Dead Man's Party

Praise for the writing of Stephanie Vaughan

Dead Man's Party Silky smooth prose and frisky spirits. Stephanie Vaughan's Dead Man's Party is a sultry foray into the afterlife. Blending memory and reality with seamless ease, Ms Vaughan creates a stirring interlude. When the only criticism is that the story is too short, an author can rest assured that they have done their job admirably. Very enjoyable read! -- Aubrey Ross, author of Mystic Keepers: Cayenne (Coming Soon from Changeling Press) Stephanie Vaughan combines humor, ghosts, to die for hero, and love scenes so hot, I don't know if I will ever recover. A delightfully scrumptious package. Dead Man's Party pushes all the right buttons and heats up the room. If you want a fast, over-the-top sexy read, pick it up TODAY. -- Melissa Schroeder, author of Grace Under Pressure (Liquid Silver Books) Nick and Catherine meet at a historical building in California that houses a pair of very horny, lonely ghosts. When the ghosts take over their bodies, the heat factor goes up, up, up. Dead Man's Party is a story you won't want to miss. -- Lucynda Storey, author of Reynardine (Coming in September from Loose Id) In Dead Man's Party, Stephanie Vaughn has penned a contemporary that reads like a vintage historical. The phrases are lush and bawdy and her prose tips you right over into hot, instant arousal. The novella is short yet she manages to involve the players to a heated extent rarely achieved in much longer stories. In all, Dead Man's Party leaves you ready to believe in ghosts, instant attraction, and in the everlasting power of love. -- Camille Anthony, author of Werewulf Journals 1: Wild in the City (Loose Id) Spectrally stimulating! -- Morgan Hawke, author of Victorious Star: Interstellar Service and Discipline (Coming in September from Loose Id)

DEAD MAN'S PARTY

Stephanie Vaughan

www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

***** This book is rated:

Explicit sexual content and graphic language.

Dead Man's Party Stephanie Vaughan This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-29 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com

Copyright © 2004 by Stephanie Vaughan All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 1-59632-019-2 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Linda Kusiolek Cover Artist: Scott Carpenter

Chapter One The first thing she noticed about him was his fine ass. It filled out what looked to her to be a pair of classic Levi's 501s in a way she hadn't seen outside of a fashion magazine. No, take that back -- one didn't see backsides like that in GQ or Vogue. Fashion today called for willowy young men with the lean, immature flanks of a yearling colt. And there was not a thing willowy about that figure. Two thighs like tree trunks supported a strong, V-shaped torso that broadened smoothly into a pair of powerful shoulders. Powerful, naked shoulders. The afternoon sun slanted long rays into the room through ancient windows, warming the air inside to a level Catherine already found stifling. Her business suit was made of a lightweight microfiber, yet, in just the few moments she had stood in the doorway observing, she'd begun to sweat. The plaid flannel shirt hanging from the doorknob had no doubt been peeled from the sweating back of the man wielding the crowbar so expertly before her as he worked to pry loose a length of the ruined bar before him. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist you stop what you're doing." She spoke the words almost absently, so lost was she in admiration of the amazing physical specimen before her. The bunch and shift of muscles working under smooth skin drew and held her eye, while the

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light sprinkling of freckles across those attractively bulky shoulders actually had her mouth watering. Catherine shocked herself when an image of playing connect-the-dots with her tongue appeared fully formed in her mind. "I don't know who you are, but you're wrecking my bar." The giant caught himself in the midst of shoving the iron bar between the supporting structure and a six-foot top section of what had once been beautifully polished wood. He rotated slowly on his heels until Catherine could at last see his face. Betraying not the least bit of surprise that he was no longer alone, the man's slow, measured response reminded her unpleasantly of a warship turning its guns on an enemy craft. One red-gold brow arched slowly over an eye that should have been blue but was, instead, hazel. High cheekbones slashed dramatically down a face that wore its Scandinavian heritage openly. They hadn't even introduced themselves yet, but Catherine knew instinctively there was nothing hidden about this man. His agenda was easily read by any who cared to look. What he felt was written plainly on his face. And what he felt right now was obviously annoyance. The crowbar settled easily on the big man's shoulder, held as lightly as she might hold her jacket, were she to take it off. His voice was low and smooth, his control over it as absolute as the control he had displayed at her unexpected interruption. "Your bar?"

His eyes locked on hers and she was suddenly in another room, another time. She wore a high-necked blouse with a dozen buttons down the front. Eyelids drooped slightly over those wicked hazel eyes and a low, whiskey-smooth voice -- his voice -- told her, "Take it off, Cat." Her hand went to her throat, reaching automatically for the topmost button. Where it encountered only the faux pearl necklace she wore over her black silk scoopnecked blouse.

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Something shifted back and Catherine was herself again. What the…? What had come over her? Where had that little fantasy come from? He hadn't really spoken. Had he? He couldn't possibly know her name. Catherine shook herself, forcing an authoritativeness she was far from feeling. "Damn straight, my bar." They stood in a good-sized room off the main entrance of the old house. Originally built in the 1840s, the house was a gorgeous old Queen Anne, now fallen on hard times. Whoever he was, fine ass be damned, Catherine wasn't about to let him commit sacrilege. Unsteady hands flipped open the top of the soft briefcase that hung from a strap over her shoulder, pulling out the papers she had put there less than an hour ago. The stranger with the beautiful eyes continued to look at her wordlessly until Catherine realized the meaning of the papers wasn't obvious. She had been standing with the sheaf in her hand, mute, still shaken by the weird time-shift thing. Why should this man's voice be in her head, commanding her to take her clothes off? And why did she feel a nearly overpowering compulsion to obey? She cleared her throat. "I'm from the historical society and I have a stay." She shifted on her heels, aware of a tingling in her core. Catherine felt herself grow damp between her legs and shifted her weight again, trying futilely to hide from the uncomfortable awareness being forced upon her. He took the papers from her, holding them in one big hand, while he balanced the heavy tool on his shoulder with the other. A lock of his hair, a gorgeous shade of blond shot with reddish tones, fell over his face as he looked down at the papers declaring a ninety-day halt on construction on the site of 122 Maple Street. The afternoon sun caught fire in the fine hairs on his hands and arms, and Catherine had an instant mental picture of those same hands cupping her breasts, while those work-roughened thumbs flicked her nipples.

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Almost as though he'd read her thoughts, the stranger's head jerked up, his eyes narrowing as they focused on her chest. He continued to stare, as though he could somehow see through her jacket -- through the layers of clothing -- to her bare skin below. His nostrils flared as his gaze rose finally to her face, and Catherine thought again of horses. This man was no untried colt, though. He was all stallion.

***** Rick looked at the papers in his hand, forcing himself to focus on the printed words they held. They were obviously from the city, on official letterhead, and they spelled disaster. The economy was bad, and in their small town, the only jobs going were government work and construction. Even his family's construction company was feeling the pinch, though. People weren't ready to believe things were turning around yet, and the type of custom renovations Eriksson Construction had built its reputation on were few and far between right now. Which was how he and his brother had come to be cannibalizing ninety board-feet of fumed white oak from the old Swann place. His family had bought the historic hotel last year, planning on restoring it and making enough of a profit for him to buy out his dad's interest in the company. Martin Eriksson was closing in on seventy and finally ready to retire to the southwest. The cold winters the California gold country regularly dished up were getting to be too much for him and Rick's mother. They had counted on the money they would make from the sale of the old house to finance their retirement. But nothing had gone as planned, the economy hadn't rebounded as predicted, and Rick had finally given in to the more immediate need of keeping the company solvent. A young couple who had made a fortune in Silicon Valley was building their dream home outside of town and wanted 'authentic' antique oak accents for their entertainment room. And they were willing to pay through the nose for it. It turned Rick's stomach to see the beautiful old bar, with its rich patina, hand-rubbed into it over the span of 150 years, used the way he

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planned to use it. But keeping his family's business afloat had proven to be one hell of a powerful motivator. Taking a last glance at the papers, Rick looked from the official decree in his hand to the woman who seemed determined to single-handedly ruin his business and crush his dad's dreams. "That's great. But that's the wrong kind of paper to get me to change my mind." His eyes slid slowly from long legs, tastefully displayed by the slim skirt she wore, up past generous hips to what promised to be a mouth-watering pair of breasts. As his eyes appreciated the view, the disappointment and annoyance he'd been feeling slipped gradually away. Something…Rick wasn't sure what, but something flickered in the back of his mind. Some memory. "Oh, really? And what kind of paper would it take?" Had he and whoever she was met before? It was a small enough town; it wasn't out of the question he'd seen her somewhere. And then a picture flashed into his mind of gazing down into her eyes as he cupped those lush breasts of hers in his hands. He saw those hands toying with the tips he knew somehow would be a rosy pink and soft as velvet. "Something a little smaller. With about seven figures. And at least two commas. That kind of paper." The picture was too vivid to be a daydream. It was as crisp as though he had held her only last night, licked and nipped those breasts playfully, before pushing them together and stroking his cock between their soft, generous flesh. Bringing his gaze finally to hers, Rick stared at her. Who was she, dammit? Why did he feel as though they weren't strangers at all, meeting for the first time? Why did he feel as though he knew her? And not just as casual, social acquaintances, either. He knew her. "That's unconscionable. The historical society doesn't have that kind of money." So what the hell was her name, then, genius?

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About to give in and ask, he saw a bead of sweat that had formed at her temple, gathered momentum, and now began its slow, inevitable slide down her face. Her thick, black hair was pulled back and hidden behind her head, but small wisps had pulled free in the afternoon heat and curled lightly around her ears. Without conscious thought, he reached out one hand to catch the bead rolling as clear as crystal down the softness of her cheek -only to realize he didn't have a hand free. Rick dropped the items in either hand without another thought. Using one hand to clasp her firmly by the shoulder, he reached out the fingers of the other hand to catch the droplet of moisture before it reached her jaw. Having captured it, he held up his finger, drew it into his mouth to taste it. Taste her. A rush of something primitive surged through him. He held her still to catch a first real taste of her. He leaned closer, caught a hint of her scent, leaned closer still. He watched her eyes. She wasn't frightened. Of course she wasn't -- she knew he wouldn't hurt her. Could never hurt her. She was hisRick was a heartbeat away from mauling a complete and total stranger, when his mind came back to him. Shaking himself like a dog coming out of water, he took a giant step back. Holy shit, what was wrong with him? He had been within a hair's breadth of an assault charge. "Uh, it's…" Get a grip. Suck it up, pal. Try to imitate normal. Maybe she didn't notice. "It's hot as hell in here. Care to continue this conversation outside where it's a little cooler?" She nodded her assent wordlessly, reaching to take his arm. As though -- huh, weird -as though it were a much different day and age, as though a man's arm to steady her way was welcome as she picked her way across uneven streets in long skirts. Why did it feel so right, then? So very natural? Rick tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her outside.

