by Carol Devine
Beauty and the Beastmaster
A Masterson Family Series Novel
by Carol Devine
copyright © 2016 Carol Devine Rusley
All rights reserved. Except for excerpts for book review purposes as described under copyright law, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means or method including digital, electronical, mechanical, photocopying, audio recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the author at authorcaroldevine.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Revised Edition
ISBN-13:9781534957770
ISBN-10:1534957774
Printed by CreateSpace, an Amazon.com Company
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For her help in giving life to Tasha, the tiger character in this book, I would like to thank Tippi Hendren, who founded the big cat rescue foundation at the Shambala Preserve in California. My great friend, Judy Aytes, accompanied me to a WWF event in Denver, supposedly for research purposes. The Denver Zoo and Denver D.A.'s office also were research sources.
I thank my friends at Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers for their encouragement and wisdom in my quest to become a better writer, especially Lee Karr, Maggie Osborne, Jasmine Cresswell and Kay Bergstrom. Angela Keane of Story Preserves shepherded me through the process of publishing this revised edition and continues to be my mentor. My website, www.authorcaroldevine.com was built with the help of Weebly. Jennifer Jakes of The Killion Group, Inc. saved my sanity more than once in this, my first attempt at publishing independently.
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Cover design by Kimberly Killion of The Killion Group,Inc.
DEDICATION
To Mom and Dad and my husband, Steve
and
To all those like Tasha
for teaching me the nature of magnificence
Chapter One
"So..." Hardy threw down his cigarette and straightened from his slouch against the cement block wall. "What happened?"
Abraham Masterson was so disgusted by what the League president had said, he didn't answer the question. He brushed by his manager with a grunt and headed down the dreary hallway toward the weight room. Bram needed to find something other than Hardy's face to punish. A three hundred pound bench press would do.
"That bad, huh?" Hardy asked, trotting along behind. A weasel of a man, he was dressed in a shiny green gabardine suit and a purple shirt with matching tie. "I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so, Masterson. You signed an ironclad contract. When the boss says you gotta do something, you gotta do it."
"And if I refuse?" Bram tossed over his bare shoulder.
"You wanna go back down to the bush leagues? The GWL doesn't like wrestlers who don't do what they're told."
"At this point, I don't give a damn what the League likes or dislikes. They can all to go to hell."
"Don't go crazy on me, Masterson. Don't do something stupid."
"Me do something stupid?" Bram halted at the end of the hallway, ripped off the band of leather tied around his head and raked a hand through his shoulder length hair. He was surprised he hadn't pulled it all out by now. Lord knew he had reason to. "If picking up a woman and slinging her over my shoulder like a sack of grain isn't stupid, I don't know what is."
"Look at it this way. You're helping someone gain valuable experience."
"Come again?"
"Masterson, these girls are actresses. Each one is paid to faint in ecstasy when you carry her out of the arena. Think of the stunt as providing a starving artist with a job."
"That's quite a rationalization, even for you, Hardy."
"Then try this one on for size. The fans love it."
"The fans love it all right. They love to hate it. I almost had a riot on my hands last week in Philadelphia."
"Philly don't count. That was your first fight against the Bulkster, the audience was supposed to get excited. We had plenty of cops to hold ‘em back. And you have to admit, the girl that night played her part to the max, especially after you got her back to the locker room."
"Is that what you think I want, my own personal groupie? I've got enough of those already. The problem isn't the women, Hardy. It's the attitude. I see, I want, I take. That's not what I want to represent."
"Why not? You're the Beastmaster. The baddest of the bad. You're supposed to grab whatever the hell you want be it man, woman or beast."
"Cut the crap, Hardy. The only reason you like this stupid stunt is because of the publicity it generates. More publicity for me means more money for you."
"So I care about money. So do you. Not long ago, you said you couldn't make enough. You told me to go after every gig, no matter where or when. Three hundred and nineteen days we were on the road last year. Now that you've made it to the big time, you could pick and choose your fights, your arenas. Instead you complain about the one thing that sets you apart. Most guys would kill to be in your position.
"I'm not most guys."
"You can say that again. Last week you had a fight with The Bulkster, the most popular wrestler in the history of the universe. The TV rating for your match was the best the GWL's had in two years. You want to screw that up? I don't understand why you don't want to do this stunt. It's like Superman refusing to fly. It's what makes you different from all the rest."
Bram turned his back on Hardy and flung open the weight room door. Bulkster stood at the far end, rubbing baby oil over his biceps. Serpent was pressing and the Dynamite Duo were seated on the remaining two weight machines, psyching each other out. So much for pumping iron.
"How much time before my fight?" Bram asked Hardy as he grabbed a roll of white tape and wrapped his knuckles. The punching bag would have to do.
Hardy shrugged and lit another cigarette, uncaring about the rules banning smoking. "Fifteen minutes, max. Robot and The Duke have already started."
Striding to the heavy bag hanging in the corner, Bram let loose with a flurry of punches. There was a small split in the middle of the worn plastic cover and he aimed there, hoping it would shred beneath his bare hands. Something had to give.
