by Lori Foster
Would she have worn that black wig to bed with him when he made love to her? Would black eyes have smiled up at him when he was inside her, riding her slow, stroking deep?
Eyes like green fire watched him now, wide and wary at his prolonged silence. Zane stopped in front of her and smiled.
"Just like that?" he asked, keeping his voice silky and smooth. "You ask me to have sex with you, I agree, and you're . . . grateful?"
Her gaze wavered, embarrassed, then bravely came back to his. "Well, you did say no at first."
That wasn't the answer he had expected. It wasn't practiced or flirtatious or challenging. It was . . . honest.
It threw him off. Zane stared at the ceiling, trying to organize his thoughts. It was a mistake. Tamara took swift advantage of his preoccupation and moved against him. Her arms slipped around his waist, squeezed him tight.
"I've wanted you," she whispered, "since the first time I saw you."
His knees nearly gave out. "Did you cast a damn spell on me or something?" he growled, needing to know.
Her cheek rubbed his chest as she shook her head. "No. I can't do that." She glanced up at him. "But I probably would have if I was able."
Too much honesty, he decided. He wasn't used to it, didn't know how to deal with it. Thoughts warred with his instinct, and instinct won. He couldn't resist cuddling her closer. Everything about the embrace felt right: the way the heat of their bodies melded together, mingling their scents; how her head tucked neatly into his shoulder; how her breasts crushed against his ribs. And that bothered him even more. It shouldn't feel so right. No embrace had ever felt like this before.
If she hadn't done something magical to him, then what was going on?
"Why have you waited to say something?" Zane asked. "Why ask me now?"
Her arms tightened. "Every other woman in town has had you," she complained softly,
"So why not me?"
She sounded logical, a woman utilizing a sensible argument. Only there was nothing sensible about Tamara Tremayne or the circumstances.
"So now, today, you decided to pull out the big guns?"
"Big guns?"
He rubbed his chin against her hair, feeling the warmth and softness of it. He wanted to devour her, and he wanted to hold her gently all night. "No man can resist a direct attack. You said you wanted me, which made me want you." That was only a partial truth. In his dreams, he'd wanted her for a long time.
"You've always ignored me," Tamara said, tilting her head back to see his face. "And I hated it. I tried everything to get your attention, but you always looked through me, or past me." She drew a deep breath. "Now I'm going to have to leave, and my biggest regret was that I wouldn't have another chance to be with you, to fulfill a few of my fantasies. So yes, I felt a direct attack was my last resort."
Zane was still aroused, but now some other emotion prevailed. He didn't know what it was, so he couldn't fight against it. "I haven't been with every woman in town." For some reason, he wanted her to understand that.
She laughed. "Okay, so there are a few you're not interested in. I've been to the Winston Tavern. I've seen the women hanging on your every word. And I saw how much you love it."
Zane pushed her back a bit, frowning. "You've been to the bar? When?" His oldest brother, Cole, ran the bar, and
Chase was the bartender. He and Mack worked there part-time, more so back when they were in college. Now Mack was teaching and Zane spent the majority of his hours at his computer store. But the bar was a comforting haven when he wanted to be with friends and family, and it still seemed natural to serve drinks or wipe tables whenever he was around.
Not once could he recall seeing Tamara there. "Off and on," Tamara hedged.
"Off and on when?" A thought occurred to him, and his hands tightened on her shoulders. "You were there dressed as you are now, or as the Gypsy?"
As if his question had somehow insulted her, her chin lifted. "Neither. I dress the Gypsy when I work. You heard my relatives. I'm not a very convincing fortune-teller as I really look." Her upturned nose wrinkled. "I look too young and gullible. So it's necessary."
Zane wanted to tell her she was a pretty damn convincing femme fatale no matter how she dressed, but he held the words back.
"You caught me getting ready for bed," she explained, "so I'm sort of a mess right now. But when I go out, I do know how to clean up proper."
