Violet was padding to the outdoor wet bar to grab the bottle of whiskey she’d brought from indoors. She twirled around and asked, “Oh, your father was a rancher?”
Hm. That was entirely a different subject, one almost equally as fraught with darkness. “He worked on someone else’s ranch, in between stints as a messed-up alcoholic drifter.”
“You blew it again, Violet,” called Sin, making loud sucking noises on his little drink straw.
“Oh, God!” she cried, clapping her hand over her mouth. “Fuck, Harper! I just seem to have this knack of asking exactly the wrong question!”
Sinclair wiggled his eyebrows. “I know how she can make it up to you, buddy.”
Harper shook his head. He was actually in a pretty light mood, considering the subject matter. He’d had a fantastic day riding with Violet, and this time she’d given him a Hand Relief Party under the palms. “Nah. I’ve got something else up my sleeve for later. Remember that missing menu? By the way, I’m entirely convinced that weirdo Dex Wexler stole it.”
“Don Wexler,” Violet called as she poured his booze. “And why would he steal an old menu?”
“Because he’s a warped greaseball?” suggested Harper.
He shared a chuckle with Sinclair. They would have fist bumped if their lounge chairs had been closer.
Harper had been happier the past couple of weeks than he had been in years. Not since his last happy years in Anchorage had he been this carefree, this light. Thanks to Violet and Sinclair and their supportive camaraderie, Harper had been realizing how truly lonely he’d been. He’d been a lone wolf, purging some angst from his system with his pointless hookups. He never truly felt better, more relieved or elevated after those encounters. In fact, he nearly always went home in the same black mood as he’d arrived at the club.
Now he slept in the arms of his lovers and he didn’t feel stifled or infringed upon. He didn’t feel they were sucking up space or getting in his face, as he’d always told himself a real lover would do. He was overjoyed to be with them, and he spent the entire time on the range thinking about them. It wasn’t only Violet he knew he was falling in love with. He was in love with Sinclair too, something he’d thought impossible. Men had just been toys to him. Men were a drug to deaden the pain, the anguish of brutally losing his true soul mate.
But lately he’d been getting the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was more than one soul mate per lifetime. And, importantly, more than one soul mate at a time…
“He’s not that bad,” called Violet, coming back with Harper’s drink. “I don’t like you men being so possessive I can’t even talk to another man. It’s natural for the female of the species to flirt with other males. It doesn’t mean she’s going to mate with them.”
“Who’s mating with who?”
Suddenly Drake Stinson was standing there. Wearing swim trunks with a towel slung over his shoulder, he was the burnished, buff picture of the ultimate silver fox. Harper would have been attracted to him were it not for his gruff, aggressive personality. That was Harper’s domain, to be gruff and aggressive—savage even—so the two men didn’t mesh well.
Especially now. When Drake laid eyes on his cow boss lying in his chaise longue, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. His arms that were crossed in front of his chest tensed, the biceps flexing as though he longed to punch Harper. Instinctively, Harper edged himself up in his seat, waiting to figure out what his response should be.
It didn’t take long. Violet was uttering some noncommittal shit as she handed Harper his whiskey, but they both nearly dropped it when Drake took several long strides toward them. Harper edged up even higher in his chair.
Drake pointed a stiff arm at Harper. “What the fuck is my cow boss doing drinking my whiskey? And where the fuck were you last night, little lady?” he demanded from Violet.
Violet glared at her brother. “I’m hardly a ‘little lady,’ Drake. And it’s none of your business where—”
Harper put down the drink and stood. He felt naked without his chaps, gun belt, and spurs, but he still had his armor of cowboy boots and jeans. He could take this hulking guy wearing only swim trunks. “Drake. She’s fine. We were at my house down on Noname Plateau, you know, Joaquin’s old house. She’s perfectly safe. You know I’d never let any harm come to her.”
“I’m not talking about harm!” Drake bellowed. “I’m just—just—just wondering why the fuck you’re not out with the herd! Who the fuck’s looking after them? You should be down there cleaning saddles and mending corrals, not lounging around my pool!”