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Chapter Two "Rick Eriksson, Eriksson Construction. And you were just about to tell me why you think you should have a say-so in what I do with a property my company bought and paid for over nine months ago, Miss…?" Catherine held out her hand, steeling herself not to jump at the touch of his hand. She had been experiencing strange thoughts and utterly foreign feelings since stepping into this man's sphere of influence. He was like a powerful celestial body, dominating anything that came near his orbit. She half expected to be pulled in and absorbed if she got too close. "Catherine Thompson. I'm from the Oro County Historical Society, and we have an interest in this building." As she had known it would be, his hand was rough, marred by innumerable nicks and scars. The ragged texture of his skin no doubt explained the tingle she felt as she took her hand back. "The Swann Mansion is known widely as one of the longest continuously operated brothels in this part of the state. We at the Society want to ensure that it is preserved -- not torn down to make room for a convenience store or a Laundromat, Mr. Eriksson." It would be easier to concentrate if she didn't have to look up past the man's crotch to speak to him. He had offered her the only seat on the crumbling porch: an empty five-gallon

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tub of spackle, turned upside-down. Besides the discomfort of hard plastic digging into her butt, Paul Bunyan had elected to lean against the railing opposite, presenting a close-up view of what seemed like two acres of denim-encased masculinity. The pants themselves looked well-worn; a corner of the pocket partially torn, the outline of his wallet carved into the material and etched in white. The material surrounding the buttons of the old-fashioned fly looked soft and worn. Catherine could picture those large, blunt fingers slowly popping each steel button free, one at a time. One after another, until the comfortable old cloth would part, the sides falling away to reveal…what? The soft white cotton of traditional briefs? Blue plaid boxers, maybe. Or how about nothing at all? "Thanks for the concern, Miz Thompson," he drawled, his eyes smiling, his tone infuriating. "But if the good people of the historical society were so all-fired interested in preserving a historic landmark, why did they wait to show their interest until after it was sold? This house was on the market for over two years. I know, because I watched it." "I can't speak to that because I wasn't here, Mr. Eriksson. It might be that the Society had other priorities. But I do know that I'm here now, and I am determined to see this house preserved. It's my number-one priority." From her perch on the overturned bucket, Catherine felt like a schoolgirl lecturing the teacher, with her knees at an awkward angle, unable to find a comfortable sitting position. Realizing she would do more to equalize the conversation from a standing position, she pushed herself to her feet. Only to have her heel catch on a loose board and pitch her headfirst into Rick Eriksson's burly chest. It felt like hitting a tackling dummy. Catherine knew it did because, as a kid, her mother had made her two older brothers take her along when they went over to the school to practice their football drills. At ten years old, she had been a total tomboy and her brothers

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had had no qualms about using her to even up the numbers for pick-up games. She still hadn't forgiven them for making her play for the other side. But no tackling dummy had the build this man did. Powerful thigh muscles bunched as he shifted his legs, automatically widening his stance to catch her. Hands like a vise gripped her forearms as he steadied her and set her back on her feet. "Are you all right?" Rick asked, stepping back. "I'm fine. Thank you. I'm not usually such a klutz." She brushed at her skirt and jacket sleeve, trying to hide her embarrassment. "Somehow I don't see you as the klutzy type." "Are you…have we met somewhere before?" The words slipped out before she could stop herself. Oh, great. Now he'd think she was trying to hit on him -- that she'd tripped on purpose. But he answered her as though he took the question seriously. "I don't think so. I have a pretty good memory for faces." Catherine realized that several moments had gone by and she was still staring at him. Trying to place him. "Listen…could we -- could we start over? I have a feeling I wasn't very diplomatic back there and I…" What had her stuttering like a speech club novice? She met new people every day, but here she was blushing and stammering like a teenager being called on in sex-ed class. "I think we both want the same thing here, and I think we should probably try to work together." He was staring back at her, his head tilted a little to one side. "Am I making any sense at all?" She couldn't help a little laugh at her own awkwardness, at the fool she must be making of herself. But there was something about this man… "I know what you mean," he finally answered. "There's something…familiar…about you, too."

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***** "Watch where you're stepping. There are several loose boards in this section, too." Rick's warning to Catherine as they moved through the old house arose as much from self-preservation as concern for her well-being. The slant of the sun's rays was long this time of year, casting shadows that she wove her way between. The smooth muscles that twitched so enticingly underneath her skirt as she walked two steps ahead of him toward the back of the mansion were the definition of temptation. He wanted to take one of those ass cheeks in each hand and sink his teeth into their succulent flesh. Rick could almost taste them already; how his tongue would slide smoothly over first one, then the other, while he held her firmly in place with hands and teeth. He wanted to smack himself upside the head, though, for giving in to her request to show her the rest of the house. All it had taken was a flash of those blue eyes of hers and a softly spoken 'Please?' and he'd been putty in her hands. Shit. She could be a total leadfoot and he'd be willing to bet that she'd never gotten a ticket in her life. A couple bats of those eyes of hers and what cop stood a chance? Why should he be any different? "Oh, look! There it is -- the wash-up sink." Catherine, her voice brimming with excitement, tore her eyes away from the oddly placed sink to smile back at him. Barely two feet from the ground, it would have looked more at home on a kindergarten play yard than the mud room of an old Victorian. But it was the passion that lit her eyes and the radiance of her smile that stopped the breath in Rick's lungs. "Isn't it something?" She seemed to be looking for some kind of confirmation from him. "Yeah. I guess." He shrugged, breathing out at last. "They had big families in those days. A sink for the kids made sense back then." "Oh, it wasn't for children -- far from it." A hint of amusement crept into her voice at that. "It was for the men. The customers. And it wasn't hands they were washing."

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A door opened in Rick's mind and he stepped into a roomful of memories.

"Here. Let me help you wash up, love. You've had a long day." Cat, her beautiful black hair sliding in inky waves across her silk-clad shoulders, reached for the buttons at his waist. Her fingers, roughened by the hard work he knew she did, taking exquisite care as she slowly unbuttoned his trousers. Gently shoving the suspenders off his shoulders, her hands a caress to his aching muscles, she went to work next on his shirt. Before removing his shirt, she first scraped her short nails across his chest, the wool abrading the sensitive flesh of his nipples. As he bent slightly, to help her pull the shirt off over his head, his lovely Cat dipped her head to lick and soothe the skin she had teased just moments before. "Catherine Mary Murphy, I do love you." The words threatened to choke him, so thick did they feel in his throat. He knew he had no right to speak them, and he never had before this moment. But once, just this once, he had to voice what was in his heart so that she would never doubt. His hands went around her waist, sliding against the silky fabric of her dressing gown. Praise the saints, she was naked beneath it! Her lips came up to meet his, and he felt the answering groan that signaled her passion. Slipping lower, he gripped the soft flesh of her rump, marveling again at how damn good she felt in his arms. "I think -" "That's your problem, boy-o. You think too much." Her arms locked behind his head, while the fullness of her gown allowed one long leg to slip up and wrap around behind him as she rubbed herself against his ready cock. Her eyes, sparkling though they were with passion, couldn't quite hide the sadness beneath. "Don't think, Thomas. Shut up and fuck me." "Are you all right? You have the strangest look on your face."

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Rick shook his head a little, shifting between the woman in front of him now and memory of the one he had just seen in his head. Who was she? It was like putting on a coat that didn't quite fit, only to realize you had picked up someone else's garment. Only in this case, he had picked up someone else's memory. Too bad his dick didn't know the difference, though. Reliving that moment in someone else's life -- and Rick knew somehow that was what it was -- left him as turned on and ready for action as that other man had been. Which might not have been a problem if he had found himself alone in a deserted house with a woman he wasn't already hot for. But right now he was hotter than he could remember being since Danielle Leeuwendyk had gone down on him in the girls' bathroom his junior year in high school.

"Cat, let down your hair for me." Why had he whispered? And how did he know to call her by a shortened version of her name, for that matter? Rick didn't know how he knew. He just did. His voice felt rusty -unused -- and the pet name just felt right. Catherine's hand lifted and Rick didn't know whether it was to obey, or to give him that smack upside the head he'd wanted earlier. But when her arm bent and her hand reached for the plastic claw holding her hair, he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Then she shook her head softly and about a mile of black silk tumbled down her back. Rick nearly went off in his jeans.

Mother of God, how he'd missed that. Seeing the welcoming look in her eyes, he couldn't wait another second to hold her again. He reached for her and she didn't deny him. He took her mouth in a kiss and she was kissing him back. He could still tell her taste apart from every other woman on earth -- it started smooth like vanilla but finished with a kick like pure Irish whiskey. Cat, his sweet, fiery Cat. "Put your arms around my neck," Rick growled, breaking the kiss. He put his hands under that perfect ass and hoisted her up, her legs wrapping naturally around his waist.

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Every step was torture as the heat of her pussy ground down on his engorged cock. He didn't intend to give her the picture frame treatment -- nail her to the wall -- when there was a perfectly good horizontal surface in the next room. He had just enough brain cells still functioning to appreciate the irony of taking her down against the very bar they had sparred over. Rick laid Catherine down atop the length of dusty oak, taking care to cushion her head with his hand. He paused just a moment to appreciate the visual feast she presented with her dark hair fanned out wildly around her head, skirt hiked up around her thighs, legs sprawled, although still wearing those wicked high heels. He felt like throwing back his head in a roar of triumph. "Last chance, darlin'. If you don't want this, say so now, because I can't wait another second to be inside you. And once I get there, I plan to stick around a while." The look she gave him was a little dazed, her voice breathless. "Then what are you waiting for? Because I can't wait either." And with that, the last of his brain's blood supply fled south.

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Chapter Three I can't believe I'm doing this. The little voice in Catherine's head that tried to talk sense to her, on those few rare occasions when it needed to, was about to burst an aneurysm. It hadn't had to work this hard in years. Underdeveloped to begin with, it hadn't been given a serious workout since dorm days in college. Catherine was a good girl. Sensible. Pragmatic. Logical in the extreme. The last one to be caught up by her emotions and swept away on the red tide of lust.

Ah, sure you can, girl. The easiest thing in the world, it is. Just lay back and enjoy the ride. A secret thrill shot through her at that thought. Where had this new voice come from, anyway? Something alien to her normally cautious nature had settled inside her; an unfamiliar voice was whispering in her ear. And it was telling her that she could trust this man -- as well as exactly what to do to him to turn him into a wild man. How she could possibly know that, Catherine had no idea. But she knew it like she knew the beat of her own heart -- a heart that was definitely beating at an elevated pace right now.

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Never in her life had she experienced anything so deliciously erotic as what was happening to her in this moment. To be the recipient of so much focused energy made a shiver of nervous anticipation skate up Catherine's spine. She was simultaneously scared to death and more turned on than she'd ever been in her life. Not scared for her safety, though - at least not in the conventional sense. Emotional safety, perhaps. Catherine realized she was standing at the top of the highest high dive she'd ever climbed. And she was about to take that first step off the edge. Which was pretty amazing for the girl who'd been voted Most Likely To Invest In Mutual Funds by her sorority sisters. Okay, so risk hadn't exactly been her middle name until now. So what if she drove a Volvo, always ate her vegetables, and had never been to Las Vegas? While her mother had always told her she wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, Catherine couldn't recall Mom giving any advice on this particular situation. And there hadn't exactly been an excess of conversation up to this point. So why was she letting him take over so completely? She'd never done anything remotely like this before. How could she possibly place so much trust in someone she'd just met? Maybe because she had never before found someone who inspired such trust. It was crazy that she was so ready to place her faith in someone she hardly knew. Only it didn't feel as though they were virtual strangers. It felt more like a reunion. "Catherine." "Mmm?" In a concession as much to the late summer heat as to fashion, Catherine had forgone hose, and Rick was running his fingers lightly up and down the inner slopes of her bare legs. It felt divine. "Look at me."

