Romancing Recee

by Allie Standifer

  Recee made herself swallow the scream of fear that threatened to spill out of her mouth. “That just might work, if I had any reason to listen to you. I've my own plans made and I won't cancel them. I'll give our favourite skanky reporter a call and set something up."

  "You know, I think Noah would be perfect for her.” Olivia ignored Recee and her protest. “He's young, hot, single and looks to know what he's doing between the sheets."

  "I'm telling Ethan you're getting hot for his brother,” Briley trilled from her place beside Recee. “Talk about being a close family. You are getting to be a nasty girl, Livia."

  "Kiss ass, nerd-lover.” Olivia threw a cracker right into Briley's blonde hair.

  "Damn straight.” Briley licked her lips and gave a little moan. “Nerds are very very very focused people."

  "Children.” Emma clapped her hands to get the group's attention. “Noah, while sweet, attractive and dependable, is not the right man for our Recee. She needs someone stronger to lean on. Someone with enough self-confidence to deal with her knife-wielding mood swings and someone just insane enough to know she's worth it."

  "And you think this paragon of manhood is sitting by the phone waiting on her call?” Trinity asked as sarcasm dripped from her every word. “My bet's he's already locked up and pumped full of Thorazine."

  "Sounds like a man too good to be true, drooling or otherwise.” Olivia offered her opinion. “But what if we went all Dr. Frankenstein and created a man like that?"

  "Oh, oh, we could make the whole feet-versus-penis thing a reality. I bet Carter would help.” Briley's light brown eyes lit with excitement. “You don't mind a few scars, do you, Reece?"

  "Hunt would know where and how to get the body parts. Not to mention any, you know, ethical crap that might come our way.” Trinity offered her husband's services easily, knowing the man was whipped enough to only object a little. Sex could and would melt the strongest man's resistance.

  "This will end up just like New Mexico,” Recee predicted with a sigh and sat back to await their doom. Somehow her friends would either give up, get distracted or Recee would end up with the world's first reanimated vibrator.

  "It will not,” Trinity said, “since we're not secretly being tapped by an undercover Interpol agent working in conjunction with the D.E.A an—"

  "Shhh.” Olivia slapped her hand over Trinity's mouth and gave the room a suspicious look. “We swore never to talk about that...ever!"

  Trinity's green eyes narrowed on Olivia before the other woman finally withdrew her hand. “I wasn't going to say the rest. I have better things to do than have a bunch of men wearing cheap black suits kidnap me...again.” Trin folded her arms under her breasts and glared.

  "They didn't kidnap us last time. They were simply very resolute in their request. Besides, the club isn't bugged.” Emma calmly said from her comfortable position in the wide leather love seat. “Brock checks for anything, you know, bug-like.” She waved a slim hand back and forth.

  Olivia sank back into her seat, looking astonished. “He does?” How very Olivia-like to ignore Emma's rearrangement of facts in regard to her friends’ unlawful detention.

  The rest of the group looked as stunned and surprised as Recee felt. “Why?” Recee asked.

  "What does he know?"

  "When did this start?"

  "Can I borrow his toys?"

  God bless her, Emma took the questions as fast as they came, her serenity never cracking. “Trinity, Brock knows you so no, there's not a chance in hell my man is letting you anywhere near his sensitive equipment. Olivia, he started checking the club right after we got together. The whole missing month thing really upset him, now he does it at least twice a week if not more.” She swivelled to face Briley. “He knows nothing more than what I've told him. And I've told him the same thing you've told your men. Nothing. It's just when he used his government contacts to try and dig more info out that the questions started growing."

  "Hot damn, Emma.” Recee applauded her loudly. “You have one of Uncle Sam's finest trained war machines eating out of the palm of your head. Way to go, Em!"

  They gave each other a high five, laughing like loons. Tension eased from the room. For the first time since she walked in, Recee could finally take a deep breath.

  Her friends would forget about the stupid Play part of their game. Recee would give the evil gossip heifer an interview and life would go on...without her getting mixed up with a man.

