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Seasonal Winds:
SPRING WIND
By
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
© copyright March 2006, Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright March 2006
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.
Chapter One
"Fucking cops," Striker grumbled as he increased his footsteps. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his scrub pants and his shoulders were hunched defensively. A scowl drew his features taut, making his eyes appear smaller than normal.
"Just keep walking," the woman at his side said in a low voice. "Don't give them any reason to suspect us."
"I hate fucking cops," Striker stated.
"Well, none of my best friends are cops, either," Bailey MacKenna said. She gave Striker a quick glance. "You look guilty, Nate. At least wipe that expression off your face."
Making an attempt to relax, Striker carefully watched the two policemen strolling along the sidewalk across the avenue. So far, neither of them had looked Striker's way. In his position as diener--the person responsible for handling, moving, and cleaning the bodies at the morgue--he rarely came into contact with the authorities and he wanted to keep it that way. He especially disliked the Portal Patrols who maintained the exits points on Vardar-7.
"Uh, oh," Bailey MacKenna whispered.
Striker looked to where she was staring and felt the blood drain from his face. "I knew it," he said. "I knew we were going to get caught." He lowered his voice. "I told you we were going to get caught!"
The tall man walking toward the policemen wore the dreaded steel gray uniform of the Modartha, the ultra-secret police responsible for the Slándáil Phoiblí, the National Security. The people of her world were terrified of the Modartha for the elite law enforcement officers were not only deadly assassins but during full moons, changed into gray wolves--the most dangerous of their kind.
"We're going to hang," Striker said with a moan. "Sure as shit, we're going to hang."
"Shut the hell up, Nate!" Bailey said. So far the Modartha agent had not looked their way. He had stopped to speak to the policemen who appeared as rattled by his appearance as did Striker.
"We're going to end up in the Doinsiún hanging by our thumbs," Striker muttered.
"We're not going to the Dungeon," Bailey hissed at him. "We've done nothing wrong."
"You don't think providing aid to the Resistance is doing anything wrong?" Striker demanded. "Bailey, if we are caught, we'll be jailed and I've no desire to be some bull's cow!"
Bailey rolled her eyes. "We haven't been aiding the Resistance and we haven't done anything to warrant being sent to the Dungeon. We've simply been attending their secret rallies just as hundreds of other people have. If every curious citizen was jailed, there wouldn't be anyone left to do their everyday jobs. There is nothing with which the Modartha could charge us."
"Not yet," Striker reminded her. "You know what they say about curiosity and the cat."
It was at that moment the Modartha agent turned his head and looked right at Bailey. She could feel her stomach do an odd little flip and she drew in a breath. Quickly, she looked away from his probing stare, lowering her head with the proper respect one showed a man of his position.
"Oh, Sweet Morrigunia, Bailey," Striker whimpered. "He's crossing the street and coming straight at us."
"Keep walking," Bailey told him. Sweat was gathering in her palms, her heart was thundering--blood pounding--and a cold finger of dread was scratching down her spine.
"Halt!"
Immediately both Bailey and Striker did as they were ordered. They stood stock still, waiting for the Modartha to reach them. With heads down, eyes on the sidewalk, they assumed the required position of hands clasped behind their backs in an attitude of subservience.
"Identify yourselves," the Modartha demanded. He came to stand directly behind Bailey and it was she who spoke first, the senior of the two.
"Cróinéir Second Class Bailey MacKenna, Milord," she said.
"Diener Class Nathan Striker, Milord," Striker replied.
"A coroner," the Modartha said with a snort. "Not a typical feminine occupation."
Bailey said nothing for she'd not been asked a direct question.
"Do you enjoy playing with dead things, wench?" he queried.
"It is my job, Milord," she answered.
"Assigned?"
"Yes, Milord." She drew in a breath for he was so close to her she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck and his body warmth radiating toward hers.
"Don't you like playing with live men?"
She didn't know how to answer that. Her knees felt as though they would give out beneath her at any moment and she was trembling violently beneath his scrutiny.
"Do you prefer playing with live women, then?"
Bailey closed her eyes. "No, Milord. I am not of that bent."
His voice was low, a sultry caress but steel-hard as she felt his lips against the column of her neck. His body made contact with hers. "Step into the alley, wench," he ordered her. He gave Striker a nasty look. "You stay right where you are, diener."
Striker was trembling too, but he managed to bob his head. "Yes, M…milord," he stammered. He was breathing heavily and perspiring copiously with sweat glistening on his pale face. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he sensed Bailey moving away from him.