Zane stared down at her. He was very aware of her body against his, but he had control of himself, and he meant to keep it that way. Talking with her seemed like a good way to maintain that control. "The ghastly makeup?"
"Is like the jewelry and the dark contacts and the wig. I wear makeup, just as most women do, but it's not so dramatic."
Zane looked at her mouth, naked and full and so sexy. He touched the corner of her lips with his thumb, brushing softly until she opened, until he could hear her accelerated breathing and see the tip of her pink tongue. "You don't need makeup."
Carefully, he lifted his hands to her hair and tangled his fingers in the fine, silky curls. She was baby soft, and it made him wonder about other parts of her, if she was so damn soft all over. His blood surged hotly.
"Answer me this." His large hands easily held her immobile. "If I had agreed this afternoon, how would you have come to me?"
Her lashes lowered, hiding her eyes. "I don't know what you mean."
Zane gently tugged on her hair until her face tilted up at him. Restraining himself, he kissed her—a light, teasing kiss—then whispered against her lips, "Yes, you do. Would I have been sleeping with the sultry Gypsy or the sweet little blonde?"
Tamara strained closer, trying to gain full access to his mouth again, but Zane stayed just out of reach, only his breath caressing her lips. She made a soft sound of frustration. "I don't know. I hadn't thought that far ahead."
"Tamara...." He loved saying her name, loved the lyrical sound of it, the suggested eroticism, the mystique. It suited her perfectly. "Don't ever lie to me."
"A . . . a book said I should be bold, that men love boldness in a woman." She waited for his nod of agreement, then continued. "Especially men who are slaves to their primitive nature."
"Primitive nature?"
"Men who are ruled by their libidos." She said it against his mouth, then licked his bottom lip in a suggestive way that made his erection swell and strain against his fly.
Holding himself in check had never been so damn difficult.
"I'd have been the Gypsy," she whispered, "bold and sensual." Her green gaze snared his, mesmerized him. "And you'd have loved it."
Zane took her mouth hard, further scattering her wits, doing it deliberately. It was a great effort not to give in to the demands of his body, but her comment about a book, about slaves and boldness, swirled in his head. He wanted explanations, and he intuitively knew the best way to get them would be to keep her off balance.
She gasped when he ended the kiss. "You think I'm a slave to my sexuality?" As he spoke, he pressed hot, damp kisses against the tender skin of her throat.
Her head tilted back, exposing her to him. "I know you are."
Zane smiled, nibbling his way down to her shoulder. He was the master, not the slave; she'd understand that soon enough. Spells and curses be damned, he would do as he pleased, and not be caught.
It was what she wanted anyway, what she'd asked for, so there would be no call for him to feel guilty.
Impatience rode him hard, and he decided to get this interview over with. He wanted to take her to his place, where they could be alone, without the twin banshees and a dark behemoth waiting outside the door.
He wanted her naked, stretched out on his bed. With nothing between them except excitement, it wouldn't matter who she chose to be, the Gypsy or the innocent. He'd take either one.
And listen in satisfaction while she screamed his name, begging for more of the pleasure he'd give her.
Zane nuzzled her throat, inhaling her increasingly potent sc
ent. "Tell me about this book, Tamara."
Suddenly she stiffened. A second later, before Zane could reclaim her thoughts, she pushed away from him. He let her go rather than chase after her. Her reaction to a mention of the book was interesting, even if his body rebelled at the distance now between them.
Looking horrified, Tamara backed up and shook her head. Moonlight poured over her in a silver glow, showing her wide eyes, the gentle slope of her narrow nose, her rounded chin. When she was several feet from him, her back to the wall near the door, she said, "The book is—"
A crash from far away echoed in the room. Zane heard the relatives just outside the bedroom door, scrambling around and muttering obscenities. A fist—likely Thanos, given the way the door frame rattled—demanded their attention.
"He's back," Thanos thundered.
"Hubert is downstairs," Olga wailed. "Lord almighty! He's come for us!"
Tamara flipped on the bedroom light and opened the door. "Hubert is dead!"