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"Mm-mm." Catherine gave a short, emphatic shake of her head to reinforce that under no circumstances could she open her eyes. She could only lie there, eyes closed, her entire being focused on what Rick was doing with his hands. The stroking stopped. "Look at me, Catherine. I want you to watch what I'm doing to you. I need to know I've got your full participation. It has to be your choice, every step of the way. Do you want this?"

How could he even ask that? Didn't he know she'd been waiting for him for years, decades, lifetimes? No one touched her the way he did. Just look at him -- he was magnificent! "You know I do," she said finally, forcing her eyes open. "Look, then." He gestured with a tilt of his head. She hadn't noticed the mirror that hung above the bar. Bronzed and clouded with age, it softened their reflections, giving them a timeless quality. She gazed at their reflected images and decided they could almost be two of the original inhabitants of the house -- she with her skirts tossed up around her hips, her legs open to receive him; he in his Levi's and flannel work shirt. As her eyes met his in the mirror above them, his hands began to move again. Catherine rolled her head a bit to one side, continuing to watch in the mirror as Rick resumed his delicate stroking. Short, feather-light sweeps of his fingers, from the backs of her knees up the sensitive expanse of her inner thighs, began to slowly stoke her inner fire. Teasing touches at the crease of her leg, as he now traced light circles around her mons, had her aching for something more -- a firmer touch that would ease her restlessness rather than causing it to steadily build. Even as those calloused hands lifted to begin another circuit, Catherine's hips rose as though to follow, as though they couldn't bear to be parted even for a second from his touch. And when -- just as before -- the stroking stopped immediately, Catherine couldn't stifle her groan of protest. Hazel eyes still locked on hers in the mirror, Rick asked, "How much do you want this?"

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Ah, he'd always been a right bastard when it came to this. Couldn't stand to have it any way but his own. Not that he couldn't be tender -- he could make St. Bridget herself weep for the beauty of it. But he always enjoyed the special thrill he got from making her bend to his will. Catherine froze. Her tongue flicked out briefly to moisten her upper lip. What was she doing? Suddenly unsure, Catherine looked again at the couple reflected in the depths of the clouded mirror. The woman looked shameless: hair wild, expression nakedly needy. Her voice of reason was shrieking at her that this was reckless and possibly dangerous, not to mention completely out of character for her. She should climb down before someone happened by and saw her, and walk out of this house this very minute. She should go back to her office and only consider returning with an escort -- perhaps an armed one, at that. But Catherine's body was no longer hers to command, she discovered. Her legs refused to obey when she tried to move. Like some animatronic doll whose power cord had been severed, she remained exactly where Rick had placed her. How much did she want it? A lot. So much, it seemed, that her mutinous subconscious had taken over and refused all dictates to flee. So much that her hands crept down to where the edge of her skirt met the skin of her bare thighs, raising it higher yet. Shaky fingers gathered the material and inched it up, so that now everything below her waist was bared to his gaze. To his touch. "That much." Unable to meet his eyes, Catherine focused on Rick's hands, now gripping her knees. She noticed the myriad small cuts and scars, the bruised nail. If she had needed confirmation that he was a man who worked with his hands, that was it. Those hands told their own story. And somehow it helped to concentrate on something besides the flush she could feel

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creeping up her chest, rising now to her neck and face. She was all but begging him to take her. Even so, he hesitated, as though undecided. "Is that enough?" God, what a wimp. No wonder he wasn't sure he wanted her. "That's very good." Rick murmur was deliciously low and silky. "Now let's see just how good you can be." Eyes still cast down, Catherine smiled briefly in relief. But almost immediately the doubts flooded back. Two thoughts, two natures, were wildly at war with each other inside her. "One thing we need to get straight, though -- if we're going to dance, somebody's got to lead. And that somebody is going to be me." Rick paused for a moment, but Catherine didn't know what he wanted from her. She wanted to please him, but she had no idea how. "Well?" he prompted.

***** He had her now. He could feel it. Rick could smell the desire on her, read her surrender in the deliciously compliant body language. But he needed more. He didn't know why, but he needed her total willingness, her complete acceptance of him as the one who owned her. Owned her passion, her every tortured sigh. If his brain wasn't lodged so insistently in his cock right now, he might spare a moment to wonder why that was. He wasn't the possessive type -- if anything, quite the opposite. And he had never yet objected when a self-confident woman wanted to put him on his back and run the show. Less work for him and everyone had a good time.

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He couldn't say what was different about this one, only that something very definitely was. Practically from the minute he'd locked eyes with her, he'd sensed something out of the ordinary about Ms. Catherine Thompson. He'd never in his life gone after a woman this quickly. Barely even gone after a woman at all, was more like it. He'd never been all about the quantity, preferring the occasional quality interaction with the opposite sex. If it came right down to it, he preferred his own company or a night out with the guys to suffering through another endless dinner-and-a-movie with some brainless twit he'd met on the job. Rick had accepted some time ago that, for some reason, women didn't seem to be attracted to him for his brains. Never mind that he spent at least as much time on the computer as he did swinging a hammer. Disregard the hours he spent on the telephone, tracking down original materials for the specialized renovation jobs his company was known for. Forget that he'd spent years mastering the subtleties of traditional methods of woodworking. He knew a lot more than the best technique for a dovetailed joint, or how to build a house, from the foundation to the roof, without using a single nail. No matter. Women just heard 'construction,' took a look at his build, and figured him for the beer, bratwurst, and professional wrestling type. So what if his tastes ran more to authentic Szechwan cooking and old-school traditional blues? Ah, but the woman in his hands right now, she might just be the best of both: as gutsy and soulful as a Jonny Lang ballad and hotter than a Timur pepper. She shifted a little beneath his hands, and thoughts of music and food disappeared, pushed aside by a ravenous hunger of another kind entirely.

Good Christ, what a woman. He wanted to dive in like the starving man he was. She made an absolute feast.

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He let his gaze roam the banquet laid out before him and, by God, if it didn't make his mouth water. Sleek, womanly thighs pointed like directional arrows on a prospector's map to the hidden treasure -- a treasure more keenly to be desired than all the gold in these mountains. He stroked that satin flesh over and over. One last touch before he moved on turned into another. And another. And another. He was afraid to let go. Afraid if he did, she would turn out to be another figment of his cursed loneliness. How many times had he heard her voice, worshiped her woman's body with everything that was in him, only to wake to find himself alone? Always alone. Though, if it was but a dream that held him, why could he never seem to wake? Her breath caught, drawing Rick in -- as though she could draw him into her body with her breath alone. He looked down to find his hands holding two small pieces of silky material. Catherine's panties. Or what was left of them. He must have ripped them -although, tiny as they were, it couldn't have taken much force. And suddenly Rick was staring down at the sweetest little muff he'd ever seen. Neatly trimmed dark hair framed lips of a deep blush-pink. Lips that were plump with feminine arousal and weeping for his touch. He touched. Stroked that slick flesh with both thumbs, hands framing her gorgeous pussy. Her juices flowed over him, and, as he caressed her, Rick felt Catherine's inner muscles clench. His cock gave an answering twitch as he imagined how those muscles would feel clamped around him. Unable to hold back any longer, Rick lowered his head for a taste of her.

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Chapter Four The intimacy of his kiss dazzled her. Catherine could have laughed at her own naïveté. That is, if the sight of that crown of burnished gold bent low over her hadn't stolen her breath. After first taking off the flannel shirt he had donned for their impromptu tour of the building and giving it to her to use as a pillow, Rick had returned to his position between her legs. Her embarrassment at the brazen way she'd lifted her skirt for him evaporated like clouds on a windy day at the look she saw in his eyes. It somehow combined the sheer amazed good fortune of a lottery winner with something hotly predatory and unquestionably male. As though the fox had found the henhouse not only unguarded, but all the residents filleted, batter-dipped, and fried up for Sunday supper. And not only had he been invited to dine, he was the guest of honor. Catching her eye with a calculating look, Catherine watched as those work-roughed thumbs stroked the slick lips of her pussy. She had seen craftsmen at work, sometimes restoring a piece of antique furniture fallen on hard times, sometimes creating a thing of beauty from raw materials. And there was something they all had in common -- something she saw now in Rick's eyes as he gazed down at her: a sense of appreciation. Catherine could tell he liked what he was seeing and was using his craftsman's eye to plan his next move.

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The room was still uncomfortably warm, and the hard wood of the bar was digging painfully into her tailbone. But none of that mattered when those blunt, scarred thumbs swept twin trails up either side of her clit. Without her conscious command, Catherine's hips lifted, curling up to prolong the contact. "Don't move. Don't make me chase you." A shiver skated up her spine at his words. But it was the tone -- more the casual air of command than what he actually said that had her practically panting. "Chase me? My god, what must you be used to if this is chasing?" His eyebrow went up at that, reminding Catherine of that wrestler she had seen on TV. But Rick waved her question aside with no more concern than he would give a fly. "Don't. Move," he repeated. Catherine stifled a sigh. Her friends had never guessed, and her family certainly had no idea. But the accountants and the business types that she ordinarily dated might be her usual style…but they weren't her heart's desire. She might attract the polite, politically correct ones, but in her most secret heart-of-hearts, Catherine had always longed for a strong, take-charge kind of man. And Rick's 'Don't worry, little missy, I'll take care of it' style had her almost swooning. And then he clamped that barbarian's mouth on her clit and she nearly went through the roof. Warm lips surrounded her while a rapacious tongue lapped knowingly at the slick juices now flowing freely from her. One thick finger slipped into her core, followed quickly by a second. He was a big man, with big hands, and two fingers were a snug fit. He curled those big fingers back toward himself, so that they pressed upward on that elusive, magical spot one particular boyfriend of Catherine's had sworn didn't exist. A firm, rhythmic suction on her sweet spot had her writhing and a groan forcing its way up her throat.

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"Sssh," he warned, raising his head. "Wouldn't want someone passing by to hear noises, come investigate, would you?" Catherine saw his eyes flicker briefly toward the front of the house. The windows were high, but he was right -- the front door wasn't all that far away. "Or would you?" The glint in Rick's eye grew positively wicked as he continued to rock his fingers back and forth inside her pussy. His thumb took over where his mouth had left off, alternately circling and pressing on her clit. If anyone had asked her, Catherine would have sworn she didn't have a single, solitary discovery fantasy lurking anywhere in her orderly, efficient brain. But apparently her subconscious had been keeping a few secrets, because at his words, she felt a shameful little spurt of excitement burn through her veins. "No!" she denied instantly. But she couldn't stop her inner muscles from clamping down on the fingers manipulating her so skillfully.

Rick's eyes narrowed at her whispered denial, but one side of his mouth kicked up in recognition of what her traitorous body had told him. "Somebody's not telling the truth here. And we all know what happens to bad little girls who tell lies. Don't we?" It was all but impossible to think of anything except what those magical fingers were doing inside her. "Don't we?" he prompted again and gave her labia a sharp pinch. "No." She shook her head emphatically. At least, she tried to. What came out was a weak little wobble, more akin to the shiver a mouse gave just as the cobra drew back to strike. "Sure you do." The other side of his mouth quirked up, and an evil grin worthy of the worst Saturday matinee villain unfurled itself. "They're punished. A good spanking usually straightens them out. Shows them the error of their ways. And then…" His words trailed off and his eyes glazed a little, obviously viewing some scene with his mind's eye.