Terrified of the man behind her, Bailey walked the few feet into the shadowy alleyway that ran between two tall buildings. She stopped.
"I didn't tell you to stop, wench. Keep walking," he told her in a gruff voice.
Her mouth dry and her palms slick, she continued deeper into the alleyway until he bid her stop.
"Turn and face the wall," he said.
Seasonal Winds
Book Two
SUMMER WIND
By
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
© copyright July 2006, Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright July 2006
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.
Chapter One
Barbara Lynn Allan stood at the polished teakwood rail of the luxury yacht and stared at the beautiful island with its pristine turquoise waters. She had never been to Mistral Cay before but the allure of the tropical paradise and what went on there had filled her fevered dreams for months. As she watched the setting sun flame bright gold in the waters of the harbor, she shivered, anticipating what was to come.
Three months earlier, she would not have believed she’d be standing on a yacht in the middle of the Caribbean and anticipating a week of decadence and spoiling. Life had never offered anything but heartache and disappointment to her.
“What is it you want, Barbara?” her friend Stacy had asked when Barbara had cried out her frustration one evening after they’d gone to supper together.
“I want everything,” Barbara said wistfully. Her shoulders had slumped. “I’ve got nothing and I want everything.”
"Well, like what?" Stacy asked.
"I don't know," Barbara said. "Adventure, excitement, something--anything--to take me out of my ordinary existence and give me some fun. All I do is get up, go to work, come home, eat, and sit before the TV or read a book until I get sleepy. I don't have a boyfriend--although that would certainly be nice. I'd love to have someone to spend time with, to go on a thrilling escapade with, or just to sit in front of the fire and toast our footsies." Barbara perked up. "Or better yet, someone I could sail off with into the sunset or ride off with on a big white charger. You know: fantasy!"
“You can have just about anything you want at the Cay.”
Barbara had been skeptical when Stacy had first mentioned the resort. “I don’t know, Stace....”
“Whatever you want,” Stacy had purred. “You can choose your fantasy, your partner--well, any man save the owner, Julian St. John. He’s off limits. He doesn’t do clients, but everyone else is fair game. What have you got to lose? All I need to do is recommend you and you’re in like Flint, Babs.”
It had taken some juggling but Barbara had scraped together the cost of the extravagant vacation. Stacy had written her letter of recommendation, Barbara had been investigated by the Cay’s security division, and the invitation had arrived just when Stacy said it would--on Barbara’s birthday.
“Go get ‘em, tigress!” Stacy had congratulated her.
Lights blazed into life on the dock. The gangplank was lowered and crewmen in their striped blue-and-white pullovers began taking the guests’ luggage ashore.
As the sun sank beneath the horizon, Barbara turned away from the rail. Her heart was beating a mile a minute--so fiercely it made her head ache. Her palms were moist. She was nervous but excited about her stay at the Cay.
“Your tour director will be waiting for you in the mauve room, Ms. Allan,” the captain said as she passed him.
“I hope you have a very fulfilling stay at Mistral Cay.”
She smiled timorously and thanked him, clutching her purse to her as she began her walk down the steel gangplank.
“What about the pretty Afro-American lady with the off-the-rack dress from Wal-Mart?” the owner of the Cay inquired from his office window. “What’s her story?”
“Barbara Allan, age 26, from a place called Climax, Georgia,” Julian St. John’s administrative assistant stated. When his boss turned to give him a quizzical look, he grinned. “You heard right--Climax. She is a computer tech for Entellimedia, a cable company out of Albany, Georgia. Unmarried. Never engaged. No boyfriend at present.” The assistant folded the top sheet of Barbara’s file over. “Last boyfriend was in college four years ago. Doesn't seem to have much of a social life. All work and no play and she's bored with her life. She pulls down a whopping 35K a year, rents her apartment, owes roughly $16K on her 2000 Toyota, and has next to no savings now that she purchased her vacation from us.”
Julian St. John frowned. “Doesn’t sound like she can afford us,” he commented. He was watching the slightly overweight black woman coming toward the main spa building. “Who recommended her?”
“Her college roommate, Stacy Mendelssohn,” the assistant replied. “Remember her?”
Julian drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. “Only too well. She groped me on the stairs one night. I thought Silkie would pulverize her but apparently the two of them came to some kind of understanding.”