  "The four of you make me crazy enough to forget where I was going with all this.” Emma complained even as she downed another glass of chocolate wine.

  "We keep your life interesting, honey. There's no need to thank us.” Trinity gave her cat-and-the-canary smile. “So long as we get to keep a video camera in your bedroom."

  "Trinity,” Emma shrieked and launched herself at Trin, murder burning hot in her hazel-blue eyes.

  "Oh shit, somebody stop her.” Trinity backed into the arm of the couch.

  In a flash, Recee was off the couch and had her arms locked around Emma's stomach. “Calm down, Emma. You know Trinity has more balls than brains. She would never bug your bedroom. That's a little too Grey Gardens even for her."

  "Yeah, Em, besides Brock loves you. He's totally devoted to your safety. Trust me, that man must run his de-bugging thing through your place at least twice a day. There's not a snowball's chance in hell Trinity set up a camera anywhere near your home.” Olivia's reasonable tone calmed everyone.

  "Trinity is a dumbass, Em, you know this and love her anyway. Just think of her as the window licker on a short bus through life. I know I do.” Briley cheerfully offered her opinion while tossing popcorn in the air and never once managing to catch it in her mouth.

  "Hey!” Trinity objected, then laughed. “Yeah, that's me, the licker of windows for short yellow buses everywhere."

  Laughter exploded from the group and, in a tangle of arms and legs, Emma and Olivia fell to the floor.

  "Trinity, you are a pervert. I don't know how that sweet Hunt puts up with you.” Olivia snorted.

  "I do,” Recee said. “She brings out his kinky freak daddy side."

  "Shut it,” Trinity muttered as her cheeks flushed bright red, but she didn't deny.

  "I bet they take pictures or better yet, tape themselves getting down and dirty.” Recee wanted to tweak her friend. “Maybe dragging out the floggers, whips and chains...oh my!"

  Instead of responding to the verbal bait Trinity went straight for the jugular. “Who's going to be Recee's play?"

  "Bitch,” Recee mouthed at her friend.

  "Ackkk!” Emma shouted from her landing spot on the floor. “I've been trying to tell you brainless bimbos I already have the perfect man for her."

  All conversation and commotion stopped at Emma's words. Emma never shouted, raised her voice or in any way appeared anything other than a lady. Well, at least she didn't do those things until Brock popped back into her life.

  "You do?"

  "Yes, and if you stopped acting like four-year-olds I would have told you by now. You see, I have the perfect plot."

  Recee groaned. “Em, this is not one of your books. You can't plot my life to a happily ever after. There is such a thing as free will."

  "Overrated,” Trinity chimed in.

  "Complicates things.” Olivia's opinion.

  "Too much room to screw things up,” Briley muttered.

  "Recee's playmate, so to speak, is Garen Swifthorse. Brock's best friend and business partner."

  Eyes the colour of deep dark chocolate flew into Recee's mind. That was the man they wanted her to have sex with? Could her friends be any more psychotic? Garen was nobody's fool. Recee knew it for a fact. No teasing or flirting could manage that man. Alpha male was written all over his muscular, sculpted body.

  Call her a Beta girl all the way. She knew enough about herself to understand that an Alpha man would set off all her triggers. No way would she take a chance on losing what little sanity she left to
a penis with legs. Too damn much trouble with their need to control everything and everyone in their world.

  Shit no. Recee tapped her carefully manicured fingers against the leather and tried to plan her way out of this mess. If she went for Ethan's little brother Noah, that would only complicate matters further, something she was not looking forward to doing. Throwing another man's name into the pot wouldn't work for the simple reason Recee couldn't think of any other man's name to save her life or sanity.

  On the other hand if she agreed to play with Garen then everyone would leave her alone. She'd take Brock's buddy home with her, explain the rules, lay down her law and quietly, but quickly send him home.

