Risque Behavior

RISQUÉ BEHAVIOR

“I’ll bet a man of your artistic ability…” Tassi paused and looked at the photographer from under her eyelashes. “A talented man like you could create some very risqué poses.” Pierre chuckled, enjoying the slow burn of heat as his cock lengthened. The lady knew how to bend men to her will. Maybe she needed to know he wasn’t as easy to control as the dandy photographer. He pressed closer, positioning a leg between hers so she’d feel the ridge of his erection along her ass. “But you shouldn’t agree if you’re worried this venture is too risky. We can always find another photographer.” He draped an arm over her shoulder and swept a hand toward the curtain where he’d entered. “Tassi, I noticed another studio just up the street.” Her glance over her shoulder was wide-eyed with excitement. “You did? Another one?” Unable to resist, he rocked his hips against her and watched her eyelids dip. Responsive…he liked that. “Maybe we should try it out.” She licked her lips and wiggled her ass in response. Jolts of pleasure shot the length of his cock, and he bit back a groan. What he really wanted was to scoop up this feisty lady, ride to a secluded countryside spot and spend hours fucking her delicious body. He brushed his fingers down her neck and trailed them into the hollow of her breastbone…

ALSO BY LAYLA C HASE Love For Hire Stagecoach Capture

RISQUÉ BEHAVIOR BY LAYLA CHASE

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.amberquill.com

RISQUÉ B EHAVIOR AN AMBER HEAT BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.amberquill.com http://www.amberheat.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2007 by Layla Chase ISBN 978-1-60272-028-2 Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber Layout and Formatting provided by: ElementalAlchemy.com

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Thanks to my daughter, whose purchase of an erotic photography book sparked this idea.

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CHAPTER 1 1866 Near Baltimore Greenery rushed by in a blur as Anastasia urged Blackie ever faster through the tobacco fields of her father’s plantation. The clomping of the mare’s powerful strides thudded on the dirt. She tilted her hips forward, pressing her mons against the heavy fabric of her blue denim skirt, against the hard leather saddle. With each stride, the rhythmic strokes on her pussy tightened her need until the heat and friction intensified and sensations spiraled out of control. Ana grabbed the saddle 1

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horn and tossed back her head, keening her release to the cloudless blue sky, then slumped forward. Blackie slowed to a walk, his sides heaving. When she caught her breath, she turned the horse around and set off at an easy trot. Riding was a poor substitute she knew, but a necessary one. Within moments, she turned down the tree-lined lane toward home—toward Shady Maples, the beloved plantation she’d missed so desperately when Papa banished her to the West, away from the realities of the awful war. She kicked Blackie into a canter and leaned forward. Laughter escaped her lips from the sheer joy of the cool fall air moving through her loosened hair. From this distance, Shady Maples still looked as grand as ever. The three-story mansion stood centered in her sight, solid white columns along the front and topped by a gable roof. Only when she drew closer did the ruin left by the War Between the States become visible. “Whoa, girl.” Slowing the horse to a trot, Anastasia circled to the front steps, her gaze drawn to an unfamiliar Dearborn carriage parked near the entrance. Leather reins held loosely in a hand, she jumped to the ground and turned toward several men lingering in the shade of the porch. “Hey…groom!” A tall figure pushed away from the group and sauntered to where she waited. “Yes, miss?” His familiar bass tones tickled her still-thrumming insides. The fact a white man now served as her groom was yet another reminder of how much life had changed following the War. That didn’t stop her from enjoying the sight before her. 2

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The groom’s dark hair was pulled back in a queue, broad shoulders strained against his white shirt, and brown trousers were stuffed into the tops of his boots. Here was the same man who, on several recent occasions, had driven her through the nearby countryside, while she’d hunted locations to enjoy a favorite pastime, watercolor painting. “Take these.” Making direct eye contact, she shook the reins and tossed them in his general direction. With a deft move, he caught the leather straps and shot her an inquisitive look. His perceptive, dark-eyed gaze skimmed her face and then traveled down her body. “Hard ride?” At his insinuating tone, irritation rose in her chest. Her flushed cheeks and flyaway hair could be attributed to the ride in the fields. Somehow, this man knew different. He turned to stroke Blackie, a frown drawing his brows together when he held out his hand covered with the foam dotting the horse’s flanks. With a shake of his head, he led the mare further along the lane. “This cool-down will take a while.” Anastasia refused to feel guilty. Horses were meant to be ridden, and grooms were meant to tend them. “No more than usual.” With a dismissive wave, she moved toward the steps. As much as she tried to fight the urge, she couldn’t stop herself from gazing at his backside as he walked the horse down the drive. Hard buttocks bunched under the butternut-colored breeches, each step pulling the fabric tight across firm thighs. The driver turned and headed toward her, his strides long 3

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and loose. The walk of a man comfortable in his own body. Anastasia felt that primal urge unwind low in her belly, the twinge that resonated deep inside whenever a confident male was nearby. What was she thinking? She drew her gloved hands into tight fists and glanced at the group of men whose attention now centered on her conversation. This man was part of her father’s staff. With a toss of her head, she spun on her heel. She strode toward the house entrance, pushing aside thoughts of the darkhaired driver. At the top of the steps, she hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. The lack of furniture on the wide veranda still tugged at her heart. Some of her fondest memories were listening to stories while rocking in her mother’s lap. So long ago. In the heavy interior shade, a deep breath and the act of removing her gloves gave her time to calm her emotions. Rapid steps sounded from the hallway and then slowed. “Ah, Miss Dunning.” She gasped and turned to face a thickset man, dark hair graying at the temples. His waistcoat gaped under the pressure of a paunchy gut. “Mr. Gravelle.” Despite the loathing she felt for her father’s friend, a man whose leers always made her stomach crawl, she remembered her manners and dropped a shallow curtsey. With a chuckle, he stepped close and reached for her hand. “My dear, sweet Anastasia.” She sucked in a breath at his too-familiar tone. Using all 4

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her willpower, she didn’t flinch from his damp, doughy touch. “Was your visit with Papa pleasant?” A secretive glint flashed in his watery blue eyes. He bent low and brushed a too-moist kiss on the back of her hand. “More like profitable.” “Yes, Papa does enjoy making deals.” “Oh no, missy, the enjoyment was all mine.” A finger ran along her cheek and a wicked grin quirked one side of his mouth. “Like the enjoyment I anticipate in your lovely company.” At his words, her entire body went rigid. The intimation of what he might mean crept along her skin. She took one step back, away from his distasteful touch, unable to stop the shake of her head. “Ah, I recognize your hesitancy, my dear, but you’ll soon warm to my attentions.” From the waist, he bowed low and then walked down the stairs. A string of tuneless whistles followed his departure. Giving the loathsome man one last glare, Anastasia spun and stomped into the hallway. “Papa, where are you? We need to talk.” With a twist of the cut-glass doorknob, she threw open the parlor door and stuck her head inside, gaze quickly scanning the mismatched settee and chairs. Empty. With determination, she set off across the hardwood foyer to the library and shoved at the heavy, carved door. “Papa!” “No need to bellow like a raging bull, Ana.” Haywood Dunning sat behind his desk, slumped to one side in his chair. He looked up, his gaze running the length of her figure, head 5

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to toe and then back. “Did Gravelle see you like this?” His hand waved in her direction. “Disheveled, and in that awful riding outfit?” A frown twisting his mouth, he shook his head. “Riding astride again, I see.” With quick moves, she tucked in her bunched blouse and tugged at the waist of her denim split skirt. “You agreed I could if I stayed on Shady Maples land.” He huffed out an exasperated breath. “Did you at least take your pistol?” “Right here.” She patted her skirt’s side pocket and the solid weight bumped her thigh. “Sometimes I question my wisdom in having sent you to your sister in Denver.” He stood and paced to the large window. “But my dear Iona would have expected nothing less. I had to keep you safe during the War.” “The War is over, Papa. I’m so tired of hearing about the damned War.” Her father whirled and jammed his fists on his hips. “The War was important, Ana. Many good men died…including your brother.” At the mention of her beloved Titus, her throat went dry. “I know that, Papa. And I lost two cousins. But must we always talk about it? Can’t we talk about life?” “Look around you, girl. The cloud of this War shadows every aspect of our lives.” Anastasia dug a tin box from her pocket, extracted a rolled cigarette and struck a match. She inhaled the calming smoke and, tossing back her head, blew it out toward the high ceiling. 6

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“Your new habit is vulgar.” “Lots of women in Denver smoke.” “This isn’t the wild west, Ana. You’re back in Maryland now.” And back under her father’s thumb. “Why would you complain? You grow acres and acres of the stuff.” “Not enough, not nearly enough.” His expression sobered and he turned back to the window, shoulders slumped. The defeated tone of his voice pierced her heart. She hated when he got maudlin over the way things were. He didn’t see Shady Maples in the same way she did. She stubbed out her cigarette and approached the window, but maintained her distance. “What does that mean?” A shoulder rose and fell. “You saw Gravelle as he left?” The original reason for seeking out her father. “Yes, we met in the foyer, but I didn’t like what he said.” A shiver ran through her at the memory of that man’s repulsive touch. “He hinted he’d be seeing me more in the future.” “Couldn’t be helped.” With a shake, her father dropped his head until his chin rested on his chest. A sense that her life could be changed forever filled her, and she grasped his arm. “What couldn’t be helped, Papa?” “The fields aren’t producing as they have in the past. Not enough workers, and so much destruction.” Her grip tightened. “We’ve discussed this.” He lifted his head and met her gaze. “I’ve not told you everything.” The sadness in his eyes made her breath catch in her chest. 7