The assistant grinned at the thought of Julian’s wife stomping Mendelssohn. “In her letter, Ms. Mendelssohn said she believed Ms. Allan would benefit greatly from a stay here at the Cay. Says she’s far too inhibited.”
The owner of Mistral Cay stood there quietly for a moment, and then turned away from the window. “Refund Ms. Allan’s money but don’t let her know we’ve done so. Let her have her fantasy and make sure it satisfies her completely.”
Henri Bouvier, Julian’s admin assistant, cocked a dark brow. “And just what explanation do we give her when she gets home to Georgia and finds her money has been refunded?”
“Tell her that she won a contest we were holding and the trip was on us,” Julian said. He sat down in the form-fitting chair behind his desk. “No woman should ever have to deplete her savings to find pleasure in this world or any other.”
AUTUMN WIND
By
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
© copyright September 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright September 2006
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.
Chapter One
With her long, black unbound hair whipping behind her, Mina Windwalker bent forward as she raced her chestnut pony across the rolling hills. The horse’s hooves pounded the ground as it thundered over the short grass plain. Riding bareback, her fringed buckskin dress tucked up around her tanned thighs, she drummed her feet against the horse’s sides to make it go faster.
Tears shimmered in Mina’s black eyes. Her heart had been broken that morning and she doubted it would ever mend. The man to whom she had been betrothed since she was a little girl had betrayed her. His treachery had wounded her deeper than any knife and she was shamed.
Crashing over a small stream bed, the horse stumbled on the other side but kept its footing as it plunged up a small hill. Mina’s hands were clutching its thick mane. There were no reins to guide the beast, no bit in its mouth to hamper it. It picked up more speed as it took to the flat, open prairie.
The sun had set by the time the horse began to tire. Its sides were heaving. Concerned for the animal, Mina unhooked the fingers of her cramped right hand and reached out to pat the horse’s neck. Almost instantly it seemed to know she was giving it permission to slow down and the great beast did, its stride shortening until it was doing a slow trot.
“I am a selfish woman,” she said, leaning over to lay her cheek against the horse’s neck. “I ask your pardon, Red Hawk.”
The pony stopped moving and lowered its head to sniff at the grass. It made a chuffing sound as though it forgave her for her lack of consideration.
Mina felt guilty for her thoughtlessness in pushing her mount so hard and swung a leg over its head, sliding to the ground so it could rest without her weight--slight though it was. She looked around and knew precisely where she was. She hissed with irritation for she was many miles from her tribe’s encampment. She had let her wounded heart blind her to all but the need to exorcise the demon of her intended’s unfaithfulness.
“Mother will skin me alive,” she said with a sigh.
Spying a copse of trees, she started toward it, knowing Red Hawk would follow. The pony was well-trained and after allowing her senses to test the air, she found nothing about it to make her skittish. Walking slowly, fanning her hand on the tall grass that grew in spots as high as her knees, she felt keenly the pain of finding the man to whom she would soon be Joined in the arms of another. Seeing him covering the whore with his body, pumping between her legs, made Mina’s soul ache. Not even the soft breeze of the night wind could cool the heat that still clung to her cheeks as she thought again of what she’d seen.
“Why, Chaska?” she whispered.
She had gone to the settlement to surprise her betrothed but the surprise had been hers. The door to Chaska Dark Wolf’s room in the scout barracks had not been locked and she had slipped inside to wait for him, hiding in the closet from which she intended to jump out and scare him. She had not expected him to return from his day, spent as a scout for the Capitol Army, with a white woman in tow nor to find his brother, Takoda, close behind.
“Chaska, listen....” Takoda had begun.
“I will have her first,” Chaska had pronounced and made quick work of ridding the blonde-haired tart of her clothing.
With the closet door cracked open, Mina had slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out, shocked to the very roots of her hair at the things her intended was doing with the woman.
The woman had a lush figure with pendulous breasts, crowned with dark nipples that stood out in sharp contrast to her white skin. She was bare from the belly down, obviously having shaved away all pubic hair from her mons. The sight shocked Mina so badly she could not properly draw breath
“Nice,” Chaska stated as he rubbed his hand over the bare area. “I like this. It feels lusty.”
Takoda stood with his back to the closet, watching his older brother push the whore onto the bed. She flopped backwards across the mattress with her arms flung wide, her legs dangling off the side, fleshy thighs parted obscenely. When Chaska knelt down to place his mouth on the woman’s sex, his brother turned away, going to the other side of the room to take a seat.