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"And then?" Catherine parroted softly, her heart pounding madly. "They're forced to show how very, very sorry they are." This time Rick accompanied his words with more pressure on the tiny bundle of nerves that now ruled her world. He pressed and pinched as a dozen different possibilities for her erotic punishment careened chaotically through Catherine's mind.

Himself was in a rare mood tonight. But then, she knew from experience that paddling her bottom made him harder than a miner's pikestaff. For a man who made his living easing other people's suffering, her Thomas got a curious sort of satisfaction from inflicting it on her. Though never in a cruel, brutish way. His sawbones's knowledge of the human form made him an absolute genius in torturing her to the heights of satisfaction. She may not have spent much time in the parish school in Galway, but she'd learned since, more than most women, about the ways of men and what they might do in the name of pleasure. From sweet old Father Timothy, who had given her catechism lessons in exchange for cleaning his room and taught her that Jesus loved her best when she sucked the good father's cock until he spewed in mouth. To the mayor of their fair city, who paid her in ten-dollar gold coins to grind her pointed bootheels into his bare arse as he groveled at her feet and begged her mercy. Cat knew it took all kinds. And that's how she knew that after Thomas bound her hands to the bed frame, he would tease her. He might use the little metal clamps from his doctor's bag to torment her nipples. Or he might use cloth of the softest doeskin -- cut into long, thin strips and bound together - to flog her gently until she squirmed in shivering delight. Cat knew he would bring her close to the edge time and again until, by the time she was begging for him to finish her off, her release would be explosive. "Uh-oh." Catherine dragged herself back from that other world in which she'd been floating, to focus on Rick's face. His eyes looked over her half-naked body, then toward the door.

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"What…?" She was too dazed to make her lips form the question fully. "Footsteps. I don't think we can- Dammit, they're almost here." Whoever it was would see them! Her lungs froze and her breath stopped in her throat. Her pulse hammered wildly. Rick chose that precise moment to press hard on her clit while his fingers inside her pressed upward, and Catherine shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

***** Christ, she was beautiful. His instincts had told him that little thrill of danger would set her off; that the adrenaline rush from the fear of discovery would push her buttons in a big way. And good God Almighty, but his hunch had paid off in spades and she'd gone off like a rocket. Now Catherine lay beneath his hands, panting, eyes aimed toward the door. Rick wondered how long it would take her to figure out she'd been conned and laughed a little to himself as he anticipated her reaction. "Are they coming? God, I'm so-o-o embarrassed." She didn't sound embarrassed. She sounded a little winded, and a whole lot satisfied. And he was just getting started. "Is who coming?" That got her attention back on him. Not that she was going very far with one of his hands on her hip and the other half-buried in her soaking pussy. Rick locked his gaze on her gorgeous blue eyes. He'd stared into his share of pretty blue eyes, but none of them had ever rocked his world like these did. He felt alive. Buzzed. Revved up. Like he'd drunk a triple-espresso and then stuck his hand in a live electrical socket. And he felt connected -- more than just physically -- to the woman beneath him. "The footsteps. I thought you heard-"

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Keeping his eyes focused on hers, Rick slowly withdrew his fingers from her spasming cunt. He finally broke the connection to look at the hand he had raised to just below his face. Rick took a breath, drawing the sweet perfume of her scent deep into his lungs. He drew his tongue slowly along his drenched fingers, savoring the taste of her. He closed his eyes briefly as he rolled the flavor of her around his mouth. "God, you have no idea how good you taste. I could eat you all day and half the night." She liked that. Rick saw her eyes flare, the pupils growing larger against the crystalline backdrop of her cobalt irises. "But…" Catherine glanced briefly back toward the door, clearly puzzled, before looking back up to him. "There was never anyone there. Was there?" "Probably not. Not that I heard, anyway." "Then what was all that about? Why did you pretend that there was?" Good question. Why had he? Because he'd known it would get her off in a big way. And in that moment, nothing had been more important than that. He was a slave to her passion. He wanted to be the one who gave her pleasure like she'd never known before. He needed to be the one. "Because I knew you wanted it." As they stared into each other's eyes -- she propped up on her elbows, he standing between her legs -- seconds ticked by and Rick became excruciatingly aware of the ache in his balls. His dick was as stiff as a minister's wife in a strip club, and he decided he'd put off his own pleasure for long enough. Stepping out from where he'd stood at the end of the old bar, Rick walked around Catherine to the long length of it stretching behind her. He hoisted himself easily up onto it and settled in. "Cat. Turn around."

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She did, but with a slight frown marring her expression. "Why do you call me that? My name is Catherine." "Beats me," he said, shrugging a little. "But it suits you. Now…" He took the shirt that had been cradling her head and tucked it behind him. Laying back and settling his own head on it, Rick allowed a small smile to curl his mouth. "Undo my pants." Would she do it? He didn't know. But the idea of this beautiful, obviously independent woman doing his sexual bidding turned him on like nothing he'd ever experienced in his life. He burned to see her give in, to place her trust in him completely, and submit to his will. Rick was discovering a side of his character he'd never seen before, and it came as a little bit of a shock to him. But the sense of rightness that came with it wouldn't let him question it for even a second.

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Chapter Five Could she do it? Catherine didn't know. That she wanted to was a given. He was absolutely stunning, and that he seemed to want her thrilled and amazed her. From his dusty work books, to his long muscular legs, chest the size of Kansas, to the naked sensuality in his hooded eyes -- Catherine couldn't have done better herself if she'd chosen him out of a catalog. Everything about him called to her. Not to the outer good girl that the rest of the world saw. Not the image of the dutiful daughter her parents saw, the loyal friend and model employee that she couldn't help projecting outwardly. Rick somehow managed to reach inside her to that tiny corner of wildness that hadn't quite been squelched. He drew out the little bit of risk-taker that had survived being born first into a household of responsible citizens who tried always to do the right thing. Looking into those hazel eyes that seemed to dare her to cut loose, Catherine realized what the right thing was and rolled up onto her hands and knees. "Okay." She crawled forward the foot-and-a-half that separated them. But as she moved between the powerful legs that straddled the bar on which he reclined, his voice stopped her as her hand was reaching for the first button on Rick's jeans. "Uh-uh."

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Catherine's eyes flicked up to meet his. "With your mouth." The mouth in question dropped open in an involuntary protest. "But-" She looked down at the sizeable bulge behind the placket of steel buttons. There was just no way. "We'll get to your butt later, little girl. You're not telling me you can't do it, are you?" Again, with the eyebrow. A slow burn began in Catherine's belly at the drawl in the voice. And that eyebrow was beginning to seriously annoy her. But none of that mattered to the humming in her blood. She lowered her head and gripped the soft denim between her teeth. Now it was her turn to savor the scents that threatened to overwhelm her, her nose millimeters from the bare flesh of Rick's cobbled belly. He smelled of sweat from his exertions earlier, dust from the old house, and the barest hint of soap that still lingered. A sweet symphony of aromas -- all underpinned by the irresistible smell of strong, healthy man -- assailed her senses. And every note of it turned her on. Her mouth watering a little, Catherine tugged at the material surrounding the first button. Nothing happened. She tugged again. Instead of popping free, the stubborn button remained in place. Dammit! It always sounded so easy in the romance books she read. It was usually the hero who was undressing the heroine, though, so maybe it was a guys-only skill - like unsnapping bras with one hand. Catherine paused a moment to regroup. "Problem?" "Well that depends on you, I guess. How much time do you have? This looks like it might take me a while." Catherine didn't try to hide the exasperation in her voice. A little game was all well and good, but not when it stood between her and what she wanted. Was it her fault she was goal-oriented? "Looks like somebody needs to hone her skills a little."

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The smirk in Rick's voice was really starting to tick her off, and frustration made her snap, "Looks like somebody needs to lose a couple of pounds, to me." At least, that's what she wanted to say. But as Catherine opened her mouth to speak, an alien warmth stole through her. Feeling as though warm water were being poured into her through the soles of her feet, Catherine choked on her words. The presence moved rapidly through her body, sweeping up her torso and strangling the retort she was about to lash out with. Instead, a voice that sounded suspiciously like her own said, "You're right. I am a little

rusty. I should be able to pop those buttons like nobody's business. And I'll keep tryin' all night long -- if you want me to. Or I could use me hand right now, and I could be lickin' that delicious prick of yours in something under thirty seconds. Your choice, love." She understood men in general and this man in particular, and Cat knew there was no real choice to be made. He wanted to be inside her nearly as much as she wanted him there. Best not speak in haste words that would benefit no one. So she dipped her head, threw the thick mane of black hair over her shoulder, and looked him in the eye. A sly smile rose to her lips, and Cat let her tongue creep out to give a slow lick from side to side. Let him picture that fat cock of his slipping between her lips. Let him remember the feel of her tongue sliding easily around its girth as she began her first unhurried suckle of it. As she'd known it would, his head dropped back, exposing the strong lines of his neck, and a low rumble rolled up from his belly. Using one of the arms he'd been supporting himself with, he began popping the buttons himself. In no time, he was shoving the material aside to expose himself to her. But instead of allowing her to take that magnificent cock into her mouth and worship it, he pushed impatiently on her forehead when she bent to do so. He reached for his back

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pocket, brought forth a leather wallet, and withdrew a small packet from within. Sheathing himself quickly with its contents, he leaned back again on his elbows. "Ride me." To be so close after so long! Cat hitched up her skirt with both hands and eagerly moved forward on her knees. Placing her legs alongside his massive thighs, Cat worried for a moment that there wouldn't be enough room on the bar for them. But then the tip of his penis probed the entrance of her needy cunt and her thoughts scattered like flakes of gold down a runaway flume. There was only the pleasure of holding him within her body, clasping him tightly as though to never let him go. He urged her up with his hands, and Cat wondered if he would push her away so soon. But his choked command to "Move. Now!" made her realize he wasn't sending her away; he only wanted more of her. So she gripped him as tightly as she could and rose slowly -- as slowly as she could possibly manage -- off his beautiful cock. Rising until only the big plum head of it remained within her, Cat stilled. She leaned forward until they rested forehead-toforehead, and just breathed. Marveling at the sweet sensation of holding him close again after so long. Cat held herself aloft, thigh muscles screaming, waiting for a sign. She wouldn't be the one to break the exquisite tension. At last, he reached for her hips and shoved her roughly down his length until they were belly-to-belly again. "Dammit! I said move." Didn't he realize she couldn't? She was paralyzed with the intensity of sensation after feeling nothing for so long. It was torture to feel him filling her again, only to wonder when it would be snatched away from her. With a snarl, he lifted her, held her poised above him for a second, then slammed her down again as he rose to meet her. Cat cried out at the wonder of it. Threw back her head, glorying in the feel of his hot cock pulsing within her. He went wild then, lifting and

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dropping her, over and over as he drove himself into her. With just a few strokes, he found his release, his body jerking as he emptied himself into her. Not her, the condom. Cat's head slumped. She would have given anything to accept his seed -- and the possibility of having his child. But it was not to be. That gift he saved for his wife.