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His expression was drawn, like when they’d received the news of Titus’s death at Antietam. “I’m listening.” A callused hand lifted to her tousled hair and patted. “I couldn’t live if I lost Shady Maples.” “What?” Dread grabbed her stomach with a twist, and she clamped her arms tight around her waist. “Lose the plantation? What are you saying?” His gaze hardened and he looked out the window. “Mercer Gravelle came this morning with an offer. I couldn’t say no.” A chill ran over her skin and she shook it off. “What did you do, Papa?” Part of her didn’t want to hear his next words, but her other, more practical side knew she must. “Congratulations, my dear. This morning, you and Mercer became betrothed.” For just a moment, total quiet descended upon the suddenly airless room. Anastasia wavered where she stood, then a roaring filled her head and she clasped her fists. “But Papa, you can’t be serious.” Her mind raced to make sense of what she heard. “He’s old and fat and…damp.” “Ana, you can see how Shady Maples has deteriorated. Tobacco is not as profitable as it once was. His money is what this plantation needs.” “There must be other ways, Papa. Perhaps we cultivate grain for feed or sell as seed. I read where the pioneers traveling west are in desperate need of wheat and corn seed.” Haywood shook his head and then inhaled a long, deep breath. “This shows the error of my ways. I encouraged your involvement in dinnertime conversations about economics and 8

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politics.” “As you should have.” “But not to the point where you think your opinions should override mine.” When he raised his head, his stance had changed. He squared his shoulders and narrowed his gaze. “You will do as I say. And right now, you will go into Baltimore to arrange for an engagement portrait. The driver is waiting outside.” A wry quirk twisting his lips, he turned, hands gripped behind his back and strode to the window. With hands clasped at her waist, she waited for him to look over his shoulder, to grin as he had so often in her youth, and tell her this was all a jest. But he remained turned away and continued staring out the window. Her chin snapped up and she straightened, forcing out her words between clenched lips. “I won’t marry him.” Taking measured steps, she turned and left the library, closing the door with a controlled click. With all her heart, she wanted to dash upstairs to her bedroom and let loose a wash of pity tears. This couldn’t be happening. She would have been better off staying in Denver and accepting the attentions of that rancher who’d favored her. At least, he’d been in good health and owned his own land. Resting her head against the library door, she calmed her racing heart. The solution to her problem would not be found in tears. She had to figure out a way to make the plantation prosper without Gravelle’s money. The shuffle of boots sounded on the bare wooden floor. 9

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“Miss?” At the single word spoken in a deep voice, she rolled her head to the side and glanced toward the entry doors. Silhouetted in a shaft of late-morning light—broad shoulders, lean hips, firm thighs. It was him. Why couldn’t her father have given her hand to someone like this man? Someone she could imagine undressing for and who wouldn’t make her retch every time he touched her skin. “Yes?” “The rig is ready…whenever you are.” Rig? Oh, for her engagement portrait. “Those arrangements have…” The ride into the city would give her the better part of an hour to figure out a plan. “I’ll be out in ten minutes.” His dark head dipped in acknowledgement, and he turned to walk through the door, taking slow steps. That powerful stride was one she could keep on watching. As she dashed up the stairs, her thoughts raced at the idea of sharing a ride to Baltimore with that particular groom. Depending on the carriage he’d chosen, she could have some very interesting scenery.

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CHAPTER 2 Pierre tapped the groomsman cap against his thigh. Waiting on people, especially spoiled rich ladies, was not his favorite pastime. But the War had taken away most of his choices. Only a few of the Gaspard grapevines had survived the devastating invasion of fire, foot soldiers, horses, and the machines of war. A man had to do something to put food in his mouth and build back his resources. The American home for his family’s wine would be rebuilt. It would just take longer than originally planned. Hearing the staccato of heels clicking on the porch, he turned and looked toward the mansion. 11

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Miss Anastasia Dunning stood at the head of the stairs, pulling on white lace gloves. Her summer dress was the color of ripe raspberries and clung to her figure like a second skin. Tight against her rounded breasts, pinched in at her trim waist, then floating over shapely hips. His hands itched to skim over her curves. Shaking his head to dash his fruitless thoughts, he stepped forward and offered his hand. “Would you like the top up, miss?” She slid her fingers into his hand and squeezed as she lifted her boot to the step and climbed into the landau carriage, her skirts bunching in the narrow opening. He caught a glimpse of her shapely calf under white stockings and his groin pulsed. Such intimate thoughts about the boss’s daughter were definitely out of line. After arranging her skirts, she looked up at him, her clear blue eyes clouded with a touch of suspicion. “No, I have my parasol.” With a nod, he moved to close the door, when her hand covered his. “Take your time, groom.” He fought the urge to turn over his hand and explore her dainty fingers. “My name’s Pierre.” A smile tweaked her lips. “I’ll remember that.” As he hopped into the driver’s seat, he dragged in a deep breath. Maybe the lady wasn’t so spoiled. With a snap of the reins, Pierre set the horses into motion. He leaned back, letting his thoughts stray to the fancy lady in the carriage behind him. The road was familiar to both the horses and driver. He held 12

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the reins loosely in his hands, trusting Julep and Ginger to find the way. Several minutes passed as he enjoyed the late September day—a gentle breeze, buzzing of insects, cawing of birds. The smell of fertile soil. He wished for the opportunity to dig his hands into the rich earth on his small plot a few miles north. To plant grape seedlings, nurture them, train their vines onto the trellis. But not this season. Not without money to pay the shipping fees from his family’s vineyard in France. “Gr—, um, Pierre?” The sound of his name startled him. How many times had he driven her on this same route and she’d never spoken? “Yes, miss?” “Have you ever wondered what would happen if one day you just kept driving? If you turned west on the Cumberland Road and drove toward the setting sun?” At the wistful tone in her voice, he glanced over his shoulder. “Actually, I have.” Her face was turned to the side as she watched the passing landscape. His gaze lingered a moment to study her—upturned nose, high cheekbones, creamy skin, pouty lips. “But I didn’t much like the thought of being strung up for stealing your father’s horses.” Her head jerked around and her eyes widened. “Oh, you’re teasing.” Then the skin at the edge of her eyes crinkled as she grinned. “I agree. I’d hate to see such a fine-looking neck marred by a hanging rope.” As she spoke, her gaze dropped to 13

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his neck, to his shoulders and down his back to his ass. The curiosity in her blue-eyed gaze fired something deep inside him, and he faced forward again, his cock rousing to life. Surely he’d placed a meaning in her words that wasn’t intended. Often enough, he’d heard the gossip of young ladies dallying with servants—just because they could. The opportunity had not yet been tossed his way. Since losing his vocation, he’d focused on just surviving. The steady clop of horses’ hoofbeats on the hard-packed road lulled his thoughts. His imagination took over, and he envisioned his passenger standing on the porch at Shady Maples, wearing only white stockings and lace gloves, her young body curving in all the right places, breasts firm and high on her chest, flat stomach leading down to a nest of— “I knew most of the servants before the War…” Her voice trailed off and then she cleared her throat. “Before my visit to my sister Cyrilla’s in Denver. But yours is a new face, and you have such a lovely accent.” With a guilty jerk, he dragged his thoughts under control and shifted on the bench. Each jostle of the carriage shot pleasurable pain to the bulge pressing against his trousers. Affecting a casual air, he looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Needed work after the War.” “You served as a soldier?” Her disbelief whooshed out on a breath. “With that accent, I would have taken you for a recent arrival in America.” Her words “taken you” rang through his head. What he wouldn’t give to have her in that way. Careful not to let that 14

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thought show in his expression, he pressed his lips tight before responding. “In 1860, my brother Etienne and I immigrated to Lower Canada. But the climate was too cold, so we moved south. Bought our land just north of here three years ago.” “My brothers and cousins served. Maybe you met them. The Dunnings, obviously, or the Scarboroughs from Frederick County?” “Don’t know them.” He shook his head and swallowed hard. “Beg your pardon, miss. The War is done and I choose not to speak of it.” “You are so right.” She leaned forward, fingers gripping the seat. “I spoke similar words just this morning to my father. He dwells too much in the past, too much in the old ways.” Her face clouded and she flung herself backward in the seat. The carriage approached the outskirts of the bustling city of Baltimore. Pierre turned his attention to maneuvering among the other carriages and carts. His instructions were to drop the young lady at the Gerhardt Portrait Studio on Elm Street. He clicked his tongue at the horses and steered them to the left. A small hand pressed on his shoulder. “No, don’t take me there.” His skin warmed under her hand, and he forced himself not to react. “Miss, I have my orders.” Her grip tightened. “My name’s Anastasia.” One thing he did know, servants did not call landowners by their given names. “Yes, Miss Dunning. The master said--” “He’s not here, and I want to go somewhere else.” 15

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Pierre scanned the street for another studio. Perhaps he’d mistaken the proprietor’s name. Jeweler, dry goods, banker, milliner. No other portrait painter. “I don’t understand.” “Turn here.” She stood and leaned forward to point the direction. At her movement, the landau rocked. A soft mound above a rigid corset pressed against his arm. The contact lasted for only a few seconds, but his skin heated. Branded by her touch. A flowery scent—lilacs, or maybe violets—wrapped around him. On the narrower side street, he had to focus on the task of driving. “Up ahead. That’s where I want to go.” Pierre reined in the team and glanced at the crudely painted sign over the boardwalk. The store was surrounded with a seedy air. “Clooney’s Photographic Emporium.” She shifted in the carriage and the landau bounced. “Hand me down.” After a quick glance at the storefront, he stepped into the dirt street and rested a hand on the carriage door. “Miss Dunning, I’m not certain about this choice. Perhaps I should take you back to Elm Street.” “This place will do fine…for what I want.” She rested her hand on his and swung open the door, pressing when she levered her body through the opening. “Find a place in the shade to wait.” His hands fisted. Taking orders never sat well, especially not from a slip of a girl. Unable to stop himself, he watched her sashaying form cross the boardwalk and then disappear through the shop door. Each swish of her hips under her skirts 16