“You should not do this, ciye,” Takoda said.
Mina was stunned as she watched the man to whom she was betrothed as he licked the slut between her legs, dragging his tongue between her folds. It was a disgusting thing he was doing and it made her sick to her stomach. She swiveled her gaze to Takoda and saw that he had put his head back and was staring up at the ceiling, one leg crossed at the ankle over the other, his fingers threaded together at his belly.
“This is not right,” Takoda said, his voice tight.
“Shut the fuck up or get the hell out,” was the reply.
The sickening sound of Chaska slurping between the woman’s thighs, her legs now draped over his shoulders must have bothered Takoda as much as it did Mina for the younger man uncrossed his legs and shot up from the chair, exiting the room as though the hounds of hell were after him. As he passed in front of the closet, Mina looked up to see anger and disgust stamped on his dark visage. The door slammed shut behind him as he left.
“Where’s he going?” the woman complained. “I wanted him to fuck me, too!”
“I’ll do enough fucking for the two of us,” Chaska said and got to his feet. His hands went to his belt.
For the next hour Mina huddled in the overheated closet and listened to the vile sounds coming from the bed. Maybe she was a virgin, but she was aware of what men and women did together. She had heard the late night sounds coming from the other side of the blanket wall as her father took her mother. She had listened to the older girls telling tales of their inductions into womanhood, had listened to brides regaling their friends about wedding nights, and she had seen animals mating about the camp. Yet nothing could have prepared her for the things Chaska was doing. He was worse than the dogs that rutted after the bitches in heat. His hands were all over the white slut and he was rubbing himself against her as though he were a cat, wallowing upon her like a dog on something dead.
Mina’s education advanced that afternoon as she watched her betrothed mount the woman from the rear like an animal, pushing and withdrawing himself into and out of both her holes. She viewed the woman suckling his shaft and sweeping her pink tongue over his sac and along the crease of his rump, probing into his puckered hole. His delight at lapping between the woman’s legs and hers at spreading his butt cheeks apart to tongue him brought the bile rushing up Mina’s throat and she had nearly given herself away as she gagged.
It wasn’t just the slapping of flesh against flesh or the smacking, licking sounds that shocked Mina. It was the noises Chaska made as he rode the woman, the cruel way he twisted her nipples and the words he spoke as he took her that humiliated Mina. At the height of his grunting and groaning, she had finally found the courage to slip out of the closet.
The woman saw her and for a moment the look of pleasure froze on her face, but then a wicked, hateful smile stretched the red painted lips and the whore’s eyes had crinkled with laughter. She actually winked at Mina and made a kissing motion. Mina did not see Takoda turn and watch her flee.
Mortified to the depths of her being, Mina fled the room, ran outside, and swung up on her pony to race away. Vaguely she heard her name called but she ignored it, kicking the pony into a faster gallop.
And now here she sat with the night sounds settling around her as she leaned against the tree trunk and stared off across the wide vista of darkened prairie. She knew her parents would be worried about her and that a caning awaited her when she returned to camp, but not even the thought of her mother’s heavy hand or scathing tongue mattered at that moment. She needed this time alone to come to grips with the ruination of her life and to decide how best to handle what she had observed.
She did not know how long she sat there before she realized she was no longer alone. The hairs stirred on her arms and she turned her head from side to side, sweeping the area in front of her. Someone was watching her. The knowledge was terrifying, for she was unarmed and alone and no one knew where she was. She could hear her heart pounding with fear.
With calmness she did not feel, she sat up and turned her head to look behind her.
He was hunkered down not ten feet away, his steady brown eyes locked on her, his elbows on his knees and arms dangling between his spread knees. She let out a long wavering breath.
“How long have you been there, Takoda?” she asked, relieved it was her intended’s brother and not a renegade white man intent on raping her or worse.
“Long enough,” he responded in that deep, husky voice she found so pleasant to listen to. “Be glad I was not an enemy. Your mind had flown this world, arechi hyegahaota.”
She smiled at him calling her little whirlwind. That had been his nickname for her since they were children. Takoda was only a year older than her while Chaska was three years older than Takoda. “How did you know where I was?”
He stayed where he was, his face hidden in the shadows, his bare chest gleaming in the moonlight. “I followed you from the settlement,” he stated.
Mina nodded. “That was you who called to me,” she said. “I was too upset to notice.”
“How much did you see?” he asked, no doubt thinking she had come upon his brother and the white whore after he left the room.
