by Lori Foster
As the rhythmic beat began to fade, she dropped smoothly to her knees, then her stomach. Palms flat on the floor, arms extended, she arched her body in a parody of a woman in the throes of pleasure. The move was blatantly sexual, deliberately seducing, causing the crowd to almost riot and making Jordan catch his breath.
Her face was exquisite at that moment, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted, nostrils flaring. Jordan locked his jaw against the mental images filling his brain—images of him holding her hips while she rode him in just that way, taking him deep inside her body.
He wanted to banish the thoughts, but they wouldn’t budge. Anger at himself and at the woman conflicted with his growing tension.
He knew every damn man in the place was imagining the same thing and it enraged him.
In that instant her eyes slowly opened and her glittering gray gaze locked on his. Jordan sucked in a breath, feeling as though she’d just touched him in all the right places. They were connected as surely as any lovers, despite the space between them, the surroundings and the lack of prior knowledge. Her eyes turned hot and a bit frightened as they filled with awareness.
Then she caught herself and with a lift of her chin, she swung her legs around and came effortlessly to her feet.
Scowling at the unexpected effect of her, Jordan tried, without success, to pull his gaze away. There was nothing about a mostly naked vamp dancing in a sleazy bar for the delectation of drunks that should appeal to him.
So why was he so aroused?
He hadn’t had such a staggering reaction to a female since his teens when puberty had made him more interested in sex than just about anything else. But he’d grown up since then. He was a mature, responsible man now.
He was…
The music died away to utter silence. The hush in the room was rich and hungry.
She wasn’t beautiful, Jordan insisted to himself, attempting to argue away his racing heartbeat, his clenched muscles and his swelling sex. In fact, she was barely pretty. But she was as sexy as the original temptation, her appeal basic and erotic.
Over the silence, Jordan detected the sound of her heavy breathing with the force of a thunderclap. A roar of approval started the massive applause, and within seconds the room rocked with the sounds of masculine appreciation and entreaties for more. Jordan continued to watch her, not smiling, not about to encourage her. He waited for her to meet his gaze again, but she didn’t. She looked straight ahead, deliberately ignoring him.
Anger simmered inside him, warring with lust.
Slowly, still struggling for breath, she took a bow. He hadn’t noticed until that moment that she wore high heels. Amazing, he thought, remembering how she’d moved, the gracefulness of her every step. Her legs looked especially long in the spiked heels.
She tottered slightly as if in exhaustion, appearing young and vulnerable for the space of a heartbeat. Money was thrown onstage, some of it hitting the open urn positioned at the edge, most of it landing around her feet. She didn’t bend to pick it up or acknowledge the money in any way. She merely stood there, as proud and imperious as a queen while the men payed homage, begging her for more, emptying their pockets.
If Jordan hadn’t been watching her so closely, he wouldn’t have seen her hands curl into fists, or the way her soft mouth tightened. With one last nod of her head, she turned to leave the stage. That’s when the trouble started.
Two men reached for her, one catching her wrist, the other stroking her knee and thigh.
A wave of rage hit Jordan with such force, it nearly took him to his knees.
He couldn’t dispute his own reaction, and started toward her. At almost the same time, the bouncer pushed himself away from the back wall, but Jordan barely noticed him. He kept his gaze on the woman’s face as she tried to pull her hand free, but the drunken men had other plans. One of them attempted to press money into her hand while he suggested several lecherous possibilities, egged on by his buddy.
Others seconded the drunks’ suggestions, throwing more money, making catcalls and urging her to another dance…and more.
She firmly refused, and again tried to step away. Her gaze sought out the bouncer, but he’d been detained by a table full of younger men who were insisting the woman should continue.
Jordan reached the edge of the stage just as she said, “Go on home to your wife, Larry. The show’s over.”
Her deep throaty voice was filled with loathing and exhaustion. It affected Jordan almost as strongly as the sight of the drunk’s rough hand wrapped around her slender wrist. He barely restrained himself from attacking the man, and that alone was an aberration. Jordan had never considered himself a violent or overly aggressive person.