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tightened him with need. Maybe he would have to find a spot of shade—to cool himself. *

*

*

Ana stood in front of a waist-high counter in a dim office. On the wall near the window hung what she supposed were framed examples of the studio owner’s work. Her gaze moved quickly over the frames. Stiff poses, dull clothes, serious expressions. One photo in the corner behind the counter caught her attention. A small boy in short pants held up pudgy arms toward a blurred ball, his face alight with expectation. Pure delight. An itch ran up her spine, as if she was being observed. Surely, Pierre had taken her advice and sought shade. In a move intended to be subtle, she glanced over her shoulder and looked out the window. A watchful Pierre remained right where she’d left him. Now he stood with legs braced apart and strong arms crossed over his chest. His broad, muscled chest… Irritation stiffened her posture, and her head whipped around. Where’s the proprietor? A silver bell rested on the counter next to a reservation book and inkwell. She picked it up and shook, listening to the sweet jangle. “One moment, please.” From deeper inside the shop, a man’s voice, faint but pleasant, called out. Determined she would not look to the street again, Ana paced, glancing at all the photos, but her gaze kept returning to 17

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the small boy. Footsteps approached, and the curtain to the back of the office drew to one side. A thin, auburn-haired woman scooted through followed by a tall, blond man. Something about the woman was familiar, and Ana thought she should know the woman’s name, but couldn’t recall it. What piqued her interest more was the handsome, well-dressed man. A dark suit accented his trim body, and his wheat-colored hair was parted in the middle and oiled back. A welcoming smile accompanied the man’s nod. “Miss, I’ll be with you in a moment.” He turned to the other woman and cupped her elbow. “Mrs. Gardner, your photographs will be ready late next week.” “Oh, not until then?” Her shoulders slumped, and she reached a hand to secure the last button at her neckline. “I’ll be sure to return in a week, Mr. Clooney.” Ah, Clarice Gardner. A friend of her Aunt Penelope. Ana thought she detected disappointment in Widow Gardner’s tone. The man ushered out the widow and turned, a wide smile stretching his lips. “Now, what can I do for you, Miss…” “My name is—” Her father’s intent face and Mr. Gravelle’s salacious one flashed through her mind. For what she planned, she couldn’t give her real name. Her gaze slid to the window. “Miss French.” She pressed a hand to her jumpy stomach. “I need an engagement photograph.” “Please accept my heartiest congratulations, Miss French.” 18

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Mr. Clooney extended a hand and clasped hers, his direct gaze meeting hers. “You’ve come to the right place.” Then his light brown gaze searched her face. She was used to men’s gazes, but this man’s was different, probing but impersonal. Part of her wished he would be pleased with what he saw. “May I?” He reached out a hand near her chin and stopped, an eyebrow raised. Uncertain of the propriety involved, she hesitated. Surely he had to figure how to best position her in the light, to achieve the best photograph. She nodded, aware his other hand still held hers. A strong hand grasped her chin and tilted her head one way and then the other. “Ah, a solid jaw and high cheekbones. Good balance.” He spoke in a hushed tone, as if to himself. “Clear eyes, creamy complexion.” Ana closed her eyes and let his softly spoken words flow over her. She’d missed a man’s touch, calloused fingers rubbing her skin. How long since she’d heard a compliment? Her thoughts went to the insolent words of the groom hours earlier, the look in his eye when he’d noted her disheveled appearance. At the thought he’d known the purpose and outcome of her morning ride, she felt tingling in her pussy. All her rides through the countryside since returning from Denver had carried the same goal. His hand moved along her jaw and a thumb ran down the side of her neck. “An elegant neck. We’ll have to display this.” 19

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At his stroke, she shivered but then her eyes popped open. Display? What does he mean? “Engagement picture, you said.” Mr. Clooney’s hand dropped away and he smiled. “I noticed you studying the photography display. Do you have a pose in mind to commemorate this happy occasion?” Ana shook herself from her musings and looked into Mr. Clooney’s inquisitive hazel gaze. What had his words meant? A faint smile touched his lips and he waited. Her fingers fiddled with the string on her reticule. “This engagement isn’t my idea.” Why had she revealed that? “So the lucky gentleman won’t be joining us today?” He moved to the front window and pulled the shade halfway down. “Direct sunlight is bad for the photographs.” Had she imagined a glint in his dark eyes? “No, he most definitely won’t.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “In fact, my father wanted a portrait. But that’s so oldfashioned. I’m more modern than that.” With a tight smile, he nodded. “Of course you are, miss.” He stepped close and turned so they were standing side by side. A hand swept in a broad arc indicating the interior of the shop. “Did you see an individual tone or an arrangement you particularly liked?” Standing this close, she could smell the bay rum aftershave he wore and an unidentifiable odor that must be the chemicals of his profession. Weeks had passed since she’d been this close to a man who wasn’t twice her age and of an acceptable social class. She bit her lower lip, her gaze straying to the one 20

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in the back corner. “Or you could invent your own pose.” His words held a challenge. Her own pose? She turned to gauge his expression, but he’d walked toward the curtain. Her gaze landed on the dusty window and the vague outline of the landau’s wheels at the edge of the boardwalk. No sign of Pierre. So, he had taken her advice. Good—she didn’t need a watchdog. “Shall we get started, Miss French?”

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CHAPTER 3 With a toss of her head, she strode through the curtain into a dim back room. One so different from the austere front entrance. Here were velvet drapes in deep colors, an upholstered settee, potted plants, and a vase with peacock feathers. To one side stood an armoire displaying various clothes. Almost like backstage at the Denver Grand Theater. “Now comes the fun.” He walked to a cluster of equipment, moved a couple of pieces and then turned. “Will you be standing or sitting?” Ana walked to the armoire and let her fingers drift over the rich fabrics hanging from hooks and lying on shelves. Satins, 22

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velvets, chiffons. Over her shoulder, she glanced at the backdrop and an image popped into her head of her lying on a Grecian lounge wearing white flowing robes. How strange. “Sitting, I think.” “Okay, there’s the settee or I have several types of chairs.” Thoughts racing about how she would do this, she walked toward him. “I was moved by the photograph in your shop of the small boy. Your child, perhaps?” “Not mine.” Mr. Clooney turned the knob on a gas lamp in a wall sconce and the area brightened. “What aspect did you like most about the pose?” Ana stopped in front of the settee. “The freedom, the simple joy of playfulness you caught on his face.” He pulled the plant closer to the furniture and stood back, hands held in front of him, thumbs and pointers extended to form a three-sided frame he looked through. Although she’d not sat for a photograph before, she assumed he used his fingers to measure the setting. Similar to how she used the handle of her paintbrush to block her subject when she painted. Even from across the room, his stare had the power to make her cheeks flush. A reaction that should seem more wrong. “And you’d like something similar?” He pivoted, arms still extended, the opening in his hands centered on her face. “Something out of the ordinary?” His gaze narrowed as he continued, “Sit on the settee, so I can check the lighting.” Unnerved at the possibilities running through her mind, she sat and faced him. The lights focused in her direction 23

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draped his end of the studio in shadow. “Make yourself comfortable. Will you want your reticule in the pose?” His voice came from the darkness as she heard him moving among the equipment, scooting the camera into position, angling a reflector behind an oil lamp. “Or your gloves?” Excitement bubbled through her as she stripped off her gloves and tossed them to a nearby chair. Did she dare present her father with the photograph of her choice? One that showed how she truly felt about his rules? “Tell me how this works.” “Several possibilities. You decide how you’ll pose or you give yourself over to my direction,” his voice quieted, “or we work together to achieve your preference.” “Do I have to remain still?” “Not for as long as sitting for a painting. I need a bit of time for exposure. Between shots, when I moisten the glass plates and reload the flash powder, you can move.” How did she want the pose to look? She stood and moved around the settee, scrutinizing the area. Her gaze skittered to the armoire. The kaleidoscope of colors sparked an idea. “May I use those clothes?” “Of course. The screen will provide privacy while you change.” “I won’t need that.” She walked across the floor, filled her arms with several dresses then returned to the settee. With careless tosses, she flung them over the furniture and then moved around to the backside and waited. “That’s what you want? A pile of clothing?” 24

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“Not exactly.” She leaned down, resting her elbows on the wooden settee back and tilted her head, allowing her gaze to focus on the array of clothes. “I want this.” A chuckle sounded followed by the shuffle of shoes on the hardwood floor. “Ah, I see.” He moved forward and rested a knee on the cushion. “May I suggest…” Wary but excited at his intense attention, she held herself still. “You may.” “Why not move this hand to your chin?” His hand trailed from her elbow to her hand and lifted it to her chin. “To aid the look of indecision.” The man was perceptive, even if his touch lingered seconds too long. She adjusted her fingers along her jaw and quirked an eyebrow. “How’s that?” “Wonderful.” Eyes squinting, he stepped back. “Tilt your head to the left…a little more. Beautiful.” A lamp stand scraped on the floor. “Now, take a deep breath and hold still.” As she did, she felt the constraint of the dress’s neckline and realized how much of her cleavage was exposed. Instinctively, she stiffened and almost straightened. “The pose is just as you wish, Miss French. Saucy and daring.” His fervent words held a note of excitement and bolstered her hesitancy. With exquisite tension, her nipples puckered inside her camisole, pearly buds pressing against a stiff corset. Pleasure rolled over her and she sighed. “That’s perfect.” A sharp click sounded. “Great expression. Take another deep breath. Deeper, now hold.” 25