“I saw it all. I was in the closet when you and your brother came in,” she said and saw him flinch.
Takoda got to his feet and came over to her. He dropped gracefully to the ground and sat there cross-legged as he looked at her. “I hesitate to make excuses for him but he was drunk,” he told her.
“At that time of the afternoon?”
He shrugged. “It is not the first time, Mina. The Capitol Army did not need us today so he spent the day in the saloon drinking with the whore. I thought to get him back to his room before he passed out, but I did not know he would bring the woman with him.”
“He did not seem as though he were about to pass out,” she said with a snort.
“The thought of rutting stimulates a man.”
“I can not marry him, now, Takoda,” she said, lowering her head.
“The tribal council will think differently,” he reminded her.
“Let me be clear. I will not marry him, now,” she corrected.
“You will not have a say in it,” he said quietly.
WINTER WIND
By
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
© copyright December 2006, Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright December 2006
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.
Chapter One
Kai McDonough loved the snow. He found solitude in walking through freshly fallen drifts and wonderment in watching the flakes drifting silently to earth, catching one on his tongue. When it snowed, all sound was muted and the air was crisp and clear and pristine. The cold didn’t bother him. He reveled in it. His heart soared at the sight of branches laden with white crystals that turned the tree into a fairyland wonder. It was in the winter that he felt the most alive.
Picking his way carefully along the ridge, he glanced down at the immaculate beauty that spread out below him. The warm-brown tint of his sunglasses gave sharp detail and depth as the polarized poly lens killed the glare. He needed that, for as far as the eye could see the ground was covered in a lush, fluffy blanket of snow. The sky overheard was a vibrant, vivid blue and the air carried on it an ozone scent that was sharp to the nostrils. Tall pines, spruce and aspen, were draped with a mantle of snowy white and the lake about a hundred yards east of his property was frozen solid, Canadian geese skating playfully across its mirrored surface.
Muffled in a thick Spanish merino shearling parka with a substantial wool scarf wrapped around his neck, dark hair protected beneath a black watch cap nestled within the ample hood of the parka, his hands encased in cashmere lined lambskin gloves and his feet protected by fur-lined mukluk boats, he was toasty warm as he climbed the gentle slopes that formed the northern boundary of his Black Hills ranch.
He rolled his shoulders, for he had not adequately adjusted the load he was carrying in his backpack. The shoulder straps and hip belt were pinching and for the amount of money he’d paid for the hauler, he was not a happy camper--no pun intended. Inside the main compartment he carried a sleeping bag, spare clothes, food, and various other items that would allow him to spend a night or two in one of the caves to which he was trekking. One of the items was a personal cooking system that weighed a bit more than he would have liked. It added to the discomfort he was experiencing at that moment but just knowing he had an Isobutane canister to prepare his meals had seemed worth it when he bought it.
As he stood there with the cold wind blowing over his chilled face, he could imagine himself to be a hardy pioneer seeing this terrain for the first time. He fancied no human foot had ever stepped upon this virgin ledge and mentally he was claiming it for his own. Had it not been for the communications gear in his backpack--the personal locator beacon with an internal GPS receiver, the Smartphone with its graphics-driven video games, and the laptop computer with two fully charged spare batteries--he might have been able to believe he truly was conquering the wilderness.
Continuing on up the slope, he spied white tail deer scampering down in the meadow amidst a dozen or so wild turkeys. A lone raccoon waddled from beneath a pine to disappear over a small rise. Since he wasn’t a hunter and didn’t allow poachers on his property, the animals seemed to know he was no threat to him. For the most part, they ignored him. Deer came right up to his back porch, enjoyed the salt block he provided, and there were always turkey tracks and bobcat prints around his woodshed out back. One set of tracks he was fairly sure belonged to a black bear and that was one of the reasons he carried a stun gun as well as a large knife in his gear when he went hiking.
Getting a bit of a headache, hearing his stomach rumbling, he was relieved to spy the cave entrance that he wanted to investigate. It was a few hundred yards farther up the slope and examining the untouched snow on the path between him and the cave, he hoped he wouldn’t be running into a hibernating ursine with a taste for horror writers.
“Especially not ones with a severe case of writer’s block,” he mumbled to himself.