“Let the lady go.”
Reacting to the command in Jordan’s tone, the man released her automatically, only to turn on Jordan with a growl.
“Who the hell are you?” As he asked it, Larry took a threatening step forward.
Jordan gave him a stark look of contempt. In as reasonable a voice as he could muster, considering his mood and the obstreperous noise of the bar, he said, “You’re drunk and I’m not. I’m bigger in every way. And right now, I’d like to tear you in two.” Jordan watched him, his gaze unwavering. “Does it really matter who I am?”
Larry reeked of alcohol, as if he’d been at the bar all day. Perhaps that accounted for his loss of good sense. But for whatever reason, he disregarded Jordan’s warning and attempted a clumsy punch. Jordan leaned back two inches so that Larry’s limp fist whipped right past his jaw, then he stuck his foot out, gave the smaller man a shove, and sent him sprawling. Larry screeched like a wet hen, but when he hit the dusty barn floor he landed hard, and he didn’t look sober enough to get back up.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake…” The dancer’s words were muttered low, but Jordan heard her. He glanced up. The other man stepped back quickly at the look of menace in Jordan’s eyes. Unfortunately, he still had his hand hooked around the woman’s knee and his sudden retreat pulled her off balance. With a loud gasp, she stumbled right off the edge of the low stage and would have landed next to Larry if Jordan hadn’t caught her.
The impact of her small, lush body caused Jordan to stumble, too, but he easily regained his balance and, acting on pure male instinct, wrapped his arms tightly around her bottom. Her belly landed flush against his lower chest, her ripe breasts pressed to his face. Jordan stood, for a single instant, stunned.
Her small hands felt cool on his burning skin, the contrast maddening. Braced against his shoulders, she pushed back and Jordan was able to see her angry face.
“Are you insane?” she demanded.
“At this moment?” Jordan asked, unable to concentrate on anything of import, not with those incredible breasts a mere breath away. “I believe so.”
He held very still, feeling trapped by her nearness, by the deep timbre of her voice, her warm, gentle weight, her seductive movements. Her body was lithe and supple, soft, despite her determination to push away from him. Acutely aware of one firm breast pressing into his jaw, he could see far too much cleavage to allow for divided attention.
Her black lace bodysuit dipped low in front, displaying the paleness and lush roundness of her breasts; the material was so sheer he could plainly make out the outline of her puckered nipples, thrusting noticeably against the material. His mouth went dry. He was so hard he hurt.
He wanted to taste her.
Contrary to all reason, to the situation, to the crowd around them, to his own basic nature, he wanted to draw her into the heat of his mouth, lick her, taste her, hear her husky moans. He’d only need to turn his head a scant two inches and…
His breath came faster, his stomach cramped.
Her naked thighs were sleek and smooth and warm against his forearms, which he had crossed beneath her bottom. Up close, her overdone makeup was even more apparent—but then, so was her allure. Jordan met her gaze and they each stalled.
Her pale skin was tinged pink from exertion and embarras
sment. Her nose was narrow, tilted up on the end like an innocent pixie’s, her mouth so full and soft he could almost feel the effect of it against his skin, making his body throb. Her face was a perfect oval, her cheeks a little too round, her chin a little too stubborn. But those arctic gray eyes…
He’d never seen any like them.
Her breath caught sharply as he studied her mouth. With a burst of near panic, she began her struggles anew. Her efforts to free herself from his hold set them off-kilter and Jordan fell back a step.
A rickety table overturned as he bumped into it, spilling several drinks. Jordan, feeling a little drunk himself as he breathed in the smell of her musky, heated skin, especially strong between her soft breasts, attempted to regain his balance and apologize at the same time.
He wasn’t given a chance. This time the man swinging his meaty fist had better aim. Jordan quickly tried to set the dancer on her feet even as he ducked. He wasn’t fast enough to do either.