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Through parted lips, she inhaled, enjoying the delicious friction sending jolts of delight through her breasts. Brightness flared and light stabbed her eyes. Ana blinked, then let out her breath. No turning back. Her insolence would be captured for posterity. An unknown tension built inside her and she slowly straightened. Defiance was exciting. “Now”—Mr. Clooney stepped into the circle of light, eyebrows raised—“for something a bit more personal?” Could he know? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He chuckled and stepped close until only the width of the settee’s cushions separated them. “Now, Miss French, if you’d wanted a standard pose, you’d have done like your daddy ordered.” Deep and rich, his voice cajoled and tempted, a tone meant to inspire confidences. The man was right. She had come here because she’d wanted to cross her father. Had she gone far enough to demonstrate her true feelings about the engagement? “Maybe I would like another pose.” Reticule in hand, she dug inside for her tin box and pulled out a cigarette. With quick steps, she moved around the end of the settee and approached the photographer. “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke.” Sitting on top of the strewn dresses, she leaned back against the rounded armrest and angled her head. “Perhaps a profile shot?” “Perhaps.” He stepped back, sighting through his squaredoff hands. “Pull one leg onto the settee.” From the corner of her eye, she watched as he stepped back and then came closer, squinting as his framed hands 26

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moved over her pose. She eased her left leg onto the settee and then immediately worried about getting dirt on the dresses. “But my shoe…” Before she could set her foot back on the floor, he stopped her. “Don’t break the pose.” A large hand circled her ankle and his fingers worked at the laces. “Let me.” Within a few moments, her shoe thumped to the floor and his fingers cradled her ankle. “You intended a straight leg, like this?” He extended her leg, one hand running the length of her calf, and gently rested it on the cushion. At his touch, her heart sped. Her thin stockings offered no barrier to the heat of his large hand. She could only nod in response. Again, she admonished herself that his actions meant nothing personal. But she couldn’t help her instinctive female reaction to being touched by a handsome man. “What if you raise your knee?” He scooted his fingers under her left knee and around her ankle, pulling her leg into a crooked position. His gaze ran over her body. “Ah, good. Rest your wrist on that knee.” His approving voice and lingering touch registered his involvement with the process. A trembling started deep inside, and she moved to do his bidding. After placing her right hand as he instructed, she turned to gauge his opinion. “Don’t turn, look toward the armoire. Your profile shows your aloofness.” She faced the wall, but then couldn’t see him. “I want the cigarette lit.” “We’ll get to that.” Now his voice came behind her. “Lean 27

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forward.” His hand inched along her shoulder to the middle of her back. In an instant, her skin heated. With her left hand braced on the settee, she inched forward and felt a pillow slide against her back. When she reclined, her back sunk into feathery softness. “Ah, I like that.” “You look twisted.” His fingers cupped her elbow and pulled gently. “Switch arms and let this hand rest on the cushion or your stomach, whatever is comfortable.” At his touch, she relaxed her arm and allowed him to position it. The vision of his fingers running over her bare skin ran through her mind, and a slow heat flushed through her veins. She pressed a hand to the swirling at the pit of her belly. What about this intimate setting eased her caution, made her carefree? “Good choice.” His words were whispered and spoken from close by. “A natural pose.” A soft touch of his fingers brushed on the back of her hand. The intimacy of the situation hit, and an ache started low in her belly. “T-the cigarette?” She had to force out the words through a suddenly dry mouth. “Lay your left wrist on your knee.” She did and felt the cigarette eased from her right hand. The scratch of a match sounded and her gaze sought out the source. She watched as Mr. Clooney took a long puff to light the cigarette and then replaced it between her fingers. As he blew out the smoke, his gaze met hers for only a second. Then he winked. In the next second, he’d disappeared 28

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into the shadows behind the camera. Scrapes and clacks sounded. “Head up, drop your right shoulder a bit. How does that feel?” Fighting her natural inclination to turn to answer, she spoke directly to the wall. “My right leg feels awkward. Ladies don’t sit like this.” “Oh, but being a ‘lady’ isn’t the point of this photograph.” His footsteps approached. “Am I right?” She gasped. He knew? The immediate shock over his encouraging statement passed, replaced by a feeling that was deliciously wicked. But then, the man didn’t make a living unless he sold photographs. She pulled up her other leg and brought the cigarette to her mouth. “Good, very good.” Hearing his husky voice, she glanced to the side and saw him gazing at her figure with a hungry look. Before she could form a pointed reply, her body reacted, pussy clenching and dewy drops wetting her womanly curls. “Don’t you want this to be shocking? “Um, that’s what I want, but…” “Miss French, you’re a bold woman, and a beautiful one. Let me help you show your beauty.” Heart racing, she turned her head to stare. His words insinuated…what? “State your meaning, sir.” “Miss French, coyness doesn’t suit you.” He fiddled with a lamp stand and then gazed at her from lowered brows, a grin spreading over his lips. At the heat in his direct stare, she pressed her thighs 29

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together, excitement pooling in her belly. Did she dare? Somehow knowing what he meant, she scooted her skirt toward her hips, exposing her calves. This man thought she was beautiful? With a trembling hand, she pressed the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. Months had passed since she’d heard a compliment of that manner. His eyes flared and he moved close, a hand hovering over the hem of her skirt. “May I?” “Depends on what you are asking.” Her heart raced. His gaze ran down her exposed calves and he swallowed hard. “To arrange your skirts more artfully. Because, for a lady such as you, this must be done in good taste.” Gentle fingers trailed up her leg to her knee. At the sensations his fingers created, Ana shivered. Her body was hungry for the passion she hadn’t tasted in months. Horsebacks rides didn’t count. If her father only knew about the wild habits she’d acquired in Denver, he’d pack her off to a convent. Cyrilla hadn’t been able to stand up to Ana’s rebellious streak. Something in the illicitness of her pose and the seduction in his voice made her feel reckless. She jutted out her chin and lifted her chest. “Hold that pose.” He stepped out of sight. “Your expression is bold, exciting.” Tossing back her head, she pressed the cigarette to her lips, excitement racing through her body at his encouraging tone. “That’s wonderful.” The flash powder flared. “Ah, a lady anticipating her next escapade. I wonder…” His tone spoke of 30

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new possibilities. The smell of sulfur tickled her nostrils. “Wonder what?” “I’m not sure of the appropriateness of my discussing this.” “Who’s being coy now, sir?” He remained in the shadows as he spoke. “I have a client who likes photographs of ladies in, shall we say, various stages of dishabille?” “Naked?” Despite the shocking idea, a thrill ran through her, raising goose flesh on her skin and pebbling her nipples. “Not totally naked, just exposed. All done tastefully, of course.” Clicks and clanks sounded as he moved among his equipment. “Did I mention he’s a rich client?” Rich? She turned, her gaze searching for him behind the lights. If she could provide Papa with money for Shady Maples, he might forget about the betrothal to Mr. Gravelle. This could be a way to earn her freedom. “How much?” “One hundred dollars.” That much? She gasped and then spoke on a whoosh of expelled breath. “For one photograph?” Her disbelief was relayed in those three words. More clanking sounds. “This client enjoys the progression of disrobing. The more you remove, the higher the fee.” “Come into the light.” She leaned an elbow into the settee arm and waited until she could see his eyes. “What’s my guarantee of being paid?” Suppressing a smile, Clooney jerked a finger over his shoulder. “Got a locked strongbox. You’d walk out of here 31

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today with cash.” Cash in her hand…today. She bit her lip and slanted a glance at the photographer. Did she trust what he said? The memory of the widow’s exit from the shop flashed through her mind. No money had changed hands. But would he have truly asked the widow to pose in a similar way? “Before I change my mind…tell me what to do.” He grinned and approached the settee. “How about a threepose progression? Maybe standing by the armoire, as if you are undressing for the night?” Before she lost her nerve, Ana moved quickly, her stomach knotting with anticipation. All she could think about was the three hundred dollars she would present to her father. Forget the strangeness of this situation, forget her nervousness, forget the shocking nature of what she was about to do. Buying her freedom had to be the important consideration. Clooney pulled a chair next to the armoire. “Start by setting your foot on the chair and rolling down your stockings.” She lifted her foot, hiked up her skirts to her knee and reached to slide off her garters. “No, angle your body.” Her movements stilled. “What do you mean?” Confused, she looked up and caught the flare of his nostrils as he watched her hands. Clooney’s gaze met hers, then he moved behind her and grasped her hips. “Step sideways, so you’re more or less facing the camera.” 32