“Drake!” snapped Violet, getting in between the two men. “He’s done with his work for the day. And what do you think José and Gianni are there for? That’s their job. That’s why the cow boss is the cow boss.”
“Actually,” said Harper, “I can see his point. There are those ditches alongside Clayton Creek that need cleaning and I should be doing some range improvement burns.” He grabbed his Stetson from the little metal table.
“No!” protested Violet. “You’re my boyfriend and you can do whatever you want!”
Drake roared, “Boyfriend now, is it? This cow boss is your fucking boyfriend? Violet, just because you’re divorcing doesn’t mean you need to go over the edge and start boinking ranch hands and gas station attendants and other lowlifes! What’s wrong with Sinclair?”
Harper knew it wouldn’t take much to rile him. It was too good to be true that he’d just politely slink away and go clean a saddle. He insinuated himself between Violet and Drake, just a foot of space between his nose and the irate billionaire’s. He spoke in a low, Clint Eastwood tone. “That’s enough, Drake. I know you’re her brother and are trying to protect her, but you don’t need to protect her from me. I’m no fucking gas station attendant.”
“He’s a rocket scientist,” Violet said.
Harper continued, “I understand you not wanting me to mix business with pleasure. I’ll make sure the only times you see me is when we’re calving or branding.” He slapped the hat on his head and snapped the brim.
Drake softened. “I know you’re no fast-food worker. But you fucking need to be working out for the nationals or that Damon Blanchard asshole is going to kick your ass in bull riding. I know you’re the champion in bronc riding but your average isn’t as good as Blanchard’s. He has more attempts and his percent ridden is better than yours.” That Damon Blanchard asshole was Harper’s other California circuit competitor. Two of them from California were allowed to go to Oklahoma City.
“I haven’t attempted as many,” Harper agreed. But he didn’t want Drake thinking he’d just slink off quietly into the night. “Violet. Are you coming riding tomorrow?”
“Well, I actually promised Steffen Jung, the head of the Modern Committee, that I’d help decorate and organize the Kupka Desert House where the gala will be held. You understand.”
“I sure do,” said Harper, trying to sound light. “Let me get my gear from your cottage.” And he headed toward the pathway that led to the reflecting pools. He wasn’t really fine with it. Two weeks ago he would have walloped Drake Stinson into the middle of next week before grabbing Violet by the hand and running off. He was trying to change, to lighten up and stop being so dark. Plus, punching her brother probably wouldn’t elevate his standing in Violet’s eyes.
“Let me come,” said Violet, skipping after him.
Drake couldn’t let it go that easily. “I mean it, Davies! Stay away from my sister! Sinclair, why aren’t you defending her against this lowbrow cowpuncher?”
Harper didn’t want to look back over his shoulder, but he could hear Sinclair saying, “She doesn’t need me defending her, Drake. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Harper Davies is a good man. It doesn’t bother me that they’re intimate.”
“Yeah!” boiled Drake. “I heard from impeccable sources you stayed overnight at the Searchlight! In the same fucking room? Listen, we gotta talk, Sinclair.”
Harper was just ha
ppy Violet was coming to the Water Buffalo Lodge with him. She threaded her hand though the crook of his arm. The heat from her sun-baked thigh warmed right through his thick jeans. Harper had been feeling very left out, what with Violet and Sinclair attending that bowling alley thing. It made more sense, though. They were of the same social class. But now, with Drake’s disapproval so evident, it made a future with Violet seem even more distant and impossible. Violet and Drake were two of a perfect pair.
“Don’t listen to my dumbass brother, Harper. It’s not like we were that close until recently. I’d run into him a few times in the Côte d’Azur or at our house in Brazil and that was about it. Our paths didn’t really cross. He was in the same world as my stupid ex-husband, the world I clearly didn’t move in. He has no say over my decisions.” She squeezed him to her side, mashing her breast against his upper arm. “I choose you, Harper. You and Sinclair, equally.”
