afraid, but for some reason, she wasn’t.
His clothes rustled when he moved closer, and the mattress sagged as he sat on the edge. “I’ve come to take you from this place,” he whispered. Her pillow bounced as his forearms came down to rest on either side of her head. “But are you ready to leave it?” His lips hovered over hers, his warm breath bathing her face.
“I’m ready.” Want fired, hot and fast, roaring through her. She stirred, restless, craving touch. He took her lips, and she opened beneath him. The faceless man’s power surged into her until she was dizzy with it. Somehow she knew she’d be safe in his arms. Saved. His hands moved over her breasts, and she arched her back, wanting more.
“You’re so beautiful.” Her breath came heavy as his hand slid over her belly, and down.
She pushed her hips off the mattress to press against him. “Please—” Need surged, hot and thick, like honey in her veins.
Lights snapped on. She was alone. Lupia stood in the door of the cell, a knife in her hand. “You wanna leave, puta? I can fix that.”
She stepped closer.
Bree came awake with a start.
Jesus. Where did that come from?
She rolled over yet again and punched the pillow to move a few of the lumps. The sheets clung to her clammy skin. She shivered, but not from the cold air.
“Damn it.” She threw the covers back and sat up. Trying to sleep was useless. As her feet touched the cold cement floor, she reached for her sheepskin-lined slippers. Wrapping the Navajo blanket around her shoulders, she switched on the lamp. She scrubbed her face with her hands hard, to pull herself back to her present batch of problems.
Max didn’t trust her. She understood, having learned that lesson the hard way herself in LA, but she wondered at the brief bee sting of regret, just the same.
She hated living like a refugee, sifting her words to pull out hints of her past. It went against her nature.
How do you explain a felony conviction so it sounds like it’s no big deal?
She moved to the desk and switched on the lamp, shivering when her butt touched the cold steel of the folding chair. Powering up the laptop, she thanked God that Wyatt was a software engineer in his “real” life. He’d had a satellite wireless connection installed so he could work while on sabbatical. She tapped into it.
She surfed the news. Wall Street was down, the economy sucked, and another politician was discovered accepting lobbyists’ illegal campaign contributions. The usual. Sick of doom and gloom, she cast about for a lighter subject. She thought a moment then typed in P-B-R.
The link led to a professional website. Results of the night’s event were posted, along with injury updates, licensed PBR gear, even a fantasy league. On a discussion board, she read a spirited argument between two fans talking trash about each other’s favorite bulls.
Bree clicked on the “How It Works” link and learned that both the rider and bull are scored during a ride, and the scores combined for the overall total. The rider had to stay on eight seconds and not touch himself or the bull with his free hand. She watched a film clip of “Rides and Wrecks,” wincing at the horrific crashes.
She realized that the bulls were athletes as much as the cowboys. They were varied in breed, size, and disposition. The only thing they had in common were sleek hides, strong muscles, and the burning desire to get a rider off their backs. She clicked to the “Bulls” section and was amused by the clever names: Big Bucks, Hammer, Major Payne, Cheeseburger with an Attitude.
“Chicken on a Chain? What’s that about?” She chuckled and read on. This looked to be big business.
A kernel of an idea formed. She grabbed a pad to jot notes, sleep forgotten.
CHAPTER
6
T he fickle spring weather had turned; morning sun reflected off every metal surface in the yard. Toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Max leaned against his pickup, tipped his hat brim to
His clothes rustled when he moved closer, and the mattress sagged as he sat on the edge. “I’ve come to take you from this place,” he whispered. Her pillow bounced as his forearms came down to rest on either side of her head. “But are you ready to leave it?” His lips hovered over hers, his warm breath bathing her face.
“I’m ready.” Want fired, hot and fast, roaring through her. She stirred, restless, craving touch. He took her lips, and she opened beneath him. The faceless man’s power surged into her until she was dizzy with it. Somehow she knew she’d be safe in his arms. Saved. His hands moved over her breasts, and she arched her back, wanting more.
“You’re so beautiful.” Her breath came heavy as his hand slid over her belly, and down.
She pushed her hips off the mattress to press against him. “Please—” Need surged, hot and thick, like honey in her veins.
Lights snapped on. She was alone. Lupia stood in the door of the cell, a knife in her hand. “You wanna leave, puta? I can fix that.”
She stepped closer.
Bree came awake with a start.
Jesus. Where did that come from?
She rolled over yet again and punched the pillow to move a few of the lumps. The sheets clung to her clammy skin. She shivered, but not from the cold air.
“Damn it.” She threw the covers back and sat up. Trying to sleep was useless. As her feet touched the cold cement floor, she reached for her sheepskin-lined slippers. Wrapping the Navajo blanket around her shoulders, she switched on the lamp. She scrubbed her face with her hands hard, to pull herself back to her present batch of problems.
Max didn’t trust her. She understood, having learned that lesson the hard way herself in LA, but she wondered at the brief bee sting of regret, just the same.
She hated living like a refugee, sifting her words to pull out hints of her past. It went against her nature.
How do you explain a felony conviction so it sounds like it’s no big deal?
She moved to the desk and switched on the lamp, shivering when her butt touched the cold steel of the folding chair. Powering up the laptop, she thanked God that Wyatt was a software engineer in his “real” life. He’d had a satellite wireless connection installed so he could work while on sabbatical. She tapped into it.
She surfed the news. Wall Street was down, the economy sucked, and another politician was discovered accepting lobbyists’ illegal campaign contributions. The usual. Sick of doom and gloom, she cast about for a lighter subject. She thought a moment then typed in P-B-R.
The link led to a professional website. Results of the night’s event were posted, along with injury updates, licensed PBR gear, even a fantasy league. On a discussion board, she read a spirited argument between two fans talking trash about each other’s favorite bulls.
Bree clicked on the “How It Works” link and learned that both the rider and bull are scored during a ride, and the scores combined for the overall total. The rider had to stay on eight seconds and not touch himself or the bull with his free hand. She watched a film clip of “Rides and Wrecks,” wincing at the horrific crashes.
She realized that the bulls were athletes as much as the cowboys. They were varied in breed, size, and disposition. The only thing they had in common were sleek hides, strong muscles, and the burning desire to get a rider off their backs. She clicked to the “Bulls” section and was amused by the clever names: Big Bucks, Hammer, Major Payne, Cheeseburger with an Attitude.
“Chicken on a Chain? What’s that about?” She chuckled and read on. This looked to be big business.
A kernel of an idea formed. She grabbed a pad to jot notes, sleep forgotten.
CHAPTER
6
T he fickle spring weather had turned; morning sun reflected off every metal surface in the yard. Toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Max leaned against his pickup, tipped his hat brim to
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