by Lori Foster
WILD
By Lori Foster
One
" I want you."
The suggestive, husky whisper stroked over Zane Winston with the effect of a soft, warm kiss to his spine. It devastated his senses.
He froze, then clenched hard in reaction, his muscles tightening, his pulse speeding up.
He nearly fell off the stepladder.
The motherboards balanced precariously in his arms started to drop, but Zane managed to juggle them safely at the last second.
He didn't want to look, didn't want to acknowledge that soft whisper. He knew without looking who had spoken to him. Still, as was generally the case where she was concerned, he couldn't not look.
His gaze sought her out, and found her standing a mere two feet away, her eyes downcast, her waist-length, black hair partially hiding her face like a thick, ebony curtain.
People shuffled through the small computer store, taking advantage of the sale he was running, grabbing at clearance items, storing up on disks. Yet no one bumped into her, no one touched her. Alone in the crowd, she stood to the side of his ladder, and Zane could feel her intense awareness of him. It sparked his own awareness until his breathing deepened, his skin warmed.
Damn it, that always happened when he was around her—which was one reason why he tried to avoid her.
She didn't say anything else, didn't even bother to look at him, so Zane went back to restocking the shelf. Perhaps he'd misunderstood. Perhaps he'd even imagined it all. He hadn't been sleeping well lately—or rather, he'd been sleeping too hard, dead to the world and caught up in lifelike, erotic dreams that left him drained throughout the day. He felt like a walking zombie—a horny walking zombie—because the dreams were based on scorching carnal activities.
With her.
Zane's computer business had done remarkably well the past year, and it required a lot of his attention. The location in the small strip mall was ideal. Her antiquated two-story building stood right next door, only a narrow alley away, and the scent of the sultry incense she burned often drifted in through the open door of his shop. Worse than that, the pulse-thrumming music she played could be heard everywhere, and it made his heart beat too fast. With all these distractions, concentrating on software and modems wasn't always easy, no matter his level of resolve. And now with the damn dreams plaguing him, his iron control was fractured.
His brothers had taken to heckling him, tauntingly accusing him of too much carousing. Zane didn't bother to correct them. No way would he tell them the truth behind his recent distraction—that his carousing had only been in his dreams, and his distraction was a little Gypsy he didn't even find appealing.
Especially since he was determined to deny any such distraction.
The last thing he needed was a face-to-face visit with her.
Though he wasn't looking at her, Zane felt her inch closer; he was aware of her all along his length, in his every pore, even in the air he breathed. The ladder had him several feet above her, which placed her face—her mouth—on a level with his lap. Damn damn damn. He tensed, waiting, and more images drifted into his mind. I want you." she repeated, a little louder but still low enough that no one seemed to notice.
He hadn't imagined it.
Anger erupting, Zane glared down at her, this time catching and holding her dark, mystical gaze. Her long, coal-black lashes fluttered, but she didn't look away from . Staring into her eyes, he felt her thoughts and emotions invading his mind. Her nervousness touched him bone deep; the way she forced herself to remain still affected him, too.
How the hell did she manage to toy with him so easily? It outraged Zane, left him edgy and hot and resentful. Despite what some of his female associates might think, he was always the pursuer, not the pursued. He subtly controlled every intimate relationship, took only what he needed, gave only as much as he wanted, and no more.
Zane realized he was breathing too hard, reacting to her on an innate level. Deliberately he jammed the boxes of motherboards onto the shelf before climbing down the ladder.
Facing her, his arms folded over his chest, he did his best to intimidate her while hiding his discomfort. He needed her to leave. He needed to stop thinking about her.
He was nearly certain his needs didn't matter to her in the least.
"What do you want?" He sounded rude to his own ears, obnoxious and curt. But this was a battle for the upper hand, and he intended to do his best to win.
Her full lips, painted a shiny dark red, were treated to a soft, sensual lick of uncertainty. Filled with tenacity, her gaze wavered, then returned to his. Her chin lifted. "As I said, I want . . . you."
God, she'd said it again. This time straight out, to his face. Zane braced himself against the lure of her brazenness and her bold request. She looked like walking sex, like a male fantasy—his fantasy—come to life. He would not let her suck him in with obvious ploys.
"For what?" There, he thought, deal with that, Miss Gypsy. And she was a Gypsy, no doubt about it. He almost believed the signs, painted in the front window of her shop, that claimed she could read palms and predict the future. The signs, backlit by the eerie glow of a red lamp and dozens of flickering candles inside, also said she could cast spells and enlighten your life.
It was the spell-casting part that made Zane most uncertain. After all, he was familiar with curses firsthand. And he didn't like them worth a damn. At least, not when applied to himself. For his brothers it had worked out just fine. Better than fine. For his brothers.
Agitated, she shifted her feet, and the tinkling of tiny bells rose above the noise of the crowd. Zane found himself staring at her small feet beneath a long gauze skirt of bold colors and geometric designs. The skirt was thin and would be transparent if she stood in the right light.
Luckily for his peace of mind, they were more in the shadows than not. But that didn't stop him from imagining what he couldn't see. And it pissed him off that he could guess just how she'd look.