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At his unexpected touch and in such an intimate manner, she stiffened, then relaxed and slid her feet along the floor. “You’re tense.” His hands forced her hips to move sideways. “Where’s that carefree attitude you had earlier?” “Then I was only being defiant, but I was still fully clothed.” Thoughts racing, she sucked in a deep breath. “That’s different from revealing bare skin.” “Now, now.” He pressed against her back, hands reaching around her body to massage her arms. “Relax. Think of me as an artist. Women have been posing for artists for hundreds of years.” His words whispered close to her ear, puffs of warm breath tickling her neck. “Giambologna, Michelangelo and Bernini. Have you seen art books with photographs of their works? Exquisite depictions of nude forms.” “Ah, the artistic value.” The warmth of his body and the soothing touch on her arms lulled away her nerves. “You’re right, Mr. Clooney.” “Now that we’re more intimate, call me Nyles.” Her posing continued an age-old tradition. She leaned back against him, enjoying the soft persuasion of his argument. If artists didn’t have models, how could they create art? Her poses would be tasteful and naughty, but not lurid. Both of his hands slid up her arms and then circled her waist, thumbs running up and down her spine. “If you lean over like this…” One hand strayed around her rib cage. “Your sumptuous bosom will be in perfect line—” Sumptuous? That sounded more personal than artistic. Uneasiness swept through her, and she tensed. “I understand.” 33

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Standing in a provocative pose was one thing, but having him talking about the act and her body in that way was something altogether different. What had started as a daring adventure now felt dangerous and out of control. She tried to shrug off his weight, but couldn’t budge him. “You can move back now.” “But your body is tense again. I have the solution. Think of my hand as a gentle breeze, skimming over your body.” His hand cupped the underside of her breast and squeezed. The other delved into the fullness of her skirts below her stomach, fingers digging through the fabric. For an instant, the weight of his hand on her breast felt divine. She closed her eyes to focus on the heady sensation. Her breasts instinctively responded, nipples popping into tight buds. Through the folds of her skirt, his fingers pressed along her abdomen, seeking her mons. But when he leaned over her, she felt a hard ridge press through her skirts against her buttocks. Uh-oh. This had gone too far. Her body stiffened. “Mr. Clooney, I know what you want.” The scrape of boots on the floor sounded. “What in damnation is going on?”

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CHAPTER 4 The intimate scene before Pierre’s eyes made his blood boil. For more than one reason. During the past few minutes, he’d been listening from the other side of the curtain. The names of sculptors…artistic value… and why the young miss should relax. When the guy started describing her curvy body in detail, Pierre’s cock roused to life. As images of Miss Dunning’s generous bosom crossed his mind, he’d forced himself to ignore the throbbing at the front of his trousers. At this moment, the sight of her rounded breasts and her exposed leg wasn’t lessening his arousal any. The thin man straightened out an arm and pointed. 35

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“Whoever you are, this is a private session. Get out.” With clenched hands, Pierre advanced into the circle of light. “I don’t think so.” “Wait.” Anastasia tossed her skirts over her exposed leg. “Nyles, uh, Mr. Clooney, this is my driver.” Clooney pulled back his shoulders and tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, his brows furrowed. “Well, servants have no business here in the studio.” His lips curled down in disdain. “Au contraire. My business is Miss D—” “Pierre!” Determination set on her features, she bustled across the floor, hands outstretched. “You’ve arrived at the right moment.” Confused at her use of his Christian name, he tore his gaze from the challenge in the over-dressed dandy’s eyes and focused on her wide blue ones. The sight of her flushed cheeks and the strained edge to her voice raised his protective instincts. He clasped her extended hands and pulled her close, searching her face for any signs of distress. “Are you all right?” “Don’t ruin this opportunity,” she whispered. “Place a hand on my cheek and smile.” Was this some kind of rich person’s game? Irritation clenched his jaw and his gaze slashed to the side. “Don’t look over there.” Her voice cooed. “Look at me.” When he did, tightness invaded his chest. For months, he’d admired her from afar, never dreaming of a chance to be this close. To be allowed to touch. Pierre raised a hand and cupped her jaw, his thumb grazing over the smoothness of her cheek. 36

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He forced his mouth into a smile but that was only for appearances. He wanted answers. “What is occurring here?” “Mr. Clooney pays well for naughty poses.” An impish smile appeared. “I’m going to earn my freedom.” At the word naughty, his body stiffened and his narrowed gaze shot across the room. His first instinct was to smash in the dandy’s face. His next was to get her out of this place. “The hell you are.” He wrapped his other hand around her upper arm. This was no place for a young lady of her position. Her arm stiffened against his hold, and her eyes flared. She pressed a hand to his chest, smoothing it up to his neck. “Don’t be stubborn, Pierre.” A tight smile stretched her lips. “Now listen. No matter what, I’m doing this, but if you stay, I’ll feel safer.” Her words were spoken low and hurried. At her touch, he relaxed and took a deep breath. His hand slid from her arm to her shoulder, fingers rubbing against the lace edging of her dress. “How can you do this?” “How can I not?” She stretched to brush a soft kiss on his jaw and then whispered, “He’s offering one hundred dollars a pose. Cash.” The sweet scent of violets tickled his nose. The warmth of her cheek against his own made him hungry for more of her touch. His fingers circled her slender neck and a thumb ran along the pulse jumping just under her skin. So, she wasn’t as in control as she appeared. “Did this guy hurt you?” Her gaze flicked to the side and back. “No. I’m just nervous.” “Excuse me, Miss French?” Clooney approached from 37

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across the studio. Ana’s eyes rounded. She sucked in a breath and turned her head. “Yes?” French? Smart of her to have given a false name. Probably why she’d interrupted him when he’d first entered. Using her real name would have divulged her identity. He couldn’t stop his fingers from their exploration of her smooth skin. Too soon, this would end, and he wanted to enjoy the sensation. “Will you be continuing the session?” For a moment, Clooney looked at him, narrowing his gaze at their pose and then directed his gaze back at her. Pierre dropped a hand to her waist and tucked Anastasia against his side. Funny how he’d so quickly gotten use to her given name. As if their relationship had become more equal. But he’d have to think of another, a special name to keep her identity secret. For a moment, she held herself stiff, then softened against him. “I will be. And I want Pierre to stay.” “No.” Clooney shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t work with an audience.” Pierre bit back a snort. Of course, the scum didn’t. With another person present, the photographer couldn’t grope unsuspecting women. “I’m not leaving Tassi here alone.” “Good enough.” With a sharp nod, Clooney turned and moved to a table stacked with trays and bottles. “Miss French, I’m sure you’ll be happy with the photographs we’ve finished.” He turned his attention to adjusting his equipment. She whirled to face him, eyes shooting blue fire. Her lips 38

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mouthed, Tassi? Oh, this was going to be fun, and he intended to enjoy every second. Unwilling to give up this closeness, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m keeping up your pretense. You’re the one who provided the man with a fake name first.” Angling his head, he captured her lips, running his tongue along the seam, nibbling at her full bottom lip and then released her. He braced himself for the slap due his arrogance. When she sagged against his chest, he ran his tongue over his lips. Just as sweet as he’d imagined. Quick, warm breaths puffed on his neck before she spoke. “I can’t let him show us the door. Maybe if he knows you’re just outside, in the storefront, his thoughts won’t go in the direction they were headed.” He fought his body’s instinctive response to her curves pressed against him. “By what I overhead and saw, more than his thoughts were involved.” That protective streak was back and his hands clenched on her shoulders. He hated the memory of seeing the dandy’s body pressed against hers. If she needed someone to help with the poses, why not him? “I need this money.” Her clenched fist landed in the middle of his chest. The desperation in her tone hit him hard. He knew that feeling…merde, he’d lived that feeling. Released from a southern prison hospital at the end of the War, with his shoulder barely healed, he’d trekked north from Charleston only to find his vineyard in ruins. 39

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A metallic click shook him back to the present, and he glanced toward Clooney. Although his fingers fiddled with pieces of the camera, the photographer’s gaze was centered on the pair. Tassi’s hand heated his skin, and he turned to search her face. What could possibly make a plantation owner’s daughter this worried over money? He moved them both so his body hid her from the photographer. “First, tell me why.” Her eyes grew glassy and she blinked fast. “So my father won’t make me marry Mr. Gravelle.” A chill went through his veins. Marry? And grant another man the rights of a husband? Gravelle? Today’s visitor with the Dearborn carriage. The older man wouldn’t appreciate her active mind, but probably only lusted after her youthful body. He ran a hand over her silky blonde hair. “That’s why you spoke of riding away? Of leaving?” Eyes brimming, she bit her lower lip and nodded. “You’re convinced this is the only way?” He wiped away a tear trickling down her cheek. The tangible evidence of her desperation triggered his resolve. “Maybe not the only, but this must be the fastest.” “I agree—under one condition.” He leaned forward and kissed her brow, then pulled back to look into her eyes. “You’ll help?” Her eyelids fluttered open and she expelled a breath. “What condition?” Her pursed lips looked so inviting, but he refrained from tasting their sweetness again. Not yet. He needed an answer to his unspoken question. “Explain to Clooney that I must stay. 40

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That your poses will be more convincing with me in the room.” “Convincing?” A frown pulled down her brows. “What do you… Oh, I understand.” She tilted her head, and a finger rose to her chin and tapped. “Pretend we’re lovers. That’s a great idea.” Lovers? At the intimate word, the blood left his head and headed south. In his trousers, his cock swelled. “Nyles”—she stepped toward the camera set-up—“I understand what you said about an audience. I’m a painter and I can respect your artistic needs.” What was she doing? “Tassi, I didn’t—” Pierre spun and grabbed for her arm, but she eluded his grasp. “That’s right, and I won’t change my policy.” “You don’t have to. Pierre won’t be the audience.” She turned and smiled, then extended a hand. “He’ll be a participant.” Damnation. She’d actually said the words. He shot a glance at the photographer, ready to scuttle her away before Clooney tossed them into the street. “Tassi, you misunderstood.” “No, I didn’t, Pierre.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and held tight. With a cajoling smile, she faced the photographer. “Why not use both of us in the poses? Have us move together as lovers?” Clooney shook his head. “I don’t think so. My client has only purchased pictures of ladies.” “But you haven’t had this opportunity before, right?” Her 41