His head snapped back from a solid clip in the jaw. Pain exploded, but Jordan didn’t lose his hold on the woman. In fact, his arms felt locked, unable to open even when he wanted them to.
Ears ringing from the blow, Jordan allowed his anger to erupt. Because of how he held her, that fist had come entirely too close to touching a woman.
His head now clearer, Jordan gently released his feminine bundle and moved her behind his back, keeping her there when she attempted to stall the fight. He eyed the man who’d struck him, and with a sharp, lightning-fast reflex that was more automatic than not, Jordan used the backward sweep of his bent arm to slam his elbow into the man’s jaw. His blow was far more powerful than the one he’d received, and the man sank like a brick in water. Other than his arm, Jordan hadn’t moved—and his mood was deadly.
All hell broke loose.
The bouncer who’d just witnessed Jordan’s retaliation came charging forward. Jordan sighed. He wasn’t a regular, which he supposed meant he was automatically tagged as the troublemaker.
Looking quickly around for the older men who’d come with him, Jordan found them safely ensconced in the far corner near the front door where they could watch while staying unharmed. He didn’t have time to breathe a sigh of relief.
The bouncer grabbed Jordan’s arm and jerked him forward. Normally Jordan would have attempted to talk his way out of the confrontation. He wasn’t, in the usual course of things, a combative man. But the bar had opened up to a free-for-all. Chairs flew around him, bottles and glasses were thrown. Men were shouting and punching and cursing.
Jordan locked his jaw. He needed to get the woman out of harm’s way, and he needed to take his cohorts back to Buckhorn. Before he had time to really think about what he would do, he ducked under the bouncer’s meaty arm and came up behind him. The guy was huge, easily four inches taller than Jordan’s six foot one, with a neck the size of a tree trunk. Jordan gripped the man’s fingers and applied just enough negative pressure for the big guy to issue a moan of pain. Jordan wrapped his free arm around the bouncer’s throat and squeezed.
“Just hold still,” Jordan said in disgust, wondering what the hell he should do now. He ducked a body that came staggering past, inadvertently hurting the bouncer further. Damn, things had gotten out of hand.
Jordan wasn’t a fighter, but he had grown up with two older brothers and one younger. Being the pacifist in a family full of physical aggressors, he’d been taught to give as well as take. Not that he and his brothers had ever had any serious fistfights. But his brothers played as hard as they fought, so Jordan had learned how to hold his own.
Morgan, his second oldest brother, was built like a solid brick wall and Jordan had practiced up on him most of his life. There were few things that Morgan enjoyed more than a good skirmish. And though he was beyond fair, Morgan always finished as the victor.
Jordan knew how to handle the big ones. Morgan had generously seen to that.
Sirens sounded outside, adding to the confusion. In strangled tones, the bouncer demanded to be released, but Jordan ignored him, maintaining his awkward hold and refusing to lose the upper hand. Using the large man as a shield, Jordan turned to the woman and shouted, “Get away from here.”
She hesitated for only a moment, sending a regretful look at the money scattered across the stage. Then her gray eyes met his and she nodded her agreement. But before she could go, her eyes widened and she looked beyond Jordan. He twisted just in time to avoid getting hit from behind. The bouncer ended up taking the brunt of the blow, which left him cursing and very disgruntled, but still very alert. Jordan raised his brows. It was a good thing he’d immobilized the big bruiser, because he wasn’t at all certain he could have bested him face-to-face.
He turned back in time to see the woman scrambling up onto the stage. In her retreat, she gave Jordan a delectable view of her bottom in the skimpy costume. Despite his precarious position—having his arms filled with an outraged bouncer—Jordan felt his heartbeat accelerate at the luscious sight of her. She was almost to the curtain when several policemen charged through the doors.
With a feeling of dread, Jordan saw the officers draw their guns as they issued the clichéd order of “everybody freeze.”