Twin ankle bracelets of miniature silver bells had produced the music when she moved. Dainty silver rings with intricate designs circled her painted toes.
On her hands, each finger was adorned with a silver, pewter, or gold ring. A multitude of bracelets with inlaid colored stones hung on her slender wrists and jingled when she clasped her hands together.
Around her neck, and disappearing into the neckline of her midnight blue peasant blouse, were strands of small beads: jet black, bright amber, ruby red.
He noticed the necklaces, then immediately noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts lay soft and full beneath her blouse.
An invisible fist squeezed Zane's lungs, stealing the oxygen from his body, making him light-headed. For God's sake, they were only breasts—and not all that impressive. But he could see the faint outline of her nipples beneath the dark, thin material, and it set him on fire.
He wanted to curse, but that would give too much away, so he refrained.
When he took a deep breath, trying to relieve some of his tension, that musky, earthy scent of incense filled his head. He stared at her hard, intent on keeping his gaze on her face. "I'm waiting."
She glanced at the surrounding crowd. Her large, heavily lined eyes looked mysterious and sensual. No one paid any attention to them. She said low, "I want you for sex."
Her gaze melted into his, touching his soul, reawakening those hot, taunting dreams that had plagued him nightly. In his sleep, he'd already taken her every way known to man. Now she offered to let the dream become reality.
Breathing was too damn difficult. He was nearly panting.
"I want you," she boldly continued, fanning the flames, "to share your body with me, and let me give you mine."
Slowly, hypnotically, she lowered her lashes and added, with a small shrug, "That's all."
That's all? That's all. Urgency throbbed through his veins, as if he'd spent hours on leisurely, detailed foreplay. Zane wanted to smack her.
Even more than that, he wanted to drag her into the backroom and lift her long, flirty skirt and take the body she so willingly offered. He wanted to inhale her scent, wanted to taste her in all her hottest, sweetest places. And he wanted to bury himself deep inside her.
Damn it all, he had a hard-on to end all hard-ons, and here he stood in the middle of his shop with hordes of people ready to spend money and purchase his wares.
Nostrils flared, and with as much disdain as he could muster, given his acute state of arousal, Zane growled, "Thanks, but no thanks."
Her gaze clashed with his, startled, upset. Her lips drew in, got caught by her teeth, and color scalded her cheeks. She took two slow breaths, then asked in a wavering voice, "You're certain you're not interested?"
He was so damn interested it wouldn't have taken much more than a few touches to make him insane. Zane locked his knees, clenched his fists, and hardened his resolve.
"Positive."
Her long, silky hair hung to her thighs as she bowed her head. For a suspended moment, Zane feared she might actually cry—or cast a hideous spell on him. He wasn't entirely sure which would be worse. Not that he normally believed in such things as spells and incantations. But there was the Winston curse. He believed in it, had seen its effects on his brothers as one by one they'd been caught and married off. Happily.
One curse per family was more than enough. Little Gypsy could just take her mesmerizing voice and her intrusive sexuality and leave him the hell alone. He liked his life just as it was, just as he'd made it.
Without looking at him again, she turned and left. Her departure struck him like a punch in the gut. She hadn't been crying, he thought with concern, but she'd been so silent... .
Oh, hell, she was always silent. She used it as part of her mystique. He refused to be drawn in by her and her feminine cunning and what amounted to no more than theatrics to shore up her ruse as a Gypsy.
The gentle, enticing sway of her skirts as she slowly retreated held his attention. She might be leaving, but her scent remained, circling around him, filling his head and his heart. Her effect remained, too, keeping him hot and tight and far too aware of his physical needs. And that last look on her face remained, making him curse himself for being such a bastard.
He was good with women, damn it. Great with women, in fact. He always treated them gently, whether he was interested or not. So why the hell had he been so rude to her? Why had he felt compelled to grind her down with his rejection? He'd been out to prove . . . what? That she didn't affect him after all?
Zane snorted at that. The tent in his pants proved otherwise, no matter his behavior toward her
Now that she was gone, only the essence of her remaining without the threat of her appeal, he was ashamed of himself.
A customer touched his arm, causing him to jump. With effort Zane brought his mind back to the job at hand.
Even with two employees in to help, they were swamped. The line at the register was long and continuous. People had questions, and the shelves constantly had to be restocked. He couldn't afford to be distracted by his witchy neighbor. He would run the register—where he could hide his arousal behind the counter—and do his job.
But for the rest of the day, she lingered in his mind, an unwelcome invasion that kept him jittery and taut, the same way he felt when he'd gone too long without sex.
He hated what he knew he would have to do.
But since he was resigned to doing it, he'd damn well put himself in charge. No more letting her toy with him, no more letting her overwhelm his senses. It was Thursday, the weekend fast approaching. He'd have time to spend with her, and on her. And if anyone would be overwhelmed, it'd be her.
That thought finally had Zane smiling.
In anticipation.
Tamara Tremayne flipped over the CLOSED sign in the front door of her shop and turned all the locks. Luna, her assistant, had left an hour ago. Her relatives had called a few times but hadn't come by, which was strange. But she was thankful for the quiet. She was finally alone.