That was partially why he had decided to pull out his backpack, load it up, and strike out for a bit of solitude away from the almost daily phone calls from his agent who was beginning to hound him unmercifully for the next book in his Demon Sired series. That and the not-so-friendly breakup with his girlfriend of five years who had--with a viciousness that stunned him--given him an ultimatum of either fishing or cutting bait where their relationship was concerned, had piled depression on nerves already raw with frustration over not being able to concentrate enough to put word to screen.
So he had struck out that morning for the wilds of the slopes beyond his elaborate log cabin and the solitude he was in such desperate need to find.
Once at the entrance to the cave, he shrugged off the backpack and laid it in the snow, bending down to retrieve the flashlight. Flicking it on, he ducked under the low overhang and ventured inside.
As he knew it would be, the cave was pitch black with only the small shallow arc of daylight flooding into its entrance. As he played the flashlight beam over the walls, Kai realized the chamber was much larger than he would have guessed and that the walls were smooth and not craggy as he would have expected. Frowning, he went over to the nearest surface and ran his gloved hand over it. The face was as slick as a pane of glass and just as reflective as a mirror.
“Weird,” he pronounced, moving around the circular room. It almost felt as though the chamber had been bored out with some huge drill turning at super high speed in a one hundred and eighty degree arc. There was a long tunnel off the main chamber that seemed to go on forever, the beam from the flashlight disappearing into inky darkness.
Underfoot, the ground was covered with sandstone clay and silt and chip breakdown consisting of irregular limestone fragments. But walking back toward the tunnel, Kai realized the ground appeared almost to have been raked, for it was much smoother than any cave floor he’d ever seen.
“Really weird,” he said with emphasis.
Yet there were no footprints in the soil areas. The sediment under foot did not look as though it had been disturbed for a very long time and Kai breathed a little easier, hoping the cave was not home to something with jagged teeth and a voracious appetite.
In the distance he could hear the plink-plink-plink of water dripping and echoing back through the tunnel. The skirl of bats reverberated back to him also, which seemed odd, as well. Going back for his backpack, he decided there had to be a fair-sized grotto somewhere off the tunnel and he would cautiously seek it out. Holding the flashlight between his knees, hating to strap the backpack on again for his left shoulder felt raw from the rubbing of the strap, he sighed and swung it up, settled it a bit more comfortably on his back this time. When he had it the way he wanted it, he reached down for the flashlight and headed for the tunnel.
Attentive ears pricked at the muffled sound of approach. Keen eyes peered unblinkingly into the darkness. Sensitive nostrils flared at the intoxicating scent hovering just beneath the surface.
“One comes!”
The silent energy thought flew from one eager mind to another until all were aware and they began to gather.
A sniff of the air. A turn of an inquisitive head. Scrutiny.
“Male.” That one word flowed like warm honey--sweet and achingly tasteful—among them.
The tunnel seemed to go on forever and with every step he took, Kai became even more intrigued. Above him and to both sides the tunnel was as slick and smooth as the cavern had been and as straight as an arrow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something massive and sharp had cut a swath through the hill. The walls were too uniform in their smoothness, the ground under foot too free of obstruction to believe nature had carved such perfection.
Stopping again to adjust the backpack, he thought he heard furtive movement ahead and stilled, cocking his ear toward the sound but after several moments of intense listening, all he detected was the steady dripping of water. Around him, the flashlight beam sent arcs of illumination on the polished rock and reflected them back at him in a dizzying array of colors.
Continuing on, he realized the air around him was getting warmer. He knew the median temperature range within the cave systems of the Black Hills was 53° but it seemed much warmer than that. The air touching his face was almost humid.
When he’d checked the weather before leaving that morning, it had been 37° in Hot Springs with snow on the way to add to the four inches already on the ground. He shot his arm out to check the time and was surprised to see he’d been gone from his home for nearly two hours.
“How can that be?” he asked aloud and began walking a bit faster.
“Vigorous!” It was perceived with glee.
“Healthy!” Satisfaction came.
“Alone ...” The word hung suspended then drifted away on a long sigh.
The energy thoughts wafted on the swirling eddies of the heated air. As one, they moved--touching mind to mind and limb to limb, gathering power.
He felt the slight shifting beneath his feet and looked down, pointing the beam of the flashlight at the cave floor. When the shifting came again, he took a cautious step back.
“What the hell … ?”
Those were the last words out of his mouth before the ground opened up and he dropped like a rock through the floor, the loose chip breakdown closing over the opening almost as quickly as it had occurred. A ripple shifted back along the tunnel floor and when it stopped, there was no evidence that Kai McDonough had ever trailed the path.
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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