***** "You okay?" "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" "No reason. I would just figure that a guy who finally got laid after a seven-month drought would look a little happier than you do. Got any beer?" That was the trouble with working with family. Things tended to get jumbled. Things like work, private life, personal boundaries. He needed time to think, not a replay of their teen years. "In the fridge. Grab one on your way out, would you?" Anticipating having a twenty-foot section of oaken bar to cart home, Rick had arranged to have his brother Steve meet him at the house with the big truck just before dark. A little something called the most amazing sexual encounter of his life, though, had completely driven the appointment from his so-called mind. And just like the boy who cried wolf, Rick couldn't really blame Catherine for not believing him when he'd told her -- for the second time that hour -- that he heard footsteps. Consequently, Steve had gotten an eyeful, and Rick hadn't had much success convincing him that 'nothing had happened.' Rather than dropping Rick at his house and going home, Steve was now attempting his version of subtle probing. "Bro, you have to tell me. You're working a job site in the middle of nowhere, all by yourself, and you still manage to get laid. How exactly does this happen? Share with mere mortals."

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What the hell had happened? One minute he'd been in control. Miles past turned on and almost drooling with anticipation, sure, but still in control of his actions. He'd been loving beyond belief the sight of Catherine attempting to carry out his erotic demands. And then it was as though something had taken over his actions. He'd been flooded with a sense of…'otherness' was the only way he could describe it. Like before, when they'd been standing by the old sink and he'd had visions of Cat. Catherine, he corrected himself. Visions of Catherine and him together. Only this time, he had been seconds away from sliding his dick into her, and he had been seized by something unfamiliar. A sense of someone else inside his skin, someone else looking out through his eyes. And instead of anything resembling his normal style, he'd been a wild man. A completely out-of-control lunatic. God, what if he'd hurt her?

She hadn't really denied it, because Steve -- whose ass he was seriously going to kick -had stood listening to every word. What there'd been of them. The situation had been a poster child for awkward moments. What did you say to a woman you'd known for all of a couple of hours but who you had nonetheless banged like a cheap whore? And couldn't wait to see again? "I'll call you," he'd told her. Rick snorted now at the memory. He was worse than pathetic. He had probably come off like a nightclub pick-up on Ecstasy. He really would be calling her, though. Rick knew where City Hall was, and he could find the Historical Society with one phone call. He had already developed a serious jones for Ms. Catherine Thompson, with her uptight expression and her siren's body. He figured he was just the man to help her find her inner bad girl -- and then spank that bad girl's ass.

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That was a new twist, Rick realized. Someday he'd have to ask himself when he had developed a taste for a little bondage and dominance. "So, Rico Suáve. Enlighten your little brother. How long have you been seeing the babea-licious one who visits you on the job and takes care of your business? Although, now that you mention it, it goes a long way toward explaining why this job has been taking so long." Steve was about as sophisticated as a rhinoceros in heat. Younger than Rick by barely a year, they had always been close. And since Steve had finished his college degree and come to work for Eriksson and Sons full-time, they had grown even closer. Right now, though, Rick wished for a more dysfunctional family -- say, the kind who sent cards at the holidays and called it good. The beer looked tempting so Rick grabbed the last one out of the refrigerator and bought himself a little time cracking it open. He gave his brother a long look through narrowed eyes as he took a lingering first pull off the frosty, long-necked bottle. "Steve, remember the time Uncle Ole gave you that really nice R.C. car for Christmas?" His brother, obviously looking for the connection, nodded his head, ponytail flopping in time with his movements. Rick figured Steve had never truly gotten over his 'I want to be a rock star' phase and chalked up the hair he wore shoulder-length to that. When working, Steve wore it pulled back into a long ponytail. But from this angle it was hidden, and it was like looking into a mirror, they were so alike. In looks, that is. "Yeah, I was twelve. What's your point?" "Remember how you didn't want to share it and you went ballistic that time I took it out and played with it before you got home from school? Remember that?" "I do. Again, your point would be…?" "Just think of Catherine as my R.C. car," Rick said, baldly. Steve, in the middle of swallowing, spewed beer down the front of his shirt and came up coughing.

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"Nice one, bro. You're comparing your new girlfriend to an R.C. car? A kid's toy?" "Nah. Just trying to put it on a level you can understand." "Fuck you." "No, thanks, got a better offer." Steve glared, while Rick returned his look, a shade calmer. But only a shade. Shaking his head, Steve put his half-full beer down on the counter and headed for the door. He stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame and spoke without looking at Rick. "Are you going to be ready with that wood tomorrow? I'm almost ready for it at the Tkachuks', so I'd appreciate it if you didn't hold up my job. Bro." "I'll be ready. You just be there with the truck."

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Chapter Six "Gary, I met the contractor on the Swann mansion site yesterday." After spending the night alternating between tossing and turning, unable to sleep, and dreams in which her saloon girl self had engaged in bawdy acts that were probably still illegal in several states, Catherine had dragged herself into work. That those acts had been committed on, by, and at the urging of a brawny Viking type with red-gold hair was beside the point. "That was fast. I know you've been practically salivating to get your hands on the place. What did you do -- drive straight from the judge's chamber out to the house?" Her boss chuckled. Catherine clutched her jumbo-sized mug of coffee tighter to her chest and juggled the load in her arms. She used the cover of unloading her materials to hide what she strongly suspected was a blush creeping up her face. Although she had only worked for him for a short time, Catherine already adored the man who had hired her "Of course not. What do you think I am -- some sort of newbie? I stopped for lunch on the way." Her new boss laughed with her, and Catherine gave mental thanks for the lucky chain of events that had brought her to the Oro County Historical Society. With the job market still

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unexpectedly tight, a master's degree in public administration didn't command the respect it used to. Rather than icing on the cake, it had turned out to be the starting point that got her foot in the door.

Although Catherine wished she could say she got the job strictly on her qualifications, she couldn't. If pushed, she would be forced to admit that it was as much their shared interest in the California Gold Rush and that certain indefinable click of personalities that sometimes happened in interviews that had convinced Gary Guzetta to hire her. He might look like the epitome of the scholarly old gentleman, with his expansive waistline, graying beard, and his penchant for sweaters, but Catherine had found him to be a shrewd administrator. Not only could he stretch a departmental budget until it begged for mercy, but after twenty-five years spent working for the County, he knew where all the bodies were buried -- literally and metaphorically. "So what did you think?" he asked. Shrugging out of her coat, Catherine took an inordinate amount of time hanging it from the back of her office chair. She was so busy concentrating on imagining how an innocent person would behave that it took another full minute before she realized her boss hadn't continued. Another bracing jolt of her coffee was required before she could summon the courage to sneak even a sidelong glance at his expression. Catherine should have been suspicious of the eye-twinkle, but she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice it. She could only marvel inwardly at the speed of the small-town grapevine. "Nothing happened. We just talked." Her boss only rocked back on his heels a little, hands clasped, in a manner suggesting a man of the cloth, across his generous girth. "What?" Catherine asked defensively, trying desperately not to sound defensive. "Mmm, nothing," Gary replied mildly. "It was the house I was talking about."

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It must be her wretched state of mind that heard an emphasis where it hadn't been intended. "Right. Right, me too," she quickly agreed. "So. The house." "Yes, the house," Catherine said, striving for a business-like tone. "It's obviously in bad shape. But I'm thinking that if we can stall construction for even a few months, I should be able to find a grant partner to pay for restoring it." "And what did the contractor say to that? It was purchased by Eriksson Construction, I believe?" Catherine bit her lip and focused her gaze somewhere over Gary's left shoulder. "We, um…We didn't get a chance to go into a lot of detail about the house. It was late by the time I got there, and we were losing the daylight pretty quickly." There. That wasn't so bad. Once she got going, Catherine found she could stick pretty close to the truth. There were really only one or two little, ahem, items that were best left out. And, really, they weren't germane to the discussion at hand. "Right." Gary nodded agreeably. "This time of year it does get dark early." "Exactly! Mr. Eriksson was good enough to show me the house, and we agreed to meet back there today to firm up plans for how the Society and his company can come to terms." Her first out-and-out lie. They'd agreed to nothing of the sort. After being discovered by Rick's nearly-twin brother, Catherine had scurried out of there as fast as humanly possible. Rick had done his best to play the gentleman, mumbling something about calling her. But she'd seen the way his brother eyed the bar. And once she'd seen the truck he'd arrived in -- an enormous monster perfectly suited to hauling away huge chunks of the mansion -- Catherine had realized these men were serious about her house.

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She had no intention of letting plans of that sort progress. She intended to be there again today to talk business and make sure that not so much as a plank of original flooring was touched. "Excellent start, Catherine." Gary picked up a book he must have brought with him when he came in. "I wanted to give you this since you're working on the Swann Mansion now. It took me a while to dig it out." Catherine accepted the smallish-sized volume he offered her. Bawdy House: Bordellos of

the Old West, by Nathanial Barnaby.

"This looks wonderful! Thank you so much. I can't wait to read it," she said, genuinely enthused. A love of old books was something she and Gary had in common, as well. The book would have been welcome anyway, but the subject matter guaranteed it.

"If memory serves, it's got nearly an entire chapter on the Swann house. I thought you'd get a kick out of reading about the ghost."

***** The day was half gone by the time Rick finally had a chance to sit down. He'd been out on site at the old house since before sunup, working to get the bar out. Wood that old tended to be brittle, and it took painstaking time and care to get the piece out. Time was he'd have had two or three helpers on a job of this size. But he'd had to cut back on the amount of outside labor he brought in and, as things stood now, even a couple of day-laborers were beyond his budget. It had taken four times as long to get it out as it would have with help. That was just how things were, though, and there was no point bellyaching about it. He was just sitting down with a cold soda and his cell phone when a car pulled up. The cement steps of the old house were about as comfortable as anything available and they gave

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a great view of the street. Fine old maple trees that had given the street its name lent shade, as well as a riot of color. Fall color didn't mean much to Rick one way or the other, except that he knew tourists loved it. Anyone wanting to buy the old house would likely be using it for some type of business -- it was too damn big for anything else -- and whatever the business turned out to be, things like trees and atmosphere would only add to the value.

Rick watched as Catherine swung her long legs out of the car and climbed out. She obviously had a brain in her head, because she'd swapped her business suit and heels for jeans and what she probably considered work boots. He could tell, even from this distance, that they were hiking boots -- and expensive-looking ones, at that. The jeans rode low on her hips and barely met the bottom of the V-necked sweater she'd worn. As she walked up the path, the sweater rode up a little, giving a tantalizing glimpse of her belly. "I was just going to call you," he said, gesturing with the phone. He had planned to get her work number from Information or, failing that, make a couple of calls to contacts at City Hall. Rick would have tracked her down by nightfall. But while he'd been thinking of setting something up for the weekend, seeing her strolling up the walk from the street to the house all sexy walk and feminine curves, he knew he wouldn't wait twenty-four hours. Hell, watching her breasts jiggle and getting peeks at her belly like that, he'd be lucky to make it twenty minutes. "Yeah, I bet you say that to all the girls. Got a bridge you'd like to unload, while you're at it?" Rick laughed and raised his right hand, holding two fingers aloft. "Scout's honor." "Nice try, pal, but wrong number of fingers. I think that might be the Girl Scouts' sign you've got there." "I don't recall specifying. Campouts were a lot more fun, I'll tell you."