"It's his ghost," Eva insisted, her hands clasped to her chest, her black eyes filled with dramatic horror.
"There's no telling what he's capable of doing in this form!"
"Oh for the love of ..."
Tamara, still muttering to herself, started away. Zane rushed after her. He wondered who Hubert was, and what he had to do with ghosts and the racket that had come from downstairs.
Like a parade, the other three hustled into line behind him.
"What the hell is going on?" Zane asked to Tamara's retreating back.
She kept moving, forcing Zane to keep up as she raced on light feet for the stairwell that would take her to the main shop.
"Shh," she cautioned, and then quietly opened the door. It gave an ominous creek, as if tuned for the effect. "I have an intruder, a live one, though my aunts insist on thinking it's my deceased uncle Hubert."
He knew he shouldn't have been surprised at this new turn of events, but just when he thought things couldn't get more bizarre.... "Your deceased uncle Hubert?"
"Tragic," Olga whispered from behind Zane's right shoulder. "Just tragic how he died."
"And now he wants revenge," Eva predicted in mournful tones while edging close to Zane's other side.
Tamara turned. "Stay back, all of you." Incredibly, she included Zane in her order. Her uncle and aunts obediently stopped in midstep. Zane gave her a ferocious scowl.
"This time," Tamara said with relish, "I'll catch him for sure."
Zane snared a fistful of her shirt and jerked her up short just as she started to turn away. "The hell you will!"
She tried to shush him, which only made him angrier. "You mean to tell me," he growled, his other hand now wrapped securely around her upper arm, making sure she wouldn't slip away from him, "that you think someone has broken in downstairs and you're determined to go investigate?"
"Someone is downstairs," she whispered anxiously, "unless your big mouth has just scared him away."
His big mouth? Zane couldn't remember a woman ever outright insulting him before. Usually they showered him with sweet compliments.
He'd never met a woman with a more stubborn independent streak, either. Most females would have had enough sense to send an available male downstairs to check things out. But not Tamara. No, she ignored Zane's presence—except when it came to the subject of sex.
His scowl turned a little blacker. He glared at Tamara, then thrust her toward Thanos.
"Hang onto her. I'll be right back."
Olga and Eva looked at him like he was true hero material.
Thanos, beaming at him in approval, asked, "What will you do if it is a ghost?"
Knowing the big man deliberately baited him, Zane said, "I'll kick his ass," and he trotted down the steps. "Just keep the women upstairs."
He was surely in bedlam, Zane decided, hearing Thanos laugh as Tamara insisted on being turned loose. But with the mood Zane was in, any intruder, ghost or otherwise, would be smart to get the hell out of his way.
Zane fully expected to walk through the downstairs without a single disturbance.
Unfortunately, things didn't quite turn out that way.
Four
Tamara heard a loud thump, then a husky groan. Her heart shot straight into her throat, nearly strangling her. "Zane!"
In his sudden concern for Zane, Thanos became preoccupied and loosened his grip just enough. Tamara didn't even think twice; she bolted away, intent only on getting to Zane.
"Damn it, Tamara," Thanos groused as he made a wild grab for her and missed, "come back here this second!"
Tamara ignored him, leaping down the stairs two and three at a time. Behind her, she heard Olga chanting and Eva cursing.
Zane hadn't flipped on any lights, but the moon was bright enough that the shadows were gray rather than black, and large objects were outlined by an opalescent sheen. Tamara knew her shop—every knickknack, curio, and tattered rug—without the benefit of lights.
She also knew Zane Winston, much better than she'd thought. Her intuitive abilities were far from psychic, but every time Zane had looked at her, she'd felt him. She'd shared his feelings.
She'd known his desires.
And boy, was the man hot-blooded! Tamara hadn't expected to be wanted like that—in fact, Zane's graphic, blatant hunger alarmed her. She'd hoped he would agree to share sex with her, but she hadn't expected him to crave her. She wasn't exactly afraid of him, but his intensity was startling. And exciting.
No way would she let some blasted intruder hurt him.
