Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Is she any good in the sack?”

  Thompson cleared his throat. “I honestly don’t know. Every chance I’ve had to—”

  “Maybe she’s frigid. Better think twice before tying yourself to a woman who’ll freeze you out of bed, marshal.”

  The princess resumed her scrubbing with a vengeance that matched her tone, until he had to swallow his laughter and grab hold of her hand. “If that happens, you’ll be the first to know,” he said in a low, serious voice.

  He wasn’t leading her on, exactly. It was just better to let this wily woman see a glimmer of hope than to leave her feeling totally abandoned—nicer for her, and healthier for himself.

  Cherry Blossom smiled subtly. “That’s a fact, isn’t it? I should know that, with as many hungry husbands as I cater to.”

  Chuckling, she continued her ministrations with utmost tenderness. Although she knew every nuance that could drive him to a frenzy, Grace’s touch remained as coolly detached as that of the nurses who’d tended him in the hospital. She was silent now, her dark eyes following the washcloth’s progress over his chest and stomach as though she was memorizing each mole and ripple.

  Barry let himself relax, satisfied with their truce. The warm water lapped softly around his shoulders. He lifted first one leg and then the other to let her lather them, aware that this ritual wasn’t half so much fun when his partner wasn’t in the tub. He envisioned Lyla bathing with him, her breasts bobbing in the bubbly water, and decided the first request he’d make of the architect was a room like this with the longest, deepest tub he could find.

  “Here—you do the rest while I get some lotion,” Cherry Blossom murmured. “Those muscles and scabs’ll benefit from a good rubbing.”

  Thompson blinked. She wasn’t going to wash his privates, usually the highlight of their foreplay. He wasn’t sure he could resist her once she started a massage, but how the hell could he say no at this point?

  “I’m not going to rape you,” the whore teased as she set out a bottle of oil. “Here’s a towel. If you dry yourself, I won’t charge you for this little farewell session. I don’t want you to think I’m a sore loser, or you’ll never come back.”

  He nodded, puzzled. When he stood up, Grace’s gaze followed the flow of water down his chest and thighs and then lingered on his manhood. Damn her, she was arousing him with just a look, from across the room! Self-consciously he dried his midsection, feeling like an utter fool when the towel tented out despite his efforts to control himself. He couldn’t turn his back because she was watching him, smiling smugly. So he dried quickly and wrapped the towel around his waist.

  “Don’t tell me marriage is going to make you a modest man,” the princess said with a giggle. “Why marshal, do I foresee you sleeping in your union suit, or—dare I say it—a nightshirt?”

  “I don’t own a nightshirt.” he muttered.

  “I’ll give you one for a wedding present.”

  Something told him he should dress and leave before things got out of hand. The Indian princess hadn’t once tried to seduce him, which meant she had something truly humiliating or unthinkably cruel on her mind. But how could he walk out now without appearing henpecked and foolish?

  Barry dropped his towel and stretched out on the bed, stomach down, so his manhood wouldn’t mock him while Grace massaged his backside. Her hands gripped and stroked. As the lotion seeped into his thirsty skin, he felt the muscles between his shoulders relax and a languid warmth spreading through his body. He would miss this woman’s touch. As much as Lyla’s innocence appealed to him, she would require time and patient instruction before she could give him as satisfying a massage as Princess Cherry Blossom did.

  The whore hummed while she worked. She was straddling him; her dress was hiked up past her thighs, allowing her the fluidity of movement to slide her palms around his forearms and down his back. Her thumbs followed the hollow of his spine into the crevice of his hips…she kneaded the halves with tender thoroughness, and he felt himself drifting…drifting. His mind followed his body into a delicious state that floated between wakeful-ness and sleep, and he sighed contentedly.

  The princess raised up and whispered, “Turn over now, loverman. Nap if you want to. I’ll shut the door when I leave, so no one’ll disturb you.”