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She was funny. Rick didn't remember seeing that side of her yesterday. He couldn't decide why that came as a surprise, but it did. And what a relief. He could picture spending a lot of time with Catherine, and a sense of humor was a must. He sat for a second, smiling up at her. Letting her smile back at him. He liked looking at her. She had a fresh, natural kind of beauty. She looked real. Not a lot of make-up. And he'd bet big money no cosmetic surgery. She came by those curves naturally. Rick realized he was staring. "Would you like a soda? They're cold." He gestured to the little cooler. "No, I'm fine, thanks. Well, maybe just a taste of yours." He held the can up to her and felt the tingle when their fingers brushed in passing. "Have a seat. Show me what you've got there?" She had passed a small book to her left hand when she reached for the soda can. Rick wasn't surprised when she took a spot next to him on the top step. "It's a book about this house," she said, holding it out to him. "Well, not entirely about this house. But there's quite a bit about it in there. Did you know it's supposed to be haunted? By a former owner." "Really? A ghost?" He flipped through the pages of the book until he found a picture of the house as it had looked when it was new. "Look at that, would you -- wasn't it something?" "Rick, can I ask you something? Did you notice anything…strange when we were in the house yesterday? You know, maybe feel anything?" The hand she'd laid on his arm was warm. He looked down to where her skin, surprisingly fair for someone with such dark hair, contrasted with his more suntanned tone. Black Irish.

He could suddenly see her naked, arms pulled over her head, tied to a headboard. He saw himself, attaching small metal clamps to her breasts. Some kind of leather whip lay next to her. He saw himself reaching for it.

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Catherine withdrew her hand and the vision winked out. How much should he tell her? That he'd felt an alien presence in himself? That he'd walked into rooms and seen them as they'd looked in another time? That he'd experienced another man's memories? If she wasn't already traumatized by the way he'd manhandled her yesterday, hearing him say he'd been possessed by a ghost ought to finish the job. "I, uh, I might have felt something a little weird." Rick tried to keep his body language casual. Like this was a normal, everyday conversation to have with a woman he'd had wild, monkey sex with on barely an hour's acquaintance. "How about you?" Catherine, at least, had the guts to admit how weird it all felt. "Yeah, I think I did." She turned to look him in the eye. "Promise you won't try to have me locked up? And you have to swear not to mention this to anyone at my work. Okay?" Remembering what had happened when she had laid a hand on him, Rick was careful to keep their bodies from touching. Not easy to do in their present seating arrangement. He nodded assent at her question. "Sure." "I…Promise you won't think this is weird?" "Promise." "I think I felt her -- the ghost -- when we were…you know. Yesterday." She could only meet his eyes briefly before looking away again. If she could come clean, then so could he. He owed it to her not to let her step out there on that 'You're going to think I'm crazy' limb all by herself. So he told her. About the rooms, and the memories, and feeling like someone else was looking out through his eyes. "When I was inside you, on the bar, and I was a little rough with you…I think that was the ghost. Now you have to promise you don't think I'm crazy." "I promise. Too bad we don't have her diary or something. Something that told more than that book-" "Would letters count?"

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Chapter Seven "My dearest CThough we are parted, I give thanks daily for the Divine Providence that led me to you. The gift of your presence in my life can only be proof of a benevolent deity. Although I cannot otherwise explain the events of my life thus far, they nonetheless brought me to this place. I believe with all my heart that all that has happened was necessary to each of us in our own way. That we were meant to be together, I have no doubt. That we will be one day, I likewise believe with my whole heart. The trials that we presently endure must eventually fall away, and leave only the one path that we shall walk together. Things here progress slowly. There is very little change, either for good or ill. I can only follow the dictates of my conscience, that my duty remain clear, and my heart honest. No matter how long it shall take, please trust in me and believe that we will be together as one, some day. I remain your loving, T-"

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Catherine's voice trailed off. "How incredibly sad." Catherine raised her gaze from the letter. "They were obviously separated. But in love. I wonder what happened. Are there any more?" They sat side-by-side again, back on the steps, after having retrieved the letters from the pocket of Rick's tool belt. Catherine tried to see over Rick's widespread legs to the remaining papers at his side. So much for bringing an escort along when she returned to the house. Away from Rick, the house, and temptation, Catherine had been able to convince herself that she had nothing to worry about. She had obviously exaggerated his appeal in her mind. He was only moderately attractive and her extreme reaction to him had more to do with her long dateless streak and the heat. She could go back to the house and conduct her business without throwing herself at the man. "Looks like maybe two more letters, wrapped in some newspaper," Rick said, handing them to her. "Here, you do it. Your hands are probably cleaner than mine." His hands didn't look all that dirty to Catherine. A little dusty, maybe. About the same as yesterday. When he'd had them all over her body. Pinching her nipples, stroking the lips of her pussy, holding her in place while he plunged that gorgeous, fat cock of his inside her. Whoa, whoa! Keep your mind on your business and not what's in his pants, missy. Catherine cleared her throat a little and tried to ignore the saliva that began pooling at the thought. "It sounds like he was probably a minister, from all the references to the deity and providence. Don't you think?" "I think I cannot believe he was getting laid with that load of crap. I haven't read anything that sappy since my cousin Genevieve spent the summer in France and decided she had a crush on me. Besides, he was a doctor, not a minister. What?"

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"Ow! You have all the sensitivity of a tree stump, you know that? And I think you broke my hand." Catherine had reacted without thinking, hauling off and slugging him as hard as she could. "I could've told you not to do that. Besides, you hit like a girl. Wrap your thumb around your first two fingers next time. And hold your wrist level. Here, give me that." He took her hand in his much larger one. "How does that feel?" Rick used his thumb to rub the fleshy base of her hand, while the fingers of one his hands stroked gently over the back of hers. Catherine's eyes closed in pleasure and a little purr of pleasure slipped out. "That's really nice. Where'd you learn that?" "Old girlfriend who knew shiatsu." "Old?" It was a reasonable question, Catherine thought. Visions of being confronted with a jealous girlfriend came to mind, followed quickly by a grimace of distaste. Catherine tried to block the image by concentrating on the answer. "Long gone." Was she imagining things or did Rick's body language stiffen slightly? "You?" "Nope. Never. Not even once." The hand massage came to a screeching halt. "What do you mean, never?" Catherine bit her lip a little, as though deciding how much to tell. She glanced sideways and thought she could almost see the scenarios racing through his head, each possibility rejected as quickly as it appeared. Opting for mercy, she said, "I've never had a girlfriend. Not the kind who gives massages, anyway. Call me old-fashioned." "You…" Laughter erupted from her as realization lit up his expressive face. Catherine saw Rick fighting a smile, but precise enunciation couldn't completely hide the laughter in his voice. "You will pay for that one."

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"Promises, promises." Her voice gone unexpectedly smoky, Catherine did her best to give the eyebrow look back. He turned to her slowly, giving her plenty of time to get away. Holding her ground, a slight tremble began in her limbs, and suddenly the tension between them was almost tangible. "Are you testing me, woman?" His voice was soft with menace, and the tremor in Catherine's body became a fullfledged shudder. But something in her couldn't help giving the tiger's tail a good yank. "Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say you were all talk, but…"

At that Rick's smile went flat, his hazel eyes narrowed. "Come. Here." As if in slow motion, Catherine watched Rick's lips form the words. The trickle of juices that had begun when he turned to face her became a flowing river. The throbbing in her core increased as her pussy heated at his words. The man she had been laughing and joking with just minutes before was gone, and in his place was a Viking raider claiming his prize. "Come where? I'm sitting right next to you; I can't get any closer." Surely that breathy whisper wasn't coming from her -- debate team captain and local library volunteer? Patting his thighs, he said, "Right here. Face down." His directions were unmistakable: he was going to spank her. And suddenly he didn't look like he was fooling around, even a little. He would paddle her ass and it would hurt like hell. She'd be lucky if she could sit down afterward. She looked around quickly. It was still full daylight. Anyone could see. "You can't! Anyone could see. I couldn't." "You could -- and you will. Don't make me tell you again." Beginning to panic a little, Catherine looked around again. "Please? Isn't there something else? Anything? I'll do anything you want. Just not in public."

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Rick let out a slow breath, weighing his options. "I ought to make you, just on general principle. Okay. Suck my cock. Until I come down your gorgeous throat."

***** Was there a hotter sight in the world than a beautiful woman on her knees, unbuttoning a man's pants? If there was, Rick hadn't found it. Especially if he was that man. He'd been playing with her at first. Something about her, about the way they reacted off each other, got him going faster even than when he'd been a horny teenager and first discovering sex. Back then, just thinking of touching a woman's bare breast made him hard. But he'd seen the way Catherine's eyes had flared when he'd threatened to put her over his knee. And something in him had stirred. Taking her by one slim arm, like a captive to her doom, he had led her inside the house. Rick clenched his hands as slim fingers slipped the steel buttons from the openings holding his jeans closed, one by one. Hands shaking just a little so that she needed both to do the job, her brows furrowed slightly and she bit her lip, as though her complete focus was on freeing him. Licking him. Swallowing him deep. Rick got a little harder at the thought. As the last button cleared its buttonhole, Catherine's hands reached inside the straining cloth and freed his cock. Already hard, it bobbed a little before her hands could encircle it. Catherine's breath caught even as her lips curved into the beginnings of a small smile. "Ready?" The eyes that had been so focused on his prick flashed up to meet his. Rick couldn't decide what turned him on more: giving the orders or seeing her reaction to them. In an erotic chain reaction, Catherine's eyes got a little wide, her breath shallow, her pupils a little

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more dilated. He knew somehow that although her intellect utterly rejected the un-PCness of it all, it was partly that very incorrectness that gave it that little extra kick for her. "I think so." Although he thought the wide-eyed ingénue bit was all an act, he wasn't completely sure. But it played like hell to the fantasy in his head. "Good. Open wide, darling." Pink lips with just a hint of a pout to them parted over the pulsing head of his cock. Warm breath telegraphed the heat of her mouth for a moment as she hesitated. Gradually Catherine's tongue reached out, until it captured the first drops of pre-cum that had pearled at the very tip. That one brief, tantalizing flick of her tongue had him on the edge. "Take me," he growled. "All the way, baby." She drew him in, down into the dark, heavenly depths of her mouth. Hot and slick, she suckled on the long length of his cock. Her tongue curved lovingly beneath him, adding to the feeling of being cradled in delicious moist heat.

"That's it, Cat. You know what to do." He liked her hair loose, swinging free to tangle his hands in when he fucked her mouth. But this was sweet, too, tied back as it was. To be able to see each little nuance of her expression as his dick slid in and out of that tart mouth of hers. The way her lips formed such a delightful 'O' around his flesh, her cheeks hollowed with the effort. Grasping her head with both hands, he took control of the tempo. He widened his stance a fraction, until he found the perfect angle and began to pump in earnest, long, deep strokes into that lush paradise. She struggled for a moment as he touched the back of her throat, until she arched her neck for him and he was in up to his balls. Lord God in heaven, thank You for making this woman so perfectly and bringing her to me.