For a moment, she leaned her forehead against the glass in the door and looked at the FOR SALE sign stuck in the scraggly strip of lawn in front of the old building.
She didn't want to sell, but she had no choice.
Walking around the shop, she pinched out the many candles she always kept lit, and snuffed out the stems of incense that continued to smolder, filling the air with sweetness. Smoke clung to the ceiling, giving added ambience to the small shop with its colorful cloths over every tabletop and the glittering beads on lampshades and curtain trims. A dark drape separated her reception area from the two small rooms she used for her sessions. She pushed it aside and made sure all the lamps were turned off.
One of her favorite estate sale finds, a polished, curving mahogany countertop with ornate trim, concealed the traditional and quite modern CD player. Tamara clicked it off, killing the sensually stimulating New Age music. It felt like her heartbeat died with the last strumming note. The silence lay heavy in the air.
As she strolled away, feeling lazy and defeated, Tamara trailed her hand over a large crystal ball, wishing it could, indeed, predict the future, wishing she could see if Zane Winston would ever give her the time of day. But the beautiful glass was empty. And she already had all the answers she needed.
Thanks, but no thanks.
Four little words had never hurt quite so much. Each one had felt like a sharp dart piercing her heart, stealing her breath, making her lungs constrict. They'd dashed her dreams, her fantasies. They gave her nothing to look forward to but a continuation of the long, sexually frustrating nights and her endlessly hopeful dreams.
Zane was known for his seduction successes. Out of the four Winston brothers, Zane was the most blatantly sexual, the most outrageous, the most . . . wanted. At least by the ladies. There was an earthy wildness about him, a primal masculinity that drew women in, a hot sexuality that kept them coming back.
Intelligent, driven, Zane was, in her mind, the most handsome of the brothers. And that was saying a lot, considering the Winstons were a virile and sinfully gorgeous clan.
Cole, the oldest, struck her as the most somber. He took responsibilities seriously and loved with a depth of emotion Tamara had never seen before. And she didn't need to be a mind reader to figure that out. It was there on his face whenever he looked at his brothers, and especially when he looked at his wife or his new baby daughter.
It was a look that made her long for things she'd never have—a husband, a family of her own. A normal life. Tamara had visited the Winston Tavern a few times, and she loved it there. She loved blending in with the rest of society as if she were just a woman running a shop, just a woman out for a relaxing evening.
Not a Tremayne.
Not a Gypsy.
She had so little time for socializing or frivolity.
Chase, the second oldest, was the bartender, and she'd seen through him right away. Tamara smiled. She wasn't a true psychic, as her advertisement claimed. She couldn't read minds, just as she couldn't predict the future. But she was much more intuitive than most people. Throughout her life, there had been certain people whose emotions were clearer to her. Generally, she thought them to be people with acute feelings: loving with their whole heart, or hating with fanaticism.
The Winstons, with their zest for life and open honesty, were often quite clear to her. Chase gave the impression of being quiet and serene, but he was a deeply sensual person and very erotic, maybe even bordering on kinky. His quiet persona hid some of his fire, but Tamara could see the heat in his gaze, and knew that his thoughts regularly focused on the sexual. Luckily, his wife was the perfect match.
Tamara liked Mack Winston the best. He was the youngest
, the most playful, a man who knew how to laugh and have a good time. She'd watched him at the bar, moving from table to table, a smile always on his face. He saw joy in everything and everyone, especially those he called family. You couldn't be near Mack and not smile, too.
Yes, she liked Mack best, but it was Zane she wanted.
Even though his driving sexuality scared her just a bit—or maybe because it did—she wanted him. She wanted him so much she could barely sleep at night. She'd lie awake for hours, imagining all the ways Zane might want to make love, and all the ways she could enjoy him. Sometimes the dreams were so real, almost as if he were with her, guiding her, telling her what he liked and how he liked it, showing her what she'd like, too.
In her heart, she knew dreams would never compare with the reality.
For the few years that his shop had been there, Tamara had watched Zane open in the mornings, and close at night. She'd watched women fawn all over him. She'd gotten to know his brothers better just by observation, and she'd gotten to know Zane better, too.
He was an overachiever, though he'd never admit it. He preferred the label "playboy." He was a combination of his brothers' better traits with a naughty, rambunctious streak thrown in, a man who prided himself on individuality, a man who struggled to be his own boss in all ways—but especially with women.
When she'd turned eighteen, Tamara had known it was time to settle down, to lay claim to a location and make it her own. The old building had appealed to her on several levels: not only was it perfect for her shop, but the living quarters upstairs were quaint and cozy. She'd been there for six years now.
In that time, she'd seen other shops in the adjacent strip mall try to make a go of it, but they were never able to stay afloat for long.
Zane hadn't let the failures of others keep him from trying. He'd taken the empty store and quickly made a success of a fledgling computer business. He sold products and did repairs, and even built computers to customers' specifications. He worked long hours, sometimes far into the night. From her bedroom window above the shop, Tamara had seen his lights on past midnight. Yet he'd be there bright and early the next morning, looking sexy as ever and not in the least worn down.