  Eyes closed, Barry nodded. Despite all the rest he got in the hospital, a short snooze sounded like a fine idea. He was still weaker than he cared to admit, and his masseuse was working out the kinks caused by an uncomfortable hospital bed. A cold pooling of liquid on his chest made him hoot, and then Grace’s palms spread the lotion in wide, warming arcs that fanned out from his collarbone to his armpits.

  “Hang onto the spindles while I rub your sides.” she murmured.

  Thompson obeyed, grasping the cool brass headboard as he always did. Hard to believe the Rose’s most raucous dove was being such a sport. She was leaning into him…squeezing, releasing…brushing his face lightly with her breast as she worked her magic up the length of his right arm. She took his hand and slowly rotated it until his wrist was limp in her grip. He breathed deeply…

  The click didn’t register until he felt a cold bracelet of steel close around him. By the time his eyes flew open, the whore had handcuffed his left arm to a brass rail as well.

  “What the hell’re you—” Barry jerked, rattling the short chains that bound his hands to the headboard. “If this is some sort of joke, I’ll—”

  “It’s a new game I devised, just for you,” the princess purred. “I call it ‘Shackled by Love,’ because that’s what you’ll be when you marry Lyla.” She crossed her arms and with one swift movement pulled her dress over her head. “But for now, you’re my slave. Long after I set you free, you’ll remember this little rendezvous, Barry honey.”

  Grace vaulted nimbly over him and went to the chair where his underwear was draped.

  “How’d you get ahold of these—”

  “Handcuffs?” she asked coyly. “When I took Lyla’s lunch to her cell, the other prisoners got a little rowdy. Rex went in to settle them down, and I couldn’t resist—these two sets were just lying there on your desk. I fastened them to the bed while you were talking to Sam about my combs.”

  “You little bitch.” Barry watched her pluck his cloth bandages from the chair and whirl in a circle, wrapping her mahogany body like a maypole as she cavorted. He managed a chuckle. If he kept everything light, kept her laughing, perhaps she’d turn him loose unscathed when she’d played out her little game.

  Cherry Blossom stopped beside him, and with a wink she waggled her middle finger and then ran its nail down the center of his chest. When she circled his navel, Barry wriggled and protested, knowing where she was headed next. He was already pointing at the ceiling, and sure enough, her practiced grip sent the blood rushing up his shaft in a surge that made him suck in his breath. “Damn you, it’s not fair to—”

  In a flash she bound his ankles together with the end of the bandage and then quickly tied them to the foot railing. “Nothing’s fair in this life, Thompson,” she muttered. “Just ask any woman who has to whore for a living.”

  The Indian princess paused to survey her handiwork, her mood lightening. Her dark-eyed gaze roamed over his body while she crossed her arms beneath her breasts, as though deciding how to torture him next.

  “All I’d have to do is holler, and there’d be a roomful of—”

  “Do you want me to gag you?” she blurted. Then she chuckled and slipped onto the bed, straddling him lithely. “Some of those men would love to see you this way, marshal. A few would pay for the privilege of watching me work you over…a couple of them would take my place for any price I demanded. Our clientele can afford perversions you’ve never even heard of, and we try to accommodate them.”

  He’d played out many a fantasy with this woman, but he’d never heard the cold, knifelike edge in her voice before. Barry tensed. She was sliding up and down him, teasing his shaft with the dark coils of her cleft, a
nd it occurred to him that having sex with her might be the safest thing he could do. His scab was pulling painfully across his thigh, but he undulated, probing for the opening that would make her as much his hostage as he was hers.

  “No you don’t,” Grace said with a throaty laugh. “Since you’re not paying for this, the pleasure’s going to be all mine.” Agile as a cat, she slipped up to his shoulders and positioned herself above his face. “Now lap at me, like the dog you are.”

  He’d performed this pleasure for her dozens of times, yet her blatant disregard for his comfort erased the erotic effects her earthy perfume usually had upon him. She was a woman obsessed with revenge, so cold and uncaring he wondered if Grace Putnam was going to suffocate him. If she sat across his nose and mouth, he was powerless beneath her.

  Instead, she writhed against his tongue, rocking the bed with noisy bumps and grunts. “Bite me…harder,” she commanded, and when her gyrations reached fever pitch the princess let out a blood-curdling wail.