Zenny, Walt, Newton and the others were nowhere in sight, having evidently made a run for it when they heard the sirens. At least they’d managed to avoid this situation, Jordan thought. In fact, he’d be willing to bet they were already halfway back to Buckhorn, anxious to begin spreading tales of his night of debauchery. This was likely more excitement than any of the older citizens had experienced in many years, and the only thing that might compare would be the joy of telling others about it.
Jordan’s thoughts were interrupted when a young officer climbed onto the stage and approached the dancer. She looked like she wanted to run, but instead she faced him with a defiant pose and began arguing. Dressed as she was, her attitude was more ludicrous than not. A mostly naked woman could hardly be taken seriously.
Jordan started toward her, bustling the bouncer along with him, meaning to intervene. But before he’d taken two steps another officer stepped in front of him. All around them, men were shouting curses and arguing, which did them no good at all. Having no choice, Jordan released the bouncer, who began shaking his hand and cursing and promising dire consequences. He was quickly handcuffed and urged into the crowd of men being corralled outside. The officer turned to Jordan with a frown.
Knowing there was no hope for it, Jordan merely held out his hands and suffered the unique experience of being handcuffed. Beside him, men attempted to argue their circumstances, and were shoved roughly out the door for their efforts. Jordan shook his head at the demeaning display while still keeping one eye on the woman. Someone, he thought, should at least offer to let her get dressed.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the officer asked Jordan.
“No, I’m from Buckhorn.” He gave the admission grudgingly, but he already knew there was no way to keep this stupid contretemps from his brothers. They’d rib him about this for the rest of eternity.
The officer lifted a brow and grinned with a good deal of satisfaction. “That’s a break. You can just wait in my car while I notify the sheriff of Buckhorn. He can deal with you himself and save me the trouble.”
When the officer started to pull him away, Jordan asked, “The woman…?”
“I’d worry about my own hide if I was you,” he said, then added, “That Buckhorn sheriff is one mean son of a bitch.”
Since the sheriff was none other than his brother Morgan, Jordan was already well aware of that fact. He lost sight of the woman as he was escorted outside through the rain and into the back seat of a cruiser where he cursed his fate, his libido and his damned temper, which had chosen a hell of a bad time to display itself. The car he’d arrived in was long gone, proving his supposition that the others had headed home.
The car door opened again and an officer helped the woman inside. She faltered when she saw Jorda
n sitting there, staring at her in blank surprise. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered with heartfelt distress. She dropped back into the seat and covered her face with her hands. “Just when I think the night can’t get any worse….”
Jordan breathed in the scent of her rain-damp skin and hair, acutely aware of her frustration, her exhaustion. He settled into his seat and realized that despite how she felt, the night had just taken a dramatic turn for the better as far as he was concerned.
2
“YOU LIVE IN Buckhorn?” he asked, which was the only conclusion he could come up with for why she was now in the car with him.
When she didn’t answer, the officer gave him a man-to-man look and said, “According to her license, she does.”
Jordan leaned forward to see her face, but with her hands still covering it, that wasn’t possible. He gently caught her wrists and tugged them down. Their handcuffs clinked together.
Softly, attempting to put her at ease, he asked, “Whereabouts? I’ve never seen you before.” And he sure as certain would have remembered if he ever had. Even if she’d been fully clothed and doing something as mundane as shopping for groceries, he felt certain he’d have paid special attention to her. There was something about her that hit him on a gut level.
Just being this close to her now had his muscles cramping in a decidedly erotic way. Like the effects of prolonged foreplay, the sensation was pleasurable yet somewhat painful at the same time, because of the imposed restraint.
Their gazes met, his curious, hers wary and antagonistic. She looked away. “Where I live,” she said under her breath, “is no concern of yours.”
The officer answered again, disregarding her wishes for privacy. “You know that old farmhouse, out by the water tower? She moved in there.”
The woman glared at the officer, who did manage to look a bit sheepish over his quick tongue. He leaned farther into the car to remove her handcuffs and place her purse in her lap. Jordan stared at her narrow wrists while she rubbed them, feeling his temper prick at the thought that she might have been hurt.