“How can he get mad about that?” Harper pointed out. “He does the same thing. Jesse Factor doesn’t even pretend that he doesn’t sleep in the master bedroom with your brother and Rose.”
“Exactly. Now, what is this thing you said you have up your sleeve for later? You don’t have to leave, you know, unless you really do want to practice bull riding, but it’s dark out.”
“Our arena is lit. Hey, you didn’t leave your front door open, did you?”
“No…”
In fact, Violet had her keys in her hand as they went down the walk that led to the sloped, exposed beam roof of the Buffalo Lodge, as it was called after some Flintstones place or other. Violet had chosen this “cottage” to be away from her brother, and it was a fine getaway, complete with a circular orange metal fireplace in the center of the living room, floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows, and the ubiquitous shag carpeting to warm it up. And, of course, a dozen of Violet’s animal skeletons, mounted on pedestals. Harper was just glad the largest one was a lynx of some kind.
But now, the front door was mysteriously about four inches ajar, and out of the corner of his eye Harper thought he saw some Boston ferns at the corner of the house move. He darted over and scanned the prim, neat expanse of lawn that stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with neatly maintained oases of palms, century plants, and giant agaves. Lighting was dim, so Harper wordlessly told Violet to stay put, pressing one hand against her shoulder, and entered the house.
He wished he had not had to leave his gun belt in her house, but they had ridden from the range to the Buffalo Lodge, and he did not want to leave it with his horse. So the gun belt was the first thing he made for, praying the burglar hadn’t gotten there first.
His revolver was there. Loaded as always to quickly dispatch any attacking coyote or rabid skunk, Harper cocked the hammer as quietly as he could and stole around the circular fireplace like an agent in an action film. He stepped quickly around each doorjamb, aiming the piece at plenty of nonexistent thieves, but in the end there was nobody there. He made a half-assed attempt at jogging out to a couple of the oases, but the light was getting dim and he didn’t find a soul crouching behind a barrel cactus.
Still, he felt manly as he reentered Violet’s house brandishing his weapon. “What was taken?” was his first question as he holstered the revolver in the belt draped over a kitchen chair.
“Nothing as far as I can see,” said Violet, calmly pouring Harper a fresh whiskey. He held out his hand to stop her—he didn’t want another. He had plans.
Sinclair was there. Apparently having also satisfied himself no one was in the house, he was lounging on the tangerine couch, his arms spread out across the backrest. “I checked my thimble. It’s still on top of Violet’s dresser, although some of her dresser drawers are open and stuff looks rummaged through.”
Harper took a seat in an opposing tangerine chair, tenting his fingers. “You know, I’m coming with you to that bowling alley thing tomorrow. Not to attend—I probably don’t have any of the right clothes—but to keep an eye out for that Dex Dexler creep.”
“Don Wexler,” Violet corrected him.
Harper continued, “I’m sure he stole that menu from the Searchlight. Violet said he was overly interested in Sex on the Beach.”
“Well.” Violet shrugged. “You were overly interested in Doctor’s Orders.”
“You get over here,” Harper commanded, and Violet perched on his knee. He knew that Violet was the one who had been dying to play doctor since her juvenile encounter with Troy Washburn. That incident must have created a deep-seated formative yearning in her to repeat the experience from an adult perspective. It was right in line with Harper’s plans for the evening. “You know what? You’re right, Miss Stinson. I do like Doctor’s Orders. Just call me Dr. Davies.”
“Dr. Davies,” Violet repeated obediently, taking him literally.
“Your husband told me you’ve been very hysterical lately. I can see you’re in need of some relief.” Sinclair and Violet had told him about the Victorian doctors who had eased female patients’ “congestion” by manually getting them off. “I think you could benefit from pelvic massage. This would ease your pelvic heaviness.”
Violet tensed as Harper drew her bathing suit strap down over her arm. It occurred to him he’d used the wrong term when he’d said “heaviness,” her being so sensitive about her thighs. So he cupped her beautiful, full breast instead, changing the focus of her attention. He lightly lapped at the exposed nipple like a kitten, breathing on it just enough to pucker it. “I see you are aroused. Is your vulva warm?” He had googled an article on the subject and felt like an expert. He even had a role for Sinclair to play.