  Surely she’s done. Surely Victoria will be here any minute now, Thompson thought. But when Cherry Blossom raised herself away from his face he heard piano music and laughter coming from the parlor, as though everyone in the house knew this joke was on him.

  Barry opened his eyes, gasping for breath, and then his heart stopped. His tormentor wobbled on rubbery legs, wearing the smile of a sated saint—which turned demonic as she reached under the pillow and brandished a butcher knife. “We’re not finished,” she stated with a gleeless chuckle. “And if you want anything left to give to Lyla, you’ll do exactly as I say, loverman.”

  Despite his distaste for sexual violence, he was throbbing painfully, desperate for release. Again the whore mounted him, this time riding one side of his manhood while she held the cold steel blade to the other side. If he didn’t climax soon, Cherry Blossom could go on teasing him all day. If he did explode, he’d have some serious notches on his barrel.

  “This is insane,” he rasped, watching in horror as the whore pumped and writhed. “I’ve always treated you with respect—like a friend, because—”

  “Life’s hard,” she replied with a flippant shrug, “and so are you, my man. My huge, passionate marshal-man. I’m gonna make you scream for it, so everybody out there’ll know you’re a two-bit cheat like the rest of them. Are you ready? Moan for me, Thompson. Make it sound sincere, understand?”

  At that moment he realized this shameless bitch had faked her pleasure with him—how many of their times together? It was all an act. For her, he was just another paycheck. Barry suddenly knew the true meaning of degradation, understood that lusty boom towns like Cripple Creek held their prostitutes at knifepoint just as Cherry Blossom was now terrorizing him. She pressed the blade harder, her dark face alight with evil glee.

  The moan that escaped him was indeed sincere, because the thought of explaining any scars on his manhood to Lyla sent anguish racing through his veins. The Indian princess resumed her ride, this time rubbing herself against him with a relish that was very real—and very dangerous, if he allowed himself to quiver with the need she was kindling inside him.

  The bed shook and squeaked, both from the whore’s impassioned attack and his efforts to save himself from it. Thompson gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut against a sight that ordinarily drove him wild. Grace’s head was thrown back and her breasts swayed rhythmically as she rode on and on, her breathing ragged.

  “Moan with me. Make it a good one,” she rasped.

  To his disgust, the marshal discovered he had to comply. All his energies and sensations were centered on his manhood, and as his cries mingled with hers, steadily louder, he reached the point of no return.

  At that crucial moment, Princess Cherry Blossom sprang away from him, her own desire pushed aside by her greater need to make him suffer. Gasping, he stared at her huge brown eyes and lips parted with longing, unable to believe she was tugging her buckskin dress on. “What the hell’re you doing?”

  “Leaving you. Just like you’re leaving me.”

  “But I’m—”

  “Feeling unsatisfied? Brought to the well only to be denied water?” Grace Putnam tossed the butcher knife onto the vanity and strode to the door. “Goodbye, marshal. And good riddance.”

  Barry strained toward her as she entered the hallway, jerking the tight handcuffs until they rattled against the brass spindles. “Wait, damn it! Where’s the key?”

  She turned calmly. “What key?”

  “The one to these cuffs!”

  Her eyes widened and then she giggled. “I honestly don’t know. I didn’t think to pick one up.”

  Chapter 16

  The slamming of the door drowned out the oath he hurled at her, and the marshal fell back, exhausted. Now what was he supposed to do? No doubt Cherry Blossom was disappearing up the back stairs or out the rear exit, and no one would realize he was alone. After the impassioned duet the guests and other whores had heard, he couldn’t lie here screaming for help. And how would he face anyone who came to his aid?

  Thompson closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to escape. His bad leg was throbbing mercilessly and his arms were going numb from being curled above his head. He was tense from top to toe, the soothing effects of his massage long forgotten. Thank God Lyla didn’t work here anymore so she wouldn’t find him this way. But somebody would.