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The pull of her mouth, the feel of her fingers gripping his ass, even the slight rake of her teeth across his prick, were making his head spin. This was the closest to heaven his immortal soul would ever get. And, by God, he'd take every second of it. So good. So sweet. The tingling in his balls gathered force, blasting up his spine as he erupted. He shot stream after stream of his seed into her sweet mouth. She accepted it -welcomed it -- as she continued to milk him of every last drop. Rick looked down into Catherine's upturned face. Her eyes were downcast. Despite the aftershocks that continued to buffet his body, he pulled himself from her mouth. "Hey," he called softly. She still hadn't met his eyes. Rick helped Catherine up with one hand while hitching up his pants with the other. Gathering her close, he whispered, "Come here." He looked around for something, anything, to sit on. Rick wanted to hold her in his arms, rock her sweet body, until she lost that tension he could feel creeping back into her body minute by minute. "I should probably get going. I, uh…I need to get back to the office. I've got some things I have to finish up." She tried to pull away, but he had no intention of letting her go. "Sorry, babe, you're not going anywhere." "They're expecting me. I can't miss the four p.m. staff meeting." "Guess what? They're having it without you." Taking her chin in his hand, he gently guided her gaze to his. "You've got things to finish up right here." Rejecting the ground and a half-pallet of shingles still sitting in one corner of what had probably once been the parlor, Rick guided her to a sawhorse. Knowing it was safe because he'd brought it with him, he sat down, pulling her with him.

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"Now, what's got you so skittish all of a sudden?" Catherine perched on his knee like a bird about to take flight. She was nervous and edgy, just looking for an opening so that she could escape. "It's…I'm- Aren't you even the least bit embarrassed?" "Embarrassed? Hell, no!" "I don't recognize myself. I'm level-headed. I'm the sensible one. Until I get around you. And this house." Her eyes looked everywhere but at him. The uncertainty and confusion in her eyes grabbed him and wouldn't let go. "Catherine…" Rick pulled her face down to his lips and kissed her. He didn't understand what was happening between them any more than she did. But instead of fighting it, he intended to chase it down and sit on it, if he had to. Catherine was no more immune to the white-hot chemistry between them than he was. She tried to resist, but it took about three seconds before she was kissing him back, tongues tangling, teeth scraping. "Wait a second, Cat." He picked her up and resettled her astride his lap. "Better." Her warm pussy settled over his reawakening dick, and all he could think of was how empty her cunt was and how much he wanted to fill it.

She draped her arms over his shoulders, rubbing her breasts against his chest until he couldn't stand it any more. Rick broke the kiss long enough to pull her sweater over her head. Her bra was about two seconds behind it hitting the floor, and then those gorgeous tits were gloriously naked and in his face. Rick hefted one in his hand, compressing it between his fingers, squeezing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her moan of delight urged him on, so he bent his head and latched on to the other, sucking it deep into his mouth. Clutching at his shoulders, Catherine let her head fall back in luscious surrender.

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"Hey, bro, where the hell are you? Truck's here and it's- Holy shit." Rick looked across the room to see his brother's grinning face. "Don't hurry on my account. I'll wait."

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Chapter Eight Well, at least it was better than being spanked in public. If she had to be caught in the act, somehow it didn't seem so shocking when the man walking in on them looked so much like the man on whose lap she sat. Whose mouth had been latched voraciously to her breast before it had come off with an audible pop. At first sight, she'd taken Rick and his brother to be twins. But even just a few minutes spent in their presence brought out the differences. Where Rick's was the broad build of a warrior, Steve was sleek and built for speed. His face, although similar in coloring and carrying those same slashing cheekbones, showed fewer lines. He was the carefree younger brother, obviously. And that hair! It was a little more blond, a little less red, than Rick's, and Catherine guessed it fell an inch or two below his shoulders when not tied back as it was now. "You always did have crappy timing, Steve." Catherine looked back at Rick. His hand remained clamped on her left breast. A sign of ownership, no doubt. Her pussy throbbed at the thought. "I don't know. I'd say my timing was pretty damned perfect." Not sure what Steve was trying to say, Catherine couldn't believe he could possibly be suggesting what her overactive imagination had conjured.

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Two men? At once? A vicious twist rocked her core at the forbidden thought. "I don't know, bro. I'd have to think about that one for a minute." He paused, as though considering it. "I'll tell you what. Why don't we leave it up to the lady?" Catherine fought the urge to clamp her legs together. She was already primed from going down on Rick. His luscious, fat dick had been beautiful to behold. Kneeling at his feet, being ordered to take him down her throat until he came, had been unbelievable. She hadn't thought anything could possibly be hotter than that. But she'd been wrong. He gave her waist a squeeze. "What do you think, doll? Feel like making my brother here a profoundly happy man?" She squirmed a little, rocking back and forth to ease the ache between her legs. Rick looked down at her, eyes narrowed a little. Slowly, he brought his hand between her legs, lightly thumbing her throbbing clit. A cry, somewhere between a grunt and a wail, erupted from her, and a corner of Rick's mouth turned up in satisfaction. She was being bartered -- like a tenth-century maiden stolen by some Viking raider from the European coast! She was being treated like a prize of war. She nearly climaxed on the spot. Looking from one brother to the other, so similar yet so different, she nodded her head slowly. Words were utterly beyond her. "Catherine, stand up." When their eyes met, she could barely see the mossy green for the dark of his pupils, but Catherine could read the authority in them. There would be no denying this command. Eyes held captive by his, Catherine let her hands glide from Rick's shoulders to his thighs. As shaky as her legs felt, she would need a little leverage to shove herself off his lap. He hadn't bothered to fasten his jeans after he'd come -- only pulled them up around his waist. So the material that had barely contained his rampant flesh when buttoned now

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couldn't even pretend to. That glorious example of manhood once again stood at proud attention, seeming to strain toward her unfilled channel. Catherine pushed herself to a stand. "Unzip your pants, baby." He kept his eyes fixed on hers, and Catherine's hands moved to the snap of her jeans. Hands that felt heavy, as though caught in a dream, flicked the snap open. Thumbs moved seemingly of their own accord to hook themselves in the waistband of her pants, shoved them down, panties and all, to puddle at her feet. "Step out of them. There. Kick them away." Rick's eyelids were drooping a little now, as though he were half-hypnotized by what he was seeing. His voice was a gravelly baritone she barely recognized. "Take your hands now, and I want you to hold your breasts out. Like you're presenting them to me." For the first time, Catherine wanted to answer him, but couldn't. Some lust-induced paralysis of her vocal chords kept her from speaking. She was so unbelievably turned on she was surprised her rubbery legs could support her. Taking her breasts in her hands, she cupped them gently, holding them as if in presentation. "Thumb your nipples. Make them stand up and beg for attention." Catherine did as he told her and was amazed at the wash of sensation that flooded her body. She had never thought her breasts were particularly sensitive. But maybe they'd only been waiting for the right circumstances, because now she moaned in frustrated desire. "Now turn around and see what you've done." Turning slowly, she was startled to see Steve. How could she possibly have forgotten he was there? Somehow she had. She was so thoroughly snared in the sensual web Rick had woven for her, the fact she was being watched by his brother had completely left her mind. Steve was obviously not oblivious to the thick atmosphere of sensuality that filled the room and made it impossible to breathe. He had unzipped his own pants and stood with his

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cock at full attention in one hand, while his other hand cradled his furry balls. As she watched, he pumped slowly with one hand, one languid stroke after another, while he rubbed and squeezed his testicles with the other. Strong hands grasped her hips and guided her down and backward. As she let Rick control her movements, he gave her more instructions. She spread her legs as he bid her, relaxed, then came in a blinding rush as his impossibly heavy cock stuffed her full. Her breathing was only a little less choppy when Rick said, "I know you think you're done now. But you're not. Not yet, baby." Catherine opened her eyes, which had closed instinctively at the intensity of her orgasm. The velvety head of Steve's prick was scant inches from her face. Her mouth. Strong fingers slid over her still-pulsing clit and stroked persuasively. Echoes of her orgasm still washed over her. She was adrift in a sea of decadent feeling. "Open up, Cat." Swallowing in anticipation, she quickly parted her lips and Rick's brother's penis slid smoothly past her teeth. Catherine was awash in sensation. She was no longer able to distinguish the separate strokes of mindless delight. She was trapped between two powerful men who were bringing her body to a rapturous peak, unlike anything she'd ever felt. Her overloaded mind shut down and she gave herself up to the pleasure. Her clit was given no rest but was teasingly stimulated by the throbbing cock sliding in and out of her cunt. Hard male fingers twisted her nipples, shooting sharp bolts of pleasure down to her core, where they were met and amplified by the strokes in her pussy. Her juices were flowing in a torrent, easing the way for the rock-hard prick shuttling in and out. Catherine's own hands still held her breasts, while the rigid flesh her mouth suckled served as a counterbalance to the one now pounding in and out of her slick channel. She was buffeted on a storm of wicked pleasure, thrown this way and that as knowledgeable fingers

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stroked her clit, while a powerful cock plundered her flowing cunt, and another deliciously filled her mouth. A hoarse shout and the bitter taste of salty cum in her mouth was followed rapidly by fingers curling hard into her hip and short, erratic digs of the prick inside her, and warmth filled her pussy. Somehow more fingers found her clit, and gripping, pinching, pressing it, forced her over the edge of the long, dark abyss.

***** "My dearest CThe decision has been made. There is nothing more to be done here, save serve as witness. It is my belief that the restorative qualities of the waters here have been greatly overstated. I do not believe that benefit of any kind is to be gained by the consuming of them by such of those as are afflicted. However, she still sets great store by them and will hear nothing of returning to our home. I have therefore decided that I may no longer ignore my duty to the many good people of the town who rely upon whatever small good I may be able to do them, and will therefore return to my practice. It is my belief that her condition cannot continue as it has for any great length of time. When my colleagues may tell me that her time is imminent, I will return to support her in her time of passing. At the eternal peril of my soul, I find I can no longer bear this estrangement from you, my love. I pray God that He may find it in him to forgive me what I have done. I pray as well that you have not turned away from me, but will be happy in your way to see me and will welcome me back. I know that you are a generous woman and hope with all my heart that this may be true. As always, your loving

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T-" "Who's 'she'?" Steve asked. They were seated under the shade of a huge old maple. The mood was relaxed -- a little giddy, even. Like children who had misbehaved and now waited, anticipating being found out. But completely unrepentant. "His wife." They both looked at him. His brother -- his best friend -- and…how did he classify Catherine? His lover? It sounded so casual and unconnected. Girlfriend? He gave a mental snort at that one. After today, he knew she would be important in his life. But how? "How do you know it's his wife?" Steve pressed. "It doesn't say that anywhere. It could be his mother. Or his favorite old hound dog, for all you know." "No, he's right, Steve," Catherine agreed. "He was married to one woman. But in love with another." Her gaze met Rick's and he could tell that she knew, too. "Here. Read this." Rick produced the last piece of evidence: the piece of newspaper he had found with the letters when he had pried loose the main section of the bar. He watched them bend their heads over the fragile old bit of yellowed newsprint. When he'd read it, everything had fallen into place for him. He knew what had happened. Both from the newspaper article, but even more so from what he'd experienced in the old house. He knew he wouldn't be taking the bar, or anything else, from the historic mansion. Eriksson and Sons wouldn't be responsible for parting her out in bits and pieces. She was a majestic old gal and he'd just have to find some other way to save his business. "The Oro County Times-Picayune. What a wonderful old name." Catherine glanced up at him and smiled a little. If he hadn't experienced it, Rick wasn't sure he'd have believed how quickly she could go from serene to sultry; from fresh-faced girl-next-door to needy sexual submissive, able to bring him to his knees with one whispered cry of surrender.

"San Ramón Opera House Burns." Steve had assumed reading duties when Catherine had taken too long, in his estimation, while she and Rick gazed at each other.