“I think so,” Violet said shyly. She acted the part so well, Harper couldn’t tell if she was genuinely reacting this way or role playing. She squirmed on top of his erection, her bulging labia massaging his prick. “I do feel a bit hysterical and warm down there. Do you have some sort of prescription to ease the tension?”
“I’m the best doctor west of the Sierras.” Harper lapped at her nipple some more. “You came to the right place.” Peering around Violet’s upper arm, Harper looked at Sinclair and meaningfully eyed his holster hanging from the chair. Sinclair got the picture and went over to the chair. He looked gleeful when he held up the pair of tan medical wrist cuffs Harper had clipped to his gun belt. Harper had a whole locker of accoutrements such as that from his Racquet Club days that now seemed so distant. He nodded crisply at Sinclair, who was evidently overjoyed to bring them over.
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about you,” Violet purred, shimmying her shoulders so her tits gently slapped Harper’s face. “You come highly recommended. My friends have told me you’re the most skilled doctor in California. My husband here will be also greatly relieved when you cure my illness.”
“Yes,” said Sinclair casually, lifting one of Violet’s bare arms and buckling the cuff around it. “Her womb fury has me at the end of my rope. I can’t live another day with this hysterical woman, always so wet, living in a fantasyland of prurient interests. You need to remedy this intolerable state of affairs immediately.”
“Well, then,” Harper said smoothly. “Why don’t we move to the exam table? I believe I can solve all your problems today. You’ll just have to bring her back weekly for follow-ups.”
Chapter Twelve
Violet had never been so turned on in her life.
It was too good to be true that Harper had remembered their discussion light years ago in Drake’s kitchen. Way back then, she would have gone out of her mind with—well, with “hysteria”—to think that the twisty, dark, and striking cowboy would be fulfilling her most erotic medical fantasies.
With the little ponytail at the back of his skull and his cowboy boots, Harper could be existing in any era, and his pirate’s earring gave him the steamy look of a bygone day. He even had the Van Dyke beard and moustache of a Victorian doctor, so it was easy for Violet to fall into the role. “Whatever are these cuffs for?” She voluntarily held her hands above her he
ad to make it easier for Sinclair to cuff her. She felt light, airy, and feminine, two men tending to her “hysteria” like that. She wondered if she should act more hysterical.
Harper said, “We need the cuffs in case you begin spasming and having convulsions. That happens sometimes. I have ankle cuffs, too.”
“Yes,” said Sinclair, snapping the chain to link the cuffs together behind her head. “I’ve seen it, doctor. She gets completely out of control. We might even need to gag her to prevent her from biting her own tongue. She’s like an epileptic when she convulses. Completely out of control.”
“I can’t help it,” sighed Violet, ever the Southern belle. “But gentlemen, before you restrain me. May I be allowed to change my shoes? I feel like a mental institution patient in these sandals.” If the men could have a plan up their sleeves, so could she. She had purchased the most exquisite pair of cherry-red patent leather pumps for Friday’s gala. The heels were easily three, three and a half inches tall. She was used to wearing maybe two inches at the most to cocktail parties and poolside luncheons, so she knew she wouldn’t be doing much dancing with Sinclair. Still, the shoes were worth it if she could just sit at her table, cross her legs, and stick her feet out so everyone could see them.
“Sure.” Sinclair yanked on the cuff chain, helping her to her feet. She kicked off the ugly flip-flops and allowed Sinclair to lead her to the exam room, her bedroom. Her wrists were cuffed with a foot of chain between them, but she could still stand on tiptoes and reach for the shoebox on the closet’s upper shelf. She diddled her fingers in the empty space above her head. Isn’t this where I put the box? She turned to the two men. Harper was expertly affixing a white ankle restraint to the bed’s footboard, and Sinclair was lighting a match to a candle. They both froze when she spun about. “Is there a shoebox up there that you can see?”
The Substantial Gift [The Sunset Palomino Ranch 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 12