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voice purred the words. Pierre’s thoughts ran to the actions involved in what she was saying. She wanted them to disrobe and caress and kiss each other, while this man took photographs. Personally, he wouldn’t give a second thought to being seen without his clothes. His upbringing had involved nude swimming, and his family had been open and accepting about the beauty of the human form. “Well, no. B-but—” The photographer’s gaze flicked between them. “I’m betting he’d like to see a man and woman together, to be a voyeur when the man caresses the woman’s skin.” After a quick connection with his gaze, she tightened her grip on his right hand and raised it to her stomach. “To see another man’s hand on her body.” Damn, this lady was full of surprises. The position twisted his arm, so he stepped behind her and placed both hands at her waist. With slow strokes, he inched his left hand toward her breast. His heart beat faster. “Let your client’s imagination run wild. Let him pretend he’s actually the man, and not Pierre, who is untying the laces on my corset.” She paused and sucked in a breath. “With two, the actions take on a more sensual realism. Don’t you agree, Pierre?” The catch in her breathing meant she was as involved as he. Sensual realism? Not sure about that one. His thoughts were back at the idea of untying her corset laces. “Uh, Clooney, this might open a whole new market.” He ran the tip 42

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of his thumb along the underside of her breast. Clooney’s gaze followed the movement of Pierre’s hand. His eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. “You think so?” He dragged his gaze up to her face, then grasped his chin and ran his finger and thumb along the jaw line. “I’m not that sure.” “I’ll bet a man of your artistic ability…” Tassi paused and looked at the photographer from under her eyelashes. “A talented man like you could create some very risqué poses.” Pierre chuckled, enjoying the slow burn of heat as his cock lengthened. The lady knew how to bend men to her will. Maybe she needed to know he wasn’t as easy to control as the dandy photographer. He pressed closer, positioning a leg between hers so she’d feel the ridge of his erection along her ass. “But you shouldn’t agree if you’re worried this venture is too risky. We can always find another photographer.” He draped an arm over her shoulder and swept a hand toward the curtain where he’d entered. “Tassi, I noticed another studio just up the street.” Her glance over her shoulder was wide-eyed with excitement. “You did? Another one?” Unable to resist, he rocked his hips against her and watched her eyelids dip. Responsive…he liked that. “Maybe we should try it out.” She licked her lips and wiggled her ass in response. Jolts of pleasure shot the length of his cock, and he bit back a groan. What he really wanted was to scoop up this feisty lady, ride to a secluded countryside spot and spend hours fucking her delicious body. He brushed his fingers down 43

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her neck and trailed them into the hollow of her breastbone. She sucked in a breath and dropped her head to rest on his shoulder. “No, don’t go. What you’ve suggested presents a different situation than I’d anticipated.” Clooney paced away a few steps, a hand rubbing his forehead. He spoke in a low voice, as if weighing the possibilities. “The idea of an interaction between a couple is intriguing. Added interest is the forbidden nature of their relationship. Lady of substance and her driver. She’s spoken for, he has nothing to offer. Impossible because of their class differences. An illicit liaison.” He spun and stalked back. “I’m prepared to offer one hundred fifty dollars a pose.” Pierre didn’t need to be reminded of the realities of the young lady and him. Hearing the photographer outline his reasons for being interested only emphasized the situation’s futility. Each statement diminished his erection. Tassi jammed a hand on her hip. “But there are two of us. I want two hundred.” Clooney’s head shook. “One hundred seventy-five.” “Agreed.” Pierre stuck out his hand and grabbed the photographer’s. As much as he distrusted the dandy, Pierre wanted to strike a bargain. Visions of row beside row of flourishing grapevines settled into his thoughts. Knowing the lady and he had no future together didn’t mean he couldn’t grab a bit of enjoyment from this method of earning back his vineyard. He turned to Tassi, eyebrow lifted in question. “You’re sure?” 44

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She nodded and with a slow wink, she whispered, “I can’t wait.”

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CHAPTER 5 Ana felt the tightening of Pierre’s grip on her hand and followed as he led her into the well-lit end of the studio. Her senses were still on fire from the amorous attentions of this handsome man. Her need for the money had been shared, but why had he agreed? Mr. Clooney stood near the armoire, watching their approach with narrowed gaze. “You…Pierre, move behind Miss French. We’ll start like I had her posed when you barged in. You do remember that pose?” “I remember. But there’s a better one.” At the challenge in Pierre’s tone, Ana gasped and fought against speaking out. This idea wouldn’t work if he battled the 46

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photographer over every decision. Clooney stiffened. “What do you do for a living? Drive a team of horses and muck out stables?” “That’s right, for now. But I’m a man and know what I’d like to see.” He dropped her hand and turned to face her. “If we’re lovers, her hair would be hanging loose.” As he lifted his hands toward her head, his gaze met hers and a dark brow lifted in question. Now, she understood. His intention was to control the action. She looked into dark brown eyes that seduced her and nodded. “We would be at ease with one another.” With deft moves, he undid the clip and pins from her bound hair, tucking them in his shirt pocket. “Comfortable as we disrobe, but not gawking at the other.” “Hmm, I can see that.” Clooney stepped back, his hands extended in a framing position. “The hair…that’s a nice touch. More intimate.” Ana barely noticed the photographer’s movements. Her hair unrolled from its twist and cascaded down her back. “Beautiful hair. So long and thick.” Pierre lifted the crimped tresses and spread them over her shoulders. With long strokes, his fingers scraped along her scalp. Ana leaned into his touch, loving the sensation of his hands in her hair. Deep in her womb, awareness unfurled. She lowered her chin to her chest and felt her hair swing forward. “Good,” he whispered, his hands still moving through her hair. “Keep as much of your face hidden as Clooney will 47

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allow.” His cautionary words cut into the haze of enjoyment that had started the moment he touched her head. His protectiveness touched her heart. Of course, she must obscure her face. Her identity didn’t end with her name. “Pierre, remove your boots.” The mood broke. She jumped at Clooney’s sharp command, her head snapping up and arms wrapping around her stomach. “Hey, it’s all right.” Dark eyes searched hers as his hands moved down her neck to her shoulders. “We can leave right now. Say the word.” He slowly pulled her to his chest. “Sorry.” Her lips pressed into a tight line. “Clooney’s business-like voice made me jump. I’ll be all right.” A soothing hand rubbed circles down her back. “You’re going to be fine. Takes a courageous woman to agree to something like this. I admire that.” She pressed her ear tighter against his shirt. “I like the sound of your voice rumbling in your chest.” “I don’t know what you two are talking about,” Clooney interrupted, “but I need this session to proceed.” Pierre twisted to face the photographer, keeping one hand on her shoulder. “Your impatient orders aren’t helping. Trust me, you’ll get what you’re looking for. Just be ready.” The command in his determined tone washed over her senses. Confident men were exciting and her body responded, breasts swelling and nipples tightening. Muttering in French, he bent over and yanked at the laces 48

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on his boots, then dumped them to one side. He turned back and, with a finger hooked under her chin, tilted her head until their gazes met. “We start now. I want you to forget another man is in the room. Look only at me.” Pierre was an arresting man—high cheekbones, strong nose and solid jaw. In the depths of his dark eyes was a sadness she couldn’t name. Looking only at him would not be hard. She nodded, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. He leaned close and brushed her lips with a gentle kiss, then pulled away to stare into her eyes. “Let my words be your guide.” The kiss had been only a fleeting touch, but her lips pulsed and she craved more. A hand tangled in the fabric of his shirt, holding him near. With a slow movement, he reached a hand behind his head and pulled out the strip of fabric holding back his hair. Dark wavy strands brushed his shoulders. “Unbutton my shirt.” His brusque words demanded action. Her hands rose to the open collar and pushed bone buttons through the eyelets, eager to see every exposed inch of his chest. A light dusting of dark hair accented the broad expanse of his chest. As the opening widened, she spotted the rippled stomach of a hard-working man. Her fingers caressed the skin she could see, thrilling in the prickle of his wiry hair against her tender fingers. “Now the cuffs.” He turned an arm and extended a wrist. As her fingers fumbled over the buttons, her gaze tangled with his and her insides warmed. Pierre made her feel safe, like nothing bad could happen when he was near. Her hands 49

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moved to his other arm, knuckles grazing the front of his trousers. She watched his eyes round and heard a quickly inhaled breath. “Minx.” He whooshed out the single word through clenched teeth. “Now you, turn.” Holding his gaze until the last second, she did as he instructed. With gentle fingers, he lifted her hair and draped it over her right shoulder then started on the row of buttons that extended the length of her back. “Don’t forget.” He brushed a kiss on her exposed neck. “Keep your head tilted to one side.” As each button opened, she felt the brush of his knuckles against her back. By the time he was halfway through, she trembled in anticipation of his hands caressing her bare skin. She wanted to tell him to rip the garment off her body. Through closed eyelids, she saw the flare of the flash powder and stiffened. An instant later, the scent of sulfur reached her nostrils. “Easy, that was just the flash.” Pierre’s fingers stilled on the buttons, and a fingertip ran up her spine. At his touch, a thrill ran over her body. Even through the muslin of her camisole, her skin heated. “Your neck is so graceful.” He cupped hands around her upper arms and pulled her back against his chest. Warm lips pressed against her neck and along the ridge of her shoulders. With alternating tugs, he eased the dress’s neckline down her arms, brushing gentle kisses on her exposed skin. “So smooth, so sweet.” 50