Crouching by the long counter, she stopped and listened, but it was difficult to hear anything over the pounding of her heart and the racket of her relatives upstairs.
Then a faint grunt reached her ears. Zane! She felt his pain, slight but nagging, and she accepted it, took it in, made it her own.
Without hesitation, she followed her senses toward the backroom. She slithered past the counter, slipped through the partially open curtain.
There was only one narrow window in the backroom, shadowed by the other buildings, and she didn't dare turn on a light. It was so dark she couldn't see her hand in front of her face.
Reaching out, she felt for the wall, then the door frame. The door was wide open, and she darted inside—and promptly toppled over a large, hard object sprawled out around her feet.
With a grunt, she landed hard. One of her elbows cracked on the concrete floor, making her wince, and the other....
The lump on the floor reared up with a bellow, then collapsed with a long, shuddering, pain-filled moan.
"Zane?" Tamara twisted around, trying to find his head so she could see how badly he was hurt.
His hand caught her bare foot, stilling her movements. "Christ almighty, woman! Are you trying to make me a choirboy?"
Tamara's eyes adjusted to the dark, and she realized she was facing the wrong end of Zane. He was the hard thing she'd tripped over, sprawled flat on his back in the middle of the floor. "Zane? What in the world are you doing? Are you hurt?" Then, with extreme menace: "Did someone hit you?"
Zane laughed. "I'm just bruised." His fingers were still around her foot. "There's no one here. I fell over a damn box of books."
"You're bruised?" She tried to turn so she could evaluate his injuries.
Zane tightened his hold. "Bruised, and getting more so by the second. Will you hold still?"
Tamara froze. She'd just realized her head was directly over his lap.
Her hands twitched. She squinted hard, trying to see more clearly through the inky blackness. "Um ... I guess that wasn't your stomach I elbowed."
He growled. "My stomach is not soft."
No, she knew it wasn't. She'd seen his washboard abs a few times when he'd been helping unload a truck behind his shop. Watching Zane Winston lose his shirt, seeing the sweat dampen his upper body as he worked, had been a particular kind of provocation, doing much to embellish her fantasies. His chest was lightly covered with springy dark hair, and his jeans always rod
e low, showing off his navel, occasionally even his hipbones.
Groaning, she gave in to temptation and put both hands on his fly. He jerked, and a low, raw groan reverberated softly in the room. Tonight he wore casual khaki slacks, which did nothing to hinder her inquisitive fingers.
He filled her hands.
Eyes closed so her senses could fully absorb him, her stomach flip-flopped, heat pulsed and swelled beneath her skin. He was soft down low—probably where her sharp elbow had landed—and hot and hard and heavy above. She traced the rigid length of his erect penis with her palm and felt his legs flex, shift. Her breath shuddered in and out. So hard, so long. So very nice.
Zane lifted his hips just a bit, then made another low sound, this one more pain-filled than any of the others. It struck Tamara that she was copping a feel off an injured
man! She wanted him, but she didn't want to take advantage of him. Not like this.
Mortified by her uncharacteristically brash behavior, she was just about to lever herself up—never mind that his hard body felt very nice beneath hers—when the bare lightbulb overhead clicked on.
There was a startled moment of silence before Thanos roared at Zane, "What the hell do you think you're doing with her, man?"
Tamara started to object, but Zane just dropped his head back and laughed. He still held her foot, his long fingers fastened around her ankle so tightly she knew she couldn't do a thing until he let her.
She looked down at his erection, appreciating the bird's-eye view now that she could see him, and regretting the interruption.
Thanos took a step forward, his eyes almost red. Zane said, "She's on top, Thanos. All I'm doing is trying to protect my more vulnerable body parts from elbows and knees."
No sooner did he say it than she moved again and her heel made sharp contact with his chin.
Thanos chuckled.
Zane didn't find anything humorous in the situation. He sat up and used her leg to drag her around to face him, then held her cradled on his lap. The new position effectively hid his arousal from her uncle, and it felt really nice against her backside.