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"The San Ramón Opera House was destroyed by fire Tuesday. Fire officials believe that the fire started in the adjoining stable, belonging to Samuel Hofstedter, and spread from there to the opera house. Five persons were lost battling the blaze, including Oro County's own Dr. Thomas Sorenson. Dr. Sorenson is survived by his wife Jane and daughter Ingrid, 3." "So how do you know Sorenson is the ghost? And does anyone else here feel like they've stepped into an episode of 'Scooby Doo'?" "Not 'the' ghost. One of the ghosts," Catherine replied. Rick noted the discomfort in her eyes and figured it probably came from verbalizing what they'd both felt. He had to admit it sounded pretty strange. But he knew what he'd lived in there. "You're talking about Cat, aren't you?" he asked her. Her eyes got big and her smile made him feel like he'd just found a cure for cancer. "You felt her, too? But how did you know her name?" she said, her voice full of wonder. "Because I felt him. He wanted to come back to her. I felt how much he loved her -how lost he was. He never stopped trying to get back to her." Catherine's eyes roamed his face, her fingers drifted over his lips. "She must have gotten his letter saying he was coming back. But he never did. She waited for him -- she never stopped waiting for him. But why was he lost? Why couldn't he just come back?" Rick looked up. Saw the layers upon layers of leaves above them, the branches they clung to, the way the light filtered through from the late afternoon sun. "Because he was married to someone else. In his own eyes, he thought his God would damn his immortal soul. But he loved Cat, so he risked it. And he accepted the consequences." Trying to hide her welling eyes, Catherine looked away. She wiped her eyes quickly on the sleeve of her sweater before looking back. "So do you think they can rest now? I mean, didn't we sort of -- you know -- bring them together finally?"

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"I don't know, babe. Old Thomas felt pretty frisky to me. I think now that they're finally together, he's going to spend eternity chasing her around the mansion and nailing her ass." Rick laughed a little at the image. Until it morphed into a picture of Catherine and him. He leaned in close, so that Steve wouldn't hear. "So, babe, speaking of…you ever had your ass fucked?" She yanked her head back in shocked surprise, her mouth falling open in a gasp. But then her eyes got smoky and a delicate little smile curled her luscious mouth. "Wouldn't you like to find out?" Rick's answering smile met hers in a kiss. "Come on, doll. We have a few things to discuss. Are you hungry? How do you feel about Chinese food?"

Stephanie Vaughan While always naturally artistic, Stephanie Vaughan did not pursue writing until she was challenged by a friend who thought herself 'too sarcastic and cynical to be a romance heroine.' Stephanie decided to prove her wrong. The floodgates opened and she found herself bombarded by characters demanding their stories be written. A native southern Californian, Stephanie lists her influences as The Marx Brothers, Suzanne Brockmann, Woody Allen, Linda Howard, Dennis Miller, Angela Knight and Ella Fitzgerald. Stephanie still resides in southern California, where she lives with her husband and son, and indulges her passion for great coffee, "nature’s perfect food." Stephanie loves to hear from her fans. You can find her on the web at www.stephanievaughan.com.

***** Read on for a tantalizing glimpse of

A Little Harmless Sex by Melissa Schroeder Coming Soon from Loose Id

A Little Harmless Sex Max parked his sedan behind Anna’s vintage convertible T-bird.

What the hell am I doing here? He knew exactly what he was doing there. Having dinner with his best friend. The girl he’d watched walk her first steps and play flute in her first football halftime. He wasn’t there to seduce the utterly scrumptious woman she’d grown up to be. He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing. Their families were friends, and they’d grown up as sort of unofficial cousins. He’d thought of her as the pudgy little girl with long braids and a mouthful of braces. Until he returned home after his second year of college. She’d lost all the baby fat, developed curves that left his mouth dry and his dick hard, and he’d felt dirty. She had been barely eighteen, and all he could think of was sliding his cock into her round, warm body. Disgusted with himself then and now, he got out of his car, grabbed the bottle of wine he’d brought, and headed up the front path to her house. The sound of hard southern rock drifted through her open windows. A light breeze blew the curtains and brought the sound of her uneven voice to him. He smiled. Anna never could carry a tune. He knocked on her screen door, and she peeked around the corner of her kitchen. Her dark curls were damp with perspiration, as if she’d just had hot, wet sex. Heat singed a path to his cock. She smiled. “Come on in. Just getting the enchiladas in the oven. I think I’ll have to turn on the AC.” He opened the door and stepped into her foyer. As always, the color explosion in her home momentarily stunned him. Why, he didn’t know. Anna surrounded herself with color. Golds, reds, and purples graced every corner of her home. Knick-knacks littered every surface and were outdone in number only by her many framed pictures. Most of which were

pictures of the two of them. The clutter should have driven him crazy, but it was innate to Anna. And for some reason, it just looked right. “Hey, Max, could you shut the windows in the living room?” “No problem.” He set the wine he’d brought on the table in the hallway and went through the process of closing the many windows in the living room and dining room. The scent of cumin, peppers, and onions filled the house. Anna’s steps sounded on the stairs, and he knew she’d run to shut the upstairs windows. He picked up his wine and headed to the kitchen. Anna walked in as he searched for a corkscrew in her kitchen drawers. “Forget the wine tonight, Max.” She moved toward the stove and fussed with the rice. Her skirt brushed the top of his shoe. Anna liked full broomstick skirts with lots of color, and spandex t-shirts one size too small. Like the one she was wearing at the moment. The red fabric cupped each breast tightly. Blood rushed to his groin at the sight of her nipples hardened beneath the spandex. “I told ya we were having margaritas.” Yeah, she had, and that’s why he brought the wine. Anna always got a little wild when tequila and triple sec were involved. And the thought of Anna out of control was too arousing to him. “So, you going to tell me about your big break-up with the writer?” He leaned against the counter as she pulled out her mixer. She rolled her eyes. “Artist, Max. And there isn’t much to tell. He kept talking about moving to Athens, so I gave him a little push. I picked up some strawberries from that little place over in Valdosta where you can pick them right off the plant. Should be wonderful in the margaritas.” She opened the refrigerator and bent at the waist looking for the strawberries. The outline of her ass held him momentarily speechless.

Think, Chandler, think. Get some of the blood back to your brain. “Did you tell your folks?” he asked. She retrieved the strawberries and set them on the counter. “Why would I tell them I found great strawberries for the margaritas?” She padded, barefoot as usual, to her pantry and started pulling out bottles of liquor. “No, I meant about Brett.” “Brad, and no I didn’t. Why would I?” “You broke up with your boyfriend.” “Max, really. Mom and Dad don’t take any of the men I date seriously.” “Neither do you, Anna.” She opened the bottles of margarita mix and liquor and started to work. “Don’t start on me, Max. I’m only twenty-seven. I’m not an old man like you.” “You’re almost twenty-eight. And I’m only four years older than you.” “You were born old.” She began cutting the strawberries and tossing them into the mixer. “Whatcha gonna buy me for my birthday?” He thought about the Beatles’ LP he’d paid a small fortune for, and smiled. “It’s a secret.” This he could handle. Camaraderie was normal for the two of them. He relaxed. “Well, maybe I’ll ply you with liquor and find out all your secrets.” Her smile turned seductive and went straight to his dick.

Jesus, I’m in trouble.

* * * * *

Two hours later, they’d moved from margaritas to straight shots of tequila. Max’s stomach was full of her enchiladas and Spanish rice, and his head spun from tequila and Anna. “You know, I think I know what my problem is with men.” He turned his head, which rested on the back of the sofa, and looked at her sitting closer than he thought. They had both propped their feet on the coffee table, his big size twelves next to her tiny size fives. “How small are you?” he asked. She giggled. “Max, I think you’ve had too much to drink.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. She had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. No hint of another color, just green. Like the lawn behind his home in springtime. No matter how flamboyant her personality, or how seductive she was, there was always a hint of intelligence in her eyes. She licked her lower lip. He followed the movement, entranced by the sight of her tongue flitting out over her fuller bottom lip. His dick hardened as he thought of her using that mouth and tongue on him. “What I was talking about is my problem with men.” “You don’t have problems with men.” In Max’s opinion, men came too easily for her. For a girl who barely dated in high school, she’d made up for lost time. “You date too much.” She collapsed against the arm of the sofa in a fit of giggles. “What you mean is I fuck too many guys. I don’t sleep with all of them, Max. But, on the other hand, I’m not embarrassed by my sexuality.” She poured herself another shot. Lick, drink, suck. He shifted, trying to ease the ache in his balls. Anna leaned back against the multitude of pillows piled on her red sofa. Her dark hair spilled over the vibrant colors. His heart smacked against his chest at the sight of her crooked smile.

“No, I think I figured out that I measure every man against you.” The thought of Anna of measuring men’s dicks with a ruler popped into his tequila soaked brain. “You measure them? And how do you know how big I am?” She stared at him for a moment. Confusion clouded her eyes, then dissolved. Her laughter filled the room. “No, I don’t mean like that,” she said between giggles. “Although you have very large hands. No, I meant by the way they act.” “Oh.” The heat of embarrassment crept up his neck and into his face. “All I know about you in that regard is the way you kiss. And you’re very good.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I guess everyone thinks first kisses are special, though.” The memory he’d tried to shove in the back of his brain pushed forward. Anna, eighteen and dateless, crying over some guy. When she’d told him she’d never even kissed and begged him to, he lost control and gave in to the urge that haunted him for six months. He’d dreamed every night for a month of that kiss and more. “You know, that probably was a mistake,” she said, drawing him out of his memories. “Mistake?” “Yeah, you’re a really good kisser, and then I had to go out with Tommy Reynolds later that month. He couldn’t kiss worth a damn. You’re a tough act to follow.” The laughter faded from her eyes, replaced by something much darker. Desire so potent he felt the singe of it all the way to the soles of his feet. Blood rushed to his groin. Anna leaned closer, her wildflower scent surrounding him, arousing him. She placed her hand on the back of the couch, then lifted her leg over him and straddled his lap. The wet heat of her vagina warmed his dick. He groaned. Her hair slid off her shoulders and brushed his chest, tickled his neck.

His lips were within inches of hers. The only thought that came to mind was taste. She would taste as delicious as a stolen peach. When she spoke, her voice had deepened with arousal; her sweet southern accent curled around him. “So, Max, since you’re so good at kissing, I was wondering how good you were at fucking.”

***** What people are saying about

Melissa Schroeder Melissa Schroeder's Voices Carry grabbed me with the very first line and didn't let go until I'd read it straight through. Voices Carry is a fast-paced read with quick dialogue and characters you can relate to. Melissa Schroeder is on my auto-buy list. -- Rayne Forrest, author of Across Time (Loose Id) Shana and Marcus burn up the pages in this fast-paced story of corporate espionage and damming secrets. Set in a future where people with telepathy are treated with contempt and distrust, Ms. Schroeder weaves a tale filled with smoldering passion. If you like your action hot, you'll love Voices Carry. -- Aubrey Ross, author of Mystic Keepers: Cayenne (Coming Soon from Changeling Press) A compelling blend of spy thriller and futuristic romance, Voices Carry does carry you away! Away into a world where everything is beyond imaginable—including telepathy, technology and romance sweet as sin. -- Daria Karpova, author of Loose Diamonds (Coming Soon from Loose Id)