  He tried to think of a plausible explanation for whoever stumbled in unawares, but there wasn’t one. When word got out about the way Cherry Blossom handcuffed him to the bed and left, he’d never live it down, let alone convince Lyla that his reasons for coming to the Rose had started out as perfectly legitimate—strictly business.

  The singing in the parlor got louder and more drunken. As time went by, Barry wondered how many hours would elapse before the New Year’s revelers would realize he hadn’t rejoined them…except they’d assume he was still being entertained by his favorite whore, a last fling before he settled down with Lyla.

  The song ended in applause and laughter, and Barry was setting aside his pride to holler for help when he heard the secretive turning of the doorknob. He held his breath, watching the wooden door swing into the room just far enough for Victoria Chatterly to peek in. Her eyes widened. She looked around the suite and told someone to stay in the hall for a moment.

  When the madam stopped beside the bed, she swept Thompson’s body with an appreciative gaze, which lingered on his bound hands and feet. “I’d have checked on you sooner but Emily McClanahan’s here, and by the sound of things, you preferred not to be disturbed. Did you ask for this, Barry?”

  “Hell, no! That damn whore set me up—didn’t even bring the key to these cuffs! If you think I—”

  “You’re in a bit of a bind, then—no pun intended,” Victoria added with a twitter. She crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom, smiling as though she rather enjoyed seeing him in such a predicament. “I must say I’m impressed, marshal. Dozens of times I’ve envisioned you nude, spread like a feast before me, and even wounded you’ve surpassed my fondest fantasies.”

  He rolled his eyes, exasperated. “I see nothing funny about—my arms are ready to fall off, for Chrissakes, and you’re just standing there!”

  “What would you have me do, Mr. Thompson?”

  Her crisp British accent infuriated him even more than her question. “Send somebody to my office for the damn key!”

  “And have everyone know what sort of…compromising position the princess left you in? I don’t think that’s what you really want, dear, but you’re too upset to realize that now.” Miss Victoria sat down beside him on the bed, lifting her crimson skirt and allowing it to fall in a silken swirl over his abdomen. “Emily, come on in, sweetheart,” she called over her shoulder. “Shut the door behind you.”

  Thompson felt his face turn the color of the madam’s gown. His best friend’s bride entered the suite, flushed and lovely from the winter wind, and then stopped to stare at his prone, helpless figure. “I swear
to God this is not what it looks like,” he whispered thickly. “It was a sick joke, a jealous trick.”

  Emily McClanahan was trying not to laugh, averting her eyes yet stealing glimpses that took in every bare inch of him. “I figured you’d be here celebrating, but I never dreamed I’d find you—”

  “Enough of this, already! Where’s Matt?” he snapped.

  “Out asking some questions, starting the investigation because Lyla told him what really went on and that you needed his help.” The slender blonde sat down on the other side of him, shaking her head. “And if you think you’re embarrassed now, Barry, you just wait. Miss O’Riley told us a tale you won’t want to believe.”

  Thompson sighed brusquely. “At this point, all I want is to be unfastened from this bed, damn it. I don’t care which one of you goes—”

  “Patience, dear,” Victoria admonished as she pulled a hairpin from her snowy-white upsweep. Her ageless face lit up with mischief as she scooted toward his handcuffs. “I’ll free your injured arm, and then we’ll unfasten the other parts of you as we feel you deserve it.”

  “But I—” He watched the madam insert her pin into the keyhole, probe with the educated intensity of a practiced thief, and then pop the cuffs open. “You’ve done this before.”

  “You’re not the first to meet such a fate here,” she replied. “Let me rub the pins and needles out of this arm while you chat with Emily. I’m sure you’ll notice her good news immediately.”

  Barry had a hard time meeting Mrs. McClanahan’s tawny gaze, let alone glancing at her waistline to see if Matt had sired a child a little earlier than he was supposed to. She brushed a loose tendril of hair from her temple, grinning, and his breath caught. “How’d you get your ring back?”

  “Your beloved delivered it, along with my locket,” Emily replied happily. “We had a lovely day getting to know Lyla, and we’re convinced she’s taking the blame for a den of sly Foxes.”