  The moment they'd met insults had flown between the two of them. Emma, bless her romantic heart, swore it was Garen's way of tugging her hair. A guy way to show how much he liked her. Recee knew different. The guy was a man-whore with a different woman every time she saw him. Not that she could blame the hussies. Any female with half a working hormone would be drawn to his sexy Native American vibe. The high cheekbones and velvety midnight eyes combined with the body of a Greek god almost left her panting after their encounters.

  Just because she agreed to Garen's name didn't mean Recee would crawl between the sheets with him.

  "Garen Swifthorse it is."

  Her friends’ arguing and bickering stopped at once. Four sets of manipulative, speculative eyes trained on her and forced Recee to hold back a shiver of fear. These were her friends. They wouldn't really do anything to hurt her, right? At least, not permanent damage.

  Emma let out a whoop of victory while the rest of her companions smirked at her easy compliance.

  "You can only kill me once, right?” After all, how bad could it get?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  * * * *

  He didn't drive by her house every night.

  Only on the nights when he didn't have a job, couldn't sweat her out of his system and sex with anyone else wasn't in the picture. So yeah, he drove by a lot.

  "Shit.” Garen hit the steering wheel of his truck with his forehead. “I've turned into a silent stalker.” If Recee had a decent neighbourhood watch system in place he'd have been screwed the first night he sat, parked down the street from her house. Good news was the woman lived in an old neighbourhood, which meant the houses weren't close together. Considering the size of her yard, Garen figured he had a good acre and a half between his truck and nosy neighbours. Then again, with the amount and size of all the old trees lining the street he doubted anyone could see no matter where he parked, regardless of how often he found himself back here.

  He wasn't in love with the woman. Recee was way too violent, too loud, too beautiful, just too...everything for Garen to even think of getting involved with her. But the soft silky look of her caramel skin, the curls that tumbled so enticingly down to her ass, and her uniquely coloured navy eyes seemed to draw him in whenever their gazes met.

  He loved her statuesque height, the round sexiness of her figure. With Recee he'd never have to worry about hurting her in bed. She had the kind of body a man could sink into without worrying about breaking her. The woman could and would take whatever the world dished out. So why the hell did he feel so compelled to sit out here night after night just to watch her end her day?

  His interest didn't have a thing to do with emotional attachment. It was basic physical desire, a visceral feeling that had nothing to do with sentiment and everything to do with hormones.

  But Recee hadn't asked him to spend most, if not all, of his free time staring at the windows of her big Victorian. In fact, Garen pretty much stayed pissed off at himself because he couldn't sleep without watching Recee's lights go out.

  It was just an ache, a phase he was going through. He might, if pushed with the point of gun, go so far as to admit to an obsession. A temporary, very fleeting, short term one at that.

  All he needed was time, and detachment, and making love to enough other women to drown the possibility of how earth-shattering it could be with Recee. He refused to give in to the ache to be with her. It had everything to do with conquering his own demons and keeping iron control over his own life.

  What did it matter if he got hard just thinking about her? So what if a stray whiff of her light peppermint scent drove him mad? Most males went through this type of thing as adolescents or in their twenties. Garen missed that phase and his body had decided to make up for lost time.

  At thirty-six he should be past all the bullshit nonsense of romantic ideas. His life was exactly the way he'd planned it at age six. Garen lived by lists, schedules and the clock. He knew where he was supposed to be, what needed to be done, and what would follow every minute of every day.

  This...thing with Recee messed up not only his list but his schedule as well. Nothing ever messed with his preordained agenda. In a world where nothing could be controlled or assumed Garen held his OCD tendencies tight. At least he could count on night following day, twenty-four hours in each day, seven days in each week. He liked being able to flip through any of his three calendars and know what he'd done or would do at any given time.

  "No more,” he vowed, staring at the bright light in the upstairs apartment of her magnificent home.

  Garen might find objections with ninety-nine per cent of Recee's life, but not her home. The old Victorian was picture perfect. Three storeys of redwood, primavera and white mahogany which had been shipped in from Central America, along with other woods and even onyx from Mexico, East India, and the Philippines.