"You take a look yet at who you're supposed to grab tonight?" Hardy asked.
The heavy pound of fists hitting vinyl filled the room.
"Do you even know where she's sitting?"
Bram swore under his breath.
"Section 5, third row from ringside, seat 1, right on the aisle."
The split in the cover widened. Bram saw the bulge of packed material, saw how the bag would explode beneath his next punch, saw the burst of padding come pouring out. Abruptly, he pivoted and stripped the tape from his knuckles. There were some things worth fighting for. The inevitable wasn't one of them.
"Where's Tasha?" Bram asked as he grabbed the towel Hardy tossed.
Hardy took one last drag, dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it in the threadbare carpet. "Mack tied her up in the locker room."
Bram stopped toweling the sweat off his bare chest. "He left her alone?"
"I needed him to run a couple of errands. What's the big deal? You told me she's as harmless as a kitten."
"Cats that big are never harmless." Bram hurriedly shook back the damp hair clinging to his neck and retied the leather band around his head. He already wore his costume, a leopard-skin loincloth, kneepads and boots. While his costume was simple, his leading lady was not. She was complicated, sensi
tive to slight, whether real or imagined.
"Tigers hate to be confined, especially Natasha. Imagine a 400 lb. angry kitten and you tell me what might happen."
When he found her, she was pacing this way and that, held fast to a five foot length by her chain leash. Its free end was wrapped around the leg of a bench bolted to the floor. At least Mack had tied her to something secure.
She prowled three steps, curled around and went back, an endless circle to and fro. Until she saw him. Then she stopped and roared, the tilt of her huge triangular head indignant. Bram shuddered to think what memories the confinement might have awakened in her.
"Hush, baby," he said in the tender voice of a lover. His hands roved over the soft striped fur behind her ears and scratched there in the way she loved. She bobbed her head and Bram relaxed as a deep chuffing sound rumbled from her throat. She must be in a good mood tonight. Forgiveness had come easy.
Shoving his fingers beneath her collar, he loosened the twisted chain as he talked nonsense into her ear.
"Poor, Tasha. You weren't sure if I'd ever come back, were you?" Bram vowed to give Mack a piece of his mind for leaving her here alone. Most living creatures learned to cope with loneliness. This particular animal had not.
Hardy finished his cigarette. "I hate to break up this touching reunion but you're on in two minutes."
Bram unwound the chain from the bench leg, wrapped it around his right hand and stood up. Natasha lifted her head and watched the door intently, tail twitching.
"We're ready."
Chapter Two
The continuous human roar hurt Amanda Tarkenton’s ears. She sat amid a sea of people packed to the rafters of Denver's Downtown Arena, surrounded by shouts, catcalls and curses that would have made a sailor blush. Aside from her, everyone was standing and yelling, eyes riveted on the ring in the center of the arena floor. The odor of burnt popcorn mingled with the smell of too many excited bodies.
Amanda shook her head, hunched over the legal pad on her lap and wondered how much more of this she could take.
"What in the world are you doing?" A beautifully manicured hand whisked the legal pad away. "How could you work at a time like this?"
Caught in the act, Amanda pasted a repentant look on her face. "Sorry, Julie. Boggs assigned me a new case today. I wanted to write down a couple of ideas while they're still fresh in my mind."
Julie Williams snorted and tucked the legal pad under her arm. "You're completely hopeless. I brought you here to escape from work, not do more of it. Forget about your caseload for five minutes and stand up. You're missing all the action."
Amanda followed the indignant stab of Julie's scarlet fingernail to the platform rising in front of their ringside seats. In the middle grappled two bare-chested, meaty men. The one called Robotman wore skin-tight pants studded with rivets .
His opponent, The Duke, had on cowboy boots and a pair of cut-off jeans which left little to the imagination. John Wayne would not have been proud.
"No offense, Julie, but I've had about as much action as I can take. I'm ready to leave whenever you are."
Julie shook her head vigorously, her red curls spilling over the lapels of her blue suit like so many yo-yos. "Are you kidding? The guy I've been raving about all night is wrestling next. I promise you he's worth waiting for. He's Chris Hemsworth, Channing Tatum and Tarzan put together in one gorgeous package."
Amanda rolled her eyes, knowing there was no arguing with Julie when she was this obsessed, especially over a man. Her best friend had been looking forward to this moment all evening.
So had Amanda but only because once Julie got a glimpse of The Beastman or whatever his name was, she'd finally be ready to tear herself away from this idiotic so-called sporting event and go home.
"All right," Amanda sighed. "One more. But I refuse to get up from this chair until we leave. Someone might recognize me."
"Oh, please. Here? Besides, even members of the infamous Tarkenton family are allowed to have a little fun."
"Remember what the tabloids did to my brother last year? All he did was go to a public beach."
"You forgot to mention your very eligible brother had a Hollywood starlet dressed in a string bikini hanging on his arm at the time," Julie corrected. "He asks for that kind of attention. You don't. Sit if you must but we're not leaving until the next match is over."
