Six Guns and Six Strings: 13 Book Excite Spice Cowboys and Rock Stars Mega Bundle (Excite Spice Boxed Sets)

by Selena Kitt

  Her eyes had widened as she stared at her new husband, expression dark, mouth grim. They had gone on without a word, Max showing her the garage where Blue kept his cars—there were fifteen of them stored at the house—but she hadn’t forgotten that moment or that room.

  “Is there a monster you keep down there?” Petra tease, a smile playing on her lips as she fingered the leather fob, turning the key over in her hand.

  “Sometimes,” he replied, cryptic. He was standing close now, his words urgent. His presence alone made her feel dizzy, like she had to sit or she just might faint. “Just please. Trust me. Do what I ask.”

  “Of course I do what you ask,” she assured him, putting a hand on his arm. She heard his slight intake of breath as he shied away from her gentle touch

  “Thank you.” He breathed a slow sigh, leaning in to brush her cheek—the other one this time—with a goodbye kiss. She closed her eyes, savoring the prickle of his beard, breathing in his earthy, dark scent. More than anything, she wanted to throw her arms around him, kiss him fully, properly, like a wife should kiss her husband.

  Instead, she sighed, opening her eyes to see him looking at her with that wolfish gaze of his. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be on the red-eye home from Chicago tonight.” He was still standing so close. She could barely breathe. “How about I take you to lunch tomorrow at Spago’s?”

  “I would be liking that.” She smiled, glancing down at the dog whining at her feet. He yelped in protest when she reached down and scooped him up into her arms. “Say goodbye to your master, Milyi.”

  Blue reached out to pat the dog on the head but he growled violently, baring his teeth. She shook him gently, admonishing him in Russian, then in English. “You bad boy!” She looked at Blue, shrugging helplessly. “He’s a wicked little thing.”

  “But he loves his mistress.” Blue looked at the Pug as it licked Petra’s cheek. She giggled, twisting her face away. “I can’t blame him.”

  She looked up at him in wonder. Where was all this sudden affection coming from? He was usually so reserved!

  “Sir?” Max called from the doorway and they both jumped, moving apart. “The car’s ready.”

  Blue glanced at him and then back to Petra, touching her hand briefly. “I look forward to our date.”

  Date!

  She felt positively giddy.

  “Goodbye!” She waved Milyi’s paw at them as she watched her husband follow Max down the hallway. When she heard them turn down another hallway to go through the dining room, she set the Pug on the Italian tile. She dropped a piece of bacon to the floor for him with a forlorn sigh, watching him scarf it up, making distinctly pig-like noises with his mashed-in doggie snout.

  She fought the urge to follow Blue—to at least run to the window and watch the car pull out of the long driveway toward the gates. But she had quickly learned restraint with her husband. If she approached him, he would shy away. He might even growl or bark at her, like her pugnacious little puppy. But if she waited, he often came to her. A brief touch of his hand against hers. The press of his palm against the small of her back. A caress of her neck. A kiss on the cheek.

  But no further. Why?

  She didn’t understand, but she was too afraid to ask him. She sat down at the counter, morosely picking at the eggs she’d been so hungry for just twenty minutes ago. English wasn’t her first language, and the effort it would take for her to broach the subject seemed insurmountable. How could you ask your husband why he didn’t want you? No. It was too humiliating to be borne.

  “You made your own breakfast again?” Mrs. Ribya scolded her in Russian as she bustled into the kitchen. The woman was tall, gangly, her dark uniform making her look like a spider—all legs. Her blond hair was always pulled back into a severe bun. She surveyed her younger charge, hands on hips. “What am I supposed to do with myself, if you keep taking on all my duties?”

  Petra smirked, chewing on a piece of bacon. “I don’t do windows.”

  Mrs. Ribya laughed. They often talked in Russian when no one else was around. Mrs. Ribya had helped all of them communicate over the last three months, when the language barrier broke down. She was fluent in both English and Russian.

  “I’m not hungry.” Petra pushed her plate away. “Give it to Milyi. I’m going for a swim.”

  The little dog grunted happily when Mrs. Ribya dumped the contents of Petra’s plate into his gold-plated bowl, not following his mistress as she made her way down the hallway, through the dining room where she ate dinner every night with her husband. She missed his shy smile, his deep, booming laugh. She missed the way he teased her about her broken English, the words she often twisted around into mixed up phrases like pretzels. She missed how his gaze followed her around a room, drank her in, as if he couldn’t get enough.

  She knew the feeling.

  Her room was all the way at the other end of the thirty-room house, and by the time she had her suit on, she was breathless and panting. But she wasn’t sure it was from exertion. She couldn’t help remembering the time her husband had come swimming with her—soon after she’d been caught by the cameras, actually, as if he’d suddenly grown curious about her time in the pool—his dark hair wet and curling at the nape of his neck, droplets glistening in his beard as he sat next to her and shook his head like a dog, spraying her with water. His shoulders were so wide, his arms thick and muscled. He was twenty years her senior, but the only sign of that was the graying of his hair at the temples.

