drawled, her voice no longer friendly or flirting. "How quaint." With that, she turned her back on them.
"Ouch," Wynd said. "Cut right to the quick."
"She's a bitch," Storm said. "And half the boys at school have been in her pants."
Wynd grinned. He knew the type. As a fast song started, they strolled over to one of the few empty tables and sat down to sip their punch. No one came over to speak to them, but everyone continued to stare unabashedly. Neither let it concern them and they danced all evening, lost in their own world with just one another. By the time the crowd started thinning out and interest in the music being played by the DJ waned, Storm was ready to call it a night.
"Tired?" Wynd asked. At her nod he suggested they leave. "I promised to have you home before the truck turned into a pumpkin anyway."
"I'm not ready for the evening to end," she said.
Storm looked into her eyes and knew what she was offering. He reached out to cup her cheek. "I know this place...."
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