  From a little internet research, Garen had found out the house was originally built in 1896. A wealthy industrialist, Lamar Booken, needed a large home for his large family—with six bedrooms, three bathrooms, plus multiple nooks, crannies and other unique rooms. A newspaper article said the house still remained in the hands of the original owner's descendant, Caprice Williams.

  From the details Brock, Emma and others dropped, Garen knew Recee had meticulously restored the five thousand square foot house. Using photos and documents from the family files, she'd worked tirelessly for two years to take the house back to its original pristine beauty, but with all modern upgrades.

  Sitting on an almost three-acre lot surrounded by lush foliage, a large pond, gazebo, massive gardens, in-ground swimming pool complete with hot tub, a three-car garage and a chauffeur's apartment above the garage, the home looked too flawless to be real. She could have sold it for a fortune and bought something more modern, a new house without all the upkeep, quirks and none of the charm.

  It seemed a shame to him to waste all the elegant space on one woman, but he'd overheard Emma talking to Olivia and understood Recee's plans for her home.

  "The first floor is finally done to Recee's exacting measures. She's got a carpenter on speed dial to build some type of custom cabinets and cases for showcasing everything. I just hope she remembers to put a damn good lock on the door separating the business from her top two floors.” Emma had fretted to her friend.

  Sitting under an old oak tree heavy with summer leaves, Garen sighed as he looked, envying Recee her amazing house. If he only knew a way to get an invite to see the inside he might be partially satisfied. The other half of his discontent wouldn't go down without a fight...or Recee.

  Feeling like a bigger fool than normal, irritated at having wasted his time and again screwing with his schedule, Garen reached for his keys.

  A late model sedan sped past him to swerve wildly into Recee's curved driveway.

  Garen stopped. “What the hell?” It had nothing to do with him. Probably some little boy she'd broken to pieces back begging her for scraps of attention.

  "Leave her to it,” he muttered, but his hand still reached for the door handle.

  Resistance is futile. He now understood how those poor futuristic space people felt when forced to act against their will or better judgement. Regardless of what Garen told himself, he couldn't stop his legs from racing to cl
ose the distance between him and the stranger now pounding on Recee's elegant glass-fronted door.

  Halfway down the brick drive, Garen drew close enough to get a good look at the male and nearly tripped over his own feet in shock. The stranger wore an expensive suit, drove a new car and walked like a duck. He shifted, scratched, and whimpered as he readjusted the front of his pants.

  "Well shit,” he muttered and knew whoever was coming at her, Recee Williams probably had it coming. However, no matter the provocation—and Lord knew the woman liked to provoke people—Garen couldn't stand there and watch any man browbeat a woman, regardless of what she'd done to him. Because Garen had a feeling little Miss Caprice Williams had a whole hell of a lot to do with this man's obviously painful and itchy looking state.

  Slowing his pace, hands held loose at his sides, Garen stayed in the shadows of the big oak trees. When he got close enough to hear the man's insults clearly, he stopped and leaned one shoulder against the trunk of the nearest tree.

  His schedule might be shot to shit, his list screwed six ways to Sunday and his cock permanently imprinted by the zipper of his jeans, but Garen sure as hell wasn't bored.

  Smiling at his good fortune in catching the free show he relaxed and waited for the performance to start.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Three

  * * * *

  "Recee, you sadistic fat bitch! Open the fucking door! I'm gonna kill you!"

  Most women living alone in a big-ass old house would have jumped at the pounding at their door at eleven-thirty at night, been shocked at the insults and death threats, or at the very least grabbed the phone to call nine-one-one. Instead Recee unfolded herself from the floor, checked her pockets and sauntered to the door.

  She'd been kind of expecting this visit anyway, always better to get the unpleasantness over with.

  The tall, blond man in the elegantly cut, summer-weight, grey suit battering her original wooden door with its leaded glass inserts would have been handsome, except for the filth tumbling out of his mouth and the sneer pulling down his lips. All those could be overlooked with a good mute button on her remote or a brown grocery bag.