  She had seen his look of lust that day, unmistakable. Every time she got near him, she heard his breath quicken, just like her own pulse. It was torture, being so wet and slick, having so few clothes on, and not touching him. It was always torture not touching him!

  Petra grabbed a fluffy towel out of her bathroom, racing out of her bedroom and down the hall. There was only one thing that could cool her thoughts. When she got to the pool—Mrs. Ribya had unlocked it for her—she dove in headfirst, losing herself immediately, her body light, buoyant. She began doing laps, taking long, even strokes. It was like meditation. She could do it all day.

  It didn’t take her mind off Blue—but it did calm her.

  She only stopped when she heard Milyi scratching on the door—he had finished his breakfast and found her. He didn’t like to swim, but he curled up comfortably to watch, keeping her company when she came out and dried off, dog and mistress falling asleep together on one of the lounge chairs.

  Mrs. Ribya woke her with lunch—a baked tomato with hazelnut breadcrumbs, pickled baby squash, and fresh cantaloupe—which Petra ate at one of the bistro tables, ravenous, her appetite returned. She convinced Mrs. Ribya to stay and keep her company a while as she ate, both of them tossing a ball for Milyi to chase, although his version of “fetch” was to run away with the ball so you could fetch it from him!

  “You miss him, yes?” the older woman asked.

  Petra nodded, knowing she meant Blue, trying to let the sweetness of the melon brighten her mood. “I miss him even when he’s here.”

  Mrs. Ribya started to gather empty dishes onto the empty tray. “Maybe that will change for you both soon.”

  The older woman just smiled and shrugged when Petra asked her what she meant, taking the dishes back to the kitchen. Petra made her way back to her room to shower and change. By then, it was four o’clock. What could she do with the rest of her day without Blue?

  She curled up on her bed, feeling sorry for herself, Milyi nestled against her belly, snoring happily. Of course, she had no right to complain. Yes, life with Blue had been a whirlwind, from courtship to marriage to life in this mansion, but it was a far cry from what she had been living in Minsk, working as a young secretary.

  She’d been orphaned at the age of three, her parents both victims of a factory fire, and spent the next fifteen years dreaming of life in America. It wasn’t until she was out in the world, away from the orphanage and working for a living, that her dream had been made re
ality when her friend, Sophia, had told her about being a mail-order bride.

  Yes, there were horror stories of girls being sold into slavery, of women killed in their sleep by their husbands in America. There were also love stories—arranged marriages that lasted decades, lifetimes, filled with laughter and children and joy. The men in Minsk were scarce. Women outnumbered them considerably. It was much easier to find a husband this way, Sophia said.

  Of course, she had never expected to find Blue.

  He was handsome and charming, if restrained and a little quiet. He’d convinced her completely that her life with him would be a dream, and it had turned out to be true.

  So why wasn’t she happy?

  He’d answered her numerous questions. He’d said all the right things.

  Why do you want to marry me? I want to settle down, have a wife to keep me company.

  Why would a man like you take a mail-order bride? Too many people in America know who I am. It makes dating very… difficult.

  Why me? Because you’re the one, Pet. I knew it the moment I saw you.

  What woman could have turned him down? Certainly not her. Their wedding had been a small, quiet affair—upon her request, he’d offered her an elaborate ceremony—just like their marriage. He had taken her to a few functions, including the Grammies, paparazzi flashbulbs blinding them, a dizzying menagerie of limos, pristine smiles, laughter and handshakes. He dressed her up like a doll when they went out, picking her clothing, down to the underwear he never saw.

  He never said he wanted children. No, that was true. He had said he wanted a wife, someone to keep him company. He’d never mentioned sex, hadn’t even stolen a kiss before their wedding. Although the man was so sexy it was hard to be near him without getting dizzy with lust. She’d seen other women react the same way, saw the light in their eyes, the way they flushed and fluttered around him like butterflies.

  So she could only assume he’d wanted a trophy wife, someone he could show off. What was she complaining about? He was kind to her. He gave her everything she wanted. What more could she ask for?

  I want him.

  It was true. She did. And she knew, she knew he wanted her too. He wanted her—but he wouldn’t touch her. He denied himself, and her, at every turn. Why? It was so maddening it made her sob with frustration. Petra sighed, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the key he had given her, wondering at it.

  The master key. I wish. If only there was a key to unlock whatever secrets he was really hiding.

  “Would you like to help me make dinner?” Mrs. Ribya interrupted her thoughts and she looked up to see her standing in the doorway

  Petra hastily shoving the key back into her jeans pocket, smiling. Mrs. Ribya didn’t need any more help with dinner than Max needed help with driving a car. She was asking to take her mind off things, giving her something to do to while away the hours until Blue returned.

  “What are we cooking?”

  It turned out to be sticky balsamic ribs, along with a lemony potato salad with green beans and a honey peach pie for dessert. There was a lot to be done, from peeling potatoes to breaking off the ends of beans—Milyi got to eat those—and the two women did it together, chatting in Russian the whole while.