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Her body responded to his touch, her heart to his words. From each place his lips touched, tingles ran down her back. Need pulsed deep in her belly, and she pressed her upper thighs together against the thrum in her pussy. Caught up in the racing of her blood, she tossed her head against his chest, her tresses falling away from her face. “Don’t lean back.” Pierre groaned and spun her partway around. Then he bent close and devoured her mouth in a ravaging kiss. A hand rested on her waist and worked its way up her ribs. For balance, she grabbed his shoulder and returned his kiss with one of her own. Her lips parted and her greedy tongue invaded his mouth, tempting him with short forays and retreats along his teeth. Pierre responded and plunged his tongue past her lips, circling his tongue around hers. His hand molded her breast, fingers massaging the globe, working their way to the tip. Work-roughed fingers rolled and plucked at the nipple. Pleasure spread through Ana’s body and desire stirred in her belly. She shifted her shoulders, rubbing against his hand. “No, no, no.” Ana’s brain registered an annoying interruption, but slid her hand around Pierre’s neck and clung tight. She didn’t want this blissful feeling created by his mouth and fingers to stop. A hand pulled back on her shoulder, but she shrugged it away and tried to wrap her arm around Pierre’s waist. But his body inched away and his grip lessened, until his mouth barely touched hers. 51

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Wanting more of his touch, not less, she moaned and leaned forward. “Hey, will you two stop?” Clooney’s annoyed tone finally broke through the haze of their pleasure. Ana opened her eyes and stared at the man across from her who’d transformed into a marauding warrior from an old legend. Pierre’s chest heaved and the glare he gave Clooney held a steely glint. “What?” “When you’re kissing, there’s nothing in the frame but heads and hair. Not an exciting photograph.” Why hadn’t she noticed earlier how Clooney’s voice grated on her ears? Ana huffed out a long, exasperated breath. “Depends on how long since you’ve been kissed like that.” “The composition is better when a few inches separate your bodies.” Clooney looked between the two of them. “Here, let me demonstrate.” Before she knew he’d moved, Clooney wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his bony chest, their mouths only inches apart. At the sudden movement, her eyes narrowed. She struggled to push against his hold and arched away from his embrace. “Good.” His eyes flashed with satisfaction. “See the tension here. She’s creating conflict against my hold.” How dare Clooney grab her like that. Irritation flowed through Ana, but she could only squirm. His hug had pinned 52

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her arms at her sides. “Hey.” Pierre grabbed Clooney’s arm and pulled him backward. “Keep your instructions to words, or you’ll see some conflict that doesn’t fit inside a frame.” Just as suddenly, Clooney released Ana and stepped back, a wide grin on his lips. “Look at you both. See the fire I’ve created.” Ana admitted that Pierre looked ready to tear Clooney apart. His hair hung across one eye, he still breathed heavily and his hands were drawn into fists. After he’d pulled Clooney off her, he appeared taller and wider, more menacing. Deep inside, her body responded to this warrior. Her blood raced, dewy juices moistened her folds, and her nipples tightened. “Disrobe a bit more.” Clooney circled them, a hand gesticulating as he talked. “Pierre’s shirt has to be removed, and maybe the lady’s dress drops to her waist.” Glaring at the photographer, Pierre shrugged out of his shirt, then walked a few steps away and tossed it toward the settee. When he turned back, his posture was stiff and his expression wary. “Okay, now you, Miss— What am I to call you?” Pierre moved close, his dark gaze forcing Clooney to step back. “Miss French is still fine.” That’s when she saw his scar and her stomach did a flip. Red puckered skin marred the crown of his shoulder. “Oh, no.” With quick steps, she covered the distance separating them and raised a hand toward his shoulder. He flinched and gave her a hard stare, his jaw clenched 53

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tight. The snapping of fingers cut the air. “Exactly what I’m looking for. Miss French, shimmy out of your bodice, then go back to that pose. A lady offering comfort to a wounded soldier. I like it.” Bothered by this pesky interruption, Ana hastily yanked her arms from the sleeves of her dress and let the fabric drop. “I’d hoped to do that.” Pierre’s lips set into a straight line. When she looked into his dark eyes, she saw his uncertainty. “My gesture was not intended as a pose.” Her fingers smoothed over the rough skin. “I’m so sorry.” His hand enclosed hers and held it against his chest, his eyes warming. “Thank you.” Light flashed followed by clanking. “Great, now switch positions, so I can get his scar in the frame.” Under her hand, Pierre tensed, a ripple of hard muscle sliding under taut skin. She moved a hand over his chest, hoping to soothe him. “Don’t let his crassness bother you. The scar is proof of your bravery, that you fought for what you believed in.” His grip tightened and his gaze burned. “Interested in the color of the uniform I wore?” Did she care? Did something like that truly matter? She shook her head. “That’s the past. Remember, I’m looking to the future.” His other hand rose and cupped her jaw. “As am I.” For just a moment, she let her eyelids drift shut and swayed toward him, ready for another of his heated kisses. 54

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“Where’s the tension?” Clooney called out.

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CHAPTER 6 Frustration burned in his chest, and Pierre leaned his forehead against hers. “I swear, I’m going to kill that man.” Her eyelids popped open and a worried blue gaze bore into his. “Don’t you dare. The money, remember? My freedom, your…your reason for doing this.” “Lady, your lips are too tempting.” A sassy grin danced on her lips, working a dimple he’d not seen before. “Then I’ll remove that temptation. Here, untie my corset laces.” Amid a batting of her eyelashes, she turned and presented her back. “Enough talk.” Clooney’s footsteps approached. “Choose a pose.” 56

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Pierre forced his hands to stay loose. But if the photographer so much as looked too long as Tassi’s bared body, he couldn’t guarantee not inflicting harm on the dandy. “Ah, the action Miss French mentioned in her persuasive argument. Here’s a chair.” The sound of scraping wood accompanied his words. “Prop up your foot and be rolling down a stocking as your driver works the laces.” Her body stiffened at the photographer’s words, her head snapping around, blonde hair flying. Pierre laid a hand on her back and glanced at the other man. “Thank you, sir.” Now was the time for calm, and he pressed his lips into a shadow of a smile. “We can finish from here.” He kept his gaze on Clooney until the man disappeared behind the equipment again. To the vibrant lady trembling under his hand, he said, “Take a deep breath and listen. Forget he’s there. After a couple more poses, we’ll be out of here. Maybe in fewer than ten minutes. And we’ll be seven hundred dollars richer.” She looked over her shoulder and nodded. “Be fast.” Words no man liked to hear, but fitting for this particular situation. He watched as she pulled her skirts above her knee and tugged on the top of her stockings. “Ready?” She nodded and her slim fingers tucked the stocking hem into a tiny roll and started it down her thigh. Pierre reacted to the intimacy of her simple act, his cock stirring to life. With quick moves, he untied the corset laces then, working from the top down, loosened them. When the 57

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binding garment moved freely, he tugged it upward. “Tassi, lift your arms.” With a sigh, she straightened and slowly raised them. Her slender arms and flowing hair reminded him of sculptures he’d seen as a young boy in a French museum. But rather than cold marble, the beauty before him was composed of warm, touchable flesh. He pulled the garment over her head and off the tips of her fingers and then tossed it over his shoulder. Circling fingers around her wrists, he slid his hands down her arms, taking his time to enjoy the feel of her smooth skin. Clooney, this is a great pose. Take the photograph. He nuzzled his nose into her violet-scented hair. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his arms around her middle. The weight of her breasts rested on his arm, instantly warming his skin. This time, the light flashed. “That was great,” he whispered into her ear. “One more photograph and we can leave.” Her arms squeezed over his. “Let’s make it memorable.” She shifted to place her other foot on the chair, and her ass pressed backward, brushing against his cock. With deliberate moves, her hands covered his and then raised them to her breasts. Warm mounds filled his hands and he squeezed, kneading the soft flesh. The sensation made him rock hard and he braced his legs apart. God, he wanted this woman and he wanted her now. He raked one hand down her ribs to her waist, shoving at the dress. Too many layers separated their 58

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bodies and he wanted to touch as much of her as he could. “Help me get this off.” “What?” Her voice sounded dazed. “The dress. Are there more buttons?” He dropped to one knee, aware of the painful pull of his trousers against his erection. “Hooks at the waist and lower.” She twisted to watch over her shoulder. “Hurry, Pierre.” He glanced up and saw raw desire in her blue eyes. His fingers fumbled with the small closures, wishing he could tear them apart, but knew restraint was the order here. Finally, he’d opened enough for the waist opening to let the skirts and petticoats drop to the floor. He held up his hand. “Step out of the circle.” The unmistakable tangy scent of an aroused woman teased his nostrils at her movement. He scooped up the fabric and tossed it toward the settee. Before him were the rounded buttocks that had so boldly pressed against his groin earlier. Clasping her hips, he eased her backward until he could rub his nose at the top of her crevice, his thumbs drawing circles as his hands moved over her luscious globes. Her legs trembled. She moaned and sighed his name. When he looked up, he saw her elbow moving at her side and assumed she caressed her own breast. Wanting more, he slowly stood and nestled his cock between those pillowy cheeks, suppressing a low groan that seemed to start at his toes. Why did this woman get to his 59