Sighing, Amanda shielded her eyes against the glare of the spotlights. The blinding light and continuous noise had produced a terrible headache, worse than anything she'd experienced at a criminal trial. So much for celebrating her twenty-eighth birthday in grand style. When Julie promised a taste of popular culture, Amanda envisioned a trip to Colorado's famed Central City Opera House or an evening with the symphony.
Instead, Julie brought her to the city arena for the Friday Night Superstud Event. If it hadn't been for their long-standing friendship, Amanda would have left before the first match.
She rubbed her temples and slumped her seat. Mercifully the fight ended. After the winner exited in a flashy show of Wild West exuberance, the house lights flashed, signaling the introduction of the next two combatants.
Bass drums began to pound a primal rhythm, heavy and deep. The sound throbbed, vibrating her chair. Eerie calls of jungle birds pierced the crowd's hum. Abruptly, everyone quieted. The odor of burning popcorn faded. What lingered was the sound of rain falling on broad, green leaves and a first metallic whiff of danger.
The arena went black. Amanda glanced over her shoulder and slowly straightened, struck by the change in atmosphere. A prickling of foreboding crawled up her spine. She felt alone in the darkness, surrounded by trees dripping with moisture, oppressed by a sodden sky.
Ridiculous, she thought. She was sitting in the middle of the Downtown Arena in Denver, not some rainforest in Brazil. She faced forward, folded her arms and fought the emotional manipulation. But the feeling of oppression stayed with her, heightened by the thrum of the drums. She felt eyes upon her. Animal eyes.
Spotlights arced through the darkness. The drumbeat picked up speed. Her scalp tightened with the acceleration of sound. The tempo hypnotized as surely as the flute of a snake charmer. She craned her neck and followed the overhead shaft of light with her eyes, curious despite herself. What kind of wrestler warranted this introduction?
Bram stepped out into the circular pool of white light. The first moment always blinded him and he stood motionless for several seconds, allowing his pupils to adjust to the brightness. He couldn't see the crowd but he could hear them, hear that first sudden gush of exhaled air as they saw him, him and Tasha. He tugged once on her leash. The movement was imperceptible to most, but the tiger felt it and responded with her loudest roar. He felt her excitement charge along the length of chain which ran from her neck to his fist. She lived for these moments. Bram was grateful he had the opportunity to give them to her.
The drums rose in volume and he stepped into the rhythm, walking the hundred or so steps from locker room to ringside like a king with his jungle queen. Tasha played her part well, stalking like a hunter, her muscles slinking beneath the smooth fur of her tawny striped coat. He lifted the lowest rope surrounding the ring and she leaped upward, making the jump look effortless. Only Bram knew what it cost her.
He grabbed one of the corner turnbuckles to hoist himself up. The edge of the spotlight caught the crowd and he noticed a woman sitting in the front row. Everybody else was standing, swaying to the drums, caught up in the drama he took pains to create.
Everybody except her.
She sat in her chair, feet flat on the floor, arms crossed in judgment, blonde hair pulled back from her face. Bram recognized her with a sense of shock. Amanda Tarkenton, daughter of the late Senator John Bertram Tarkenton. Fifteen years ago, he'd been tragically killed while leading a civil rights march to Washington and since had achieved martyred status. The Tarkenton family's history of public service, influence and sacrifice rivaled the Kennedy's. So did the size of the
ir bank accounts.
She looked like she'd come straight from the board room of IBM. The black business suit she wore fit like a dark, severe glove. He didn't have to study her face to know she wasn't enjoying herself. Nine to five types usually didn't go for his brand of entertainment. Bram wondered why she'd bothered to come.
He leaped into the ring and walked the perimeter with Tasha, acknowledging the audience's boos with an upraised fist. He got a better look at her then. Her spot-lit hair arrested him. The color was pure gold. Even from twenty feet away, he noted the flawless porcelain face, marred only by the downturned mouth.
Why in hell was a Tarkenton here? She looked so bored, he could read her resentment and felt a corresponding resentment rise within his chest. He knew her type. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she was nothing but a spoiled, pampered prima donna.
Amanda didn't know what to do. He stared down at her, pinning her with eyes clear as green glass, a wicked grin turning his mouth up at the corners. Long black hair, held in place by a leather headband, framed a face carved by gods. Ridges of muscle stood out from his neck and shoulders. The broad bare chest, clean of hair, narrowed to hips covered in leopard skin. Bulky kneepads elongated the sleek vertical tendons cording each thigh.
Julie was right. He was gorgeous. But in no way did his looks make Amanda feel at ease. Instead she fidgeted in her seat, unnerved. Her knees pressed together. Goosebumps sprang up on her arms. She pulled the jacket of her suit tight across her breasts and looked away, grateful she was sitting down. The murderers she'd put away had never rattled her as much as this man did.
Julie poked her arm. "Well, Amanda, what do you think of the Beastmaster? Isn't he to die for?"
Her mouth was so dry, Amanda could not speak. She, Amanda Tarkenton, proud possessor of a sharp tongue and sharper wit, speechless? This couldn't be happening.