  Mrs. Ribya had been with Blue for five years and knew a great deal about him, but she’d come along just after he’d retired from the music business. She told Petra about the “groupies-from-hell” who sometimes scaled the gates, never getting as far as the house, but setting off the alarms in the middle of the night. They both talked about Blue’s strange stage-shows, marveling at the pyrotechnics, the theatrics, women tied up in bondage on stage in mock guillotines or iron maidens. Lots of fake blood, simulated sex, and of course, loud rock and roll. He’d been banned in several states, and some places overseas as well, before Bluebeard retired.

  They’d also won three Grammies and two of their albums had gone triple platinum.

  Petra couldn’t bear to eat dinner at the big mahogany table all alone, so she convinced Mrs. Ribya to eat with her in the kitchen nook, both of them laughing and licking sticky sauce off their fingers, feeding the dog under the table. But the older woman drew the line at allowing Petra to clean up with her.

  “You go off and watch TV or something,” Mrs. Ribya insisted, steering her out of the kitchen by her shoulders. “If you need anything, just call me.”

  They all had cell phones that connected and worked as walkie-talkies.

  Petra started the long, lonely walk back to her room, Milyi panting beside her, fingering the key in her jeans pocket and thinking about her husband. It was only eight o’clock, but she was sleepy, having been up before dawn, definitely tired enough to go to bed, but instead of turning right at the top of the stairs to go to her suite of rooms, she turned left instead, heading toward Blue’s.

  Did the master key really work? Blue’s music room was at the very end of the left wing, next to his bedroom, and he always kept it locked, the equipment in there, including three Mac computers, very expensive. She tried the doorknob and sure enough, it was locked. Petra slid the key in, breath held, and slowly turned it. She heard the tumbler click, and the knob moved in her hand.

  She’d been in this room, plenty of times. Sometimes, in the middle of the afternoon when she heard him playing, she would creep down the hall to listen. She liked to hear him when he didn’t know she was there, but she also loved to see him break into a warm smile whenever she appeared in the doorway, waving her in and patting the piano bench next to him—or one of the many stools set up in the room, if he happened to be playing guitar.

  But he never played Bluebeard’s music anymore, and once she’d asked him about it.

  “I’m too old for that stuff, I guess.”

  No more screaming and thrasher metal music. Now he played more melodic songs. They still had an edge, but it was a deeper edge, more blues than rock, as if whatever knife he’d used to dig that deep had reached a rich, red geyser of real blood this time—no more fake stuff. He could make a guitar sing like no one she had ever heard before.

  She turned on the light and went over to the piano, sitting down on the bench, closing her eyes, remembering the feel of him beside her, the motion of his body as he played. As big as he was, he had long fingers, perfect for piano. She’d never learned to play an instrument, and every time she said so, he would offer to teach her. But she would laugh and tell him no, using an American phrase Mrs. Ribya had taught her—old dogs can’t learn new tricks. You play. Play for me. And he did.

  Petra opened her eyes, looking at the music sitting open. It had Blue’s handwriting scrawled in the margins, lyrics written in under the notes. Glancing at the title at the top of the paper, she gasped: My Pet. She read the song, her eyes skimming down the page:

  Ever since I saw you walkin , baby

  You been walkin’ me somehow

  I’m growlin’, pantin’, stalkin’, baby

  Cause you got me on the prowl

  Your love has got me collared

  Wonderin’ who’s the master now

  It’s such a sweet submission

  For your loyal alpha dog

  No, I ain’t been runnin’ with the pack

  Ever since I got you back

  You’re my pet, you’re my pet, you’re my pet

  You got this big ol’ dog a-howlin’

  You drive me wild as I’m gon’ get

  Your love gon’ track me down

  Like a hell hound on my trail

  My heart is in the doghouse

  All I can do is wag my tail

  You got me goin’ junkyard wild, baby

  Markin’ my territory round your heart

  Another dog come snoopin’

  Yeah, there’s gonna be a fight

  No, I ain’t been runnin’ with the pack

  Ever since I got you back

  You’re my pet, you’re my pet, you’re my pet

  You got this big ol’ dog a-howlin’

&
nbsp; You drive me wild as I’m gon’ get

  Petra stared at the pages in her hands, her heart pounding in her chest.

  This is about me.

  It couldn’t be. But it was. Feeling as if she’d been reading someone’s diary, Petra put the music back exactly as it had been, calling Milyi, who was sniffing around one of the drum sets, beckoning him out of the room. She turned off the light and locked the door behind her, leaning against it, thinking about her husband and the song he had written for her.

  For her.

  She had to pass Blue’s room to get to hers now, and the temptation proved too much. She’d seen his room before, of course, passing it on the way to the music room, but she’d never been inside. Blue’s room was dark and cool and it smelled like him—so familiar to her now. She turned on the light, smiling at the austerity. Her room was light and frills and lace, but his was dark, sleek mahogany and leather upholstery. His bed was a four-poster affair with a dark blue coverlet.