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heart like no other had? Holding her in place with one hand on her hip, he splayed the other over her stomach and up between her breasts, alternately flicking the hard tip of her nipples with his thumb and pinky. Her hand fell away and she sighed, dropping her head back on his shoulder. “Turn away your head.” Though his body was on fire, he struggled to protect her from the camera’s view. Touching her through her underclothes was not exactly what he wanted. At the back of his mind, he realized the last flash hadn’t happened, so they’d have to take this one step further. “Oh, yes.” Tassi squirmed in his arms, rubbing her body against his, pressing her rounded butt against his aching groin. His blood pumped in his ears and he drew in a deep breath. His control was slipping. With gentle moves, he worked a breast, massaging from the underside to the tip and from the sides. His other hand slid from her hip and slipped under the ribbon tie at her waist. “Oh?” She sucked in a breath. His hand got stuck at the knuckles and he tried to scoot it lower, but the opening wasn’t big enough. Being blocked only increased his resolve—and his desire. He gritted his teeth and pulled out his hand, then pressed it down her abdomen, fingers splayed to touch as much of her body as he could. Caressing the thin fabric covering her belly, he moved his hand lower, until his fingers palmed her mons. She rolled her hips and squeezed her thighs together, trapping his hand. 60

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A delicious trap. One he didn’t try to elude. A finger wiggled through the slit in her underdrawers. Her pussy was wet and ready, her feminine curls moist with honeyed dew. “Inside, Pierre.” At those two words, so filled with need, he almost lost it right then. Knowing Clooney couldn’t see what Pierre touched, he inserted a finger into her tight channel and hissed out a breath in chorus with Tassi’s increasing moans. But he didn’t want the photographer having the satisfaction of sharing any of this lady’s verbal passion. “Tassi, shh.” Her head thrashed on his shoulder, and she moved her hips, pressing against his motion. “Ooooh.” With her free hand, she groped along his hip and grabbed onto his haunch, digging in with her fingers, pulling him closer. “Harder.” Pierre slid in a second finger and rocked his hand, pressing deeper with each stroke. Her wet channel grabbed with rhythmic flexing, and he was seduced by her heat. He swirled his fingers, flicking a thumb over the pearled nub at the top of her hot pussy. When her moans grew louder, he withdrew his fingers, running a finger along her slick folds. Still no flash. What the hell did this guy want to see? Pierre skimmed his hand down her stomach and delved under the hem of her camisole, bringing his fingers into contact with her bare skin. A goal he’d had for so long—and never dreamed would come true. His breath caught in his chest, spreading heat through his body. He rubbed circles on her lean stomach, inching his hand higher then finally he cupped her heavy breast, thumb flicking 61

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at the tight bud of the nipple. If only he could taste her, he’d have almost everything he’d fantasized about. Pressing with his left hip, he angled their bodies, hoping to present a better view of his hand under her camisole. As much as he hated exposing this special moment, he waited for Clooney to preserve this action. Tassi’s hand pushed at the space between their bodies, her hips rocking and rubbing against his erection. If she got her fingers around his rigid cock, he’d be lost. Why wasn’t Clooney taking the damned picture? He looked over his shoulder and spotted the photographer standing at the edge of the lit area, his gaze wide and his mouth hanging open. Also open were his trousers and his hand jerked on his own erect shaft. Anger swelled in his chest, threatening to cut off his air. “Take the damned picture now.” Tassi froze in his arms and leaned her head forward. “What’s wrong?” The truth was not what she needed to hear. He kissed her temple and inserted two fingers into her channel, dragging them out and over the tight nub and plunging them inside again. “Ahh.” She arched, pressing her breast harder against his hand. As soon as the light flashed, Pierre scooped Tassi into his arms and carried her to the settee. He brushed a kiss on her lips pursed in question. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” When he stood, he squared his shoulders and turned to 62

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stalk toward the camera. A flash of light blinded him, but he could locate Clooney by the scrambling sounds. “I know you’re mad, but don’t break the camera.” Pierre blinked hard to clear the dots from his eyes and skirted the tripods. He grabbed the skunk by the arm and propelled him through the curtain. “Get the damned lockbox. I want our money and I want it now, you pervert.” With shaking hands, Clooney dug the key from his pocket and tried to fit it in the lock. “Don’t hurt me. I was taking the photographs like we agreed.” “No one agreed on your silent participation.” Pierre grabbed the key from the cowering man’s trembling hand and wrenched open the lock. “I counted four flashes. That’s seven hundred dollars.” Clooney dug his hand into the box and scooped out a handful of bills. “All I’ve got is five hundred.” “You knew that’s all you had, and you took the last one anyway?” “Mister, if you’d seen the look on your face…” In frustration, Pierre shoved the man toward the door. “I’ll be back for my—our—last two hundred. Now get out and don’t return for thirty minutes.” He shot a glance toward the curtain, thinking of the delectable woman waiting. That might not be long enough. Clooney stumbled forward then turned. “The photographs need processing. They’ll be ruined if I wait longer than that.” He squared his shoulders and pulled at the bottom of his waistcoat. “You can’t kick me out of my own shop.” 63

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The photographer had grown a spine too late. Pierre gripped Clooney’s shoulder. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Let’s say I’m not charging you for that last photograph, the one you took of me alone. That fee serves as the rental of your premises.” With forceful moves he enjoyed, Pierre pushed the dandy out the door and slammed it, jerking the key around in the lock and tossing it on the counter. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he walked across the floor, unbuckling his belt as he walked. For what he had in mind, he didn’t want to waste a second. He pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the studio. Just at the edge of the lit space, he stopped, breath tight in his throat, his cock straining the limits of his trousers. His gaze skimmed over the beautiful sight reclined on the settee. Creamy white skin, honey blonde hair, slender body. Plump breasts tipped with pink aureoles and pointed nipples. She’d removed her clothes and awaited him totally naked. Already tugging his belt from its loops, he stepped into the light. “How’d you know I’d return alone?” Her knee crooked and she ran a foot along her lower leg. A wide smile spread her lips. “I listened at the curtain.” His hands went to his hips. “So, you know Clooney didn’t have the whole sum.” “Don’t talk money. That’s not what I want.” Her gaze skimmed his chest and focused on the front of his trousers. At the end of his control, Pierre clenched his jaw. He wanted her fast and hard, but didn’t know if she was ready for 64

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him. With languid moves, she sat up and drew her legs under her body. Crooking her finger, she beckoned him closer. “Let me help you with those buttons on your trousers.” The sight of her breasts jiggling fired his blood. If he had to endure her gentle touches as she loosened his fly, he’d explode. “I can handle this. What you can do is pull on your stockings and gloves, if you can find them.” *

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She’d just removed her clothes. Why would he want them back on? “My stockings?” “Might be silly…” He slipped loose the first button. “When I saw you on the porch this morning, I had an image of you wearing just those.” “Oh.” Her mouth drew into a shocked moue. “You thought of me naked? How exciting.” She turned and dug into the corner of the settee, pulling out her gloves. Then she scooted to the edge of the settee. “Tassi, forget the stockings.” At his tense words, she glanced over her shoulder and spotted the reddened head of his cock jutting over his halfopened fly. She sucked in a breath and knew her eyes widened. “Okay, no stockings.” His arm swept the area. “Two choices here: sitting on the settee or standing against the wall.” Tilting her head and winking, she pointed at the end of the settee. “A third one is over the settee’s arm.” 65

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“Move, lady.” He groaned. Ana stood and walked the short distance, being sure to put an extra swing in her walk. There on the floor lay her stockings. She quickly bent over, grabbed the pair and pulled them on, adjusting them on her thighs. A rustle of clothes sounded and a metal buckle hit the floor. Then her back warmed from the heat of his skin touching hers, the hard ridge of his cock pressing between her buttocks. “Touch me, Pierre. Like you did before.” Large hands circled from behind and captured her breasts. With his strong fingers massaging the globes, his thumbs tweaked her nipples. “I can’t promise finesse. I’ve been touching your tempting body for too long. I need release.” Tingling sparks shot from the tips of her nipples to the clit in her pussy. She had to touch him, to feel the heat of his flesh. Her hands reached between their bodies, and her fingertips rubbed the length of his cock. “And I’ve been the receiver of your touches. I’m just as primed.” The hand on her shoulder pressed down and she braced her hands on the seat cushion and the back of the settee. Excitement ran over her body, making her skin sensitive to every texture. A hand moved from her hip, tracing the curve of her butt, and fingers slid along her folds. “Ah, still wet.” Pierre positioned his cock at her pussy and probed. At the press of his erection, she sucked in a breath, waiting for her body to accept his girth. This would be a wild ride. “You’re so tight.” His hand stroked up and down her back 66

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and circled round to tweak her nipple. His cock thrust deeper. “Ah, Tassi lady, I hope you’re ready. Because I’m at the end of my control.” In answer, she stiffened her arms and pressed back, accepting more of his cock. With a raspy groan, Pierre thrust deep inside and held still, his hand circling her hipbone. “You all right?” The delicious feeling of being stretched pulsed through her folds. Never had she been filled by such a big cock. Yet her pussy hungered for more. She bit back a moan, wanting to savor this experience. “I’m just waiting.” As if her words were a trigger, his thrusts moved into a rhythm, long strokes that almost filled her, then retreated to the edge of her opening. She tilted her hips, hoping to take more of him inside, to feel his curly hairs tickle her anus, but the angle wasn’t quite right. “I can’t get deep enough.” A groan sounded behind her. “And I want to see your face.” “Later.” Her breathing rasped out in gasps now. “This is all right. Fuck me, Pierre.” A snort of surprise. “Tempting, you hussy. But no.” With a light slap on her ass, he pulled away, his cock releasing with a wet pop. A moment later, the settee creaked. With a sigh, she lifted her head. Not a foot away was his proud cock rising straight up from a nest of dark hairs. She pushed up and scrambled over the settee’s arm, grabbed his shoulders and planted her feet outside his thighs. His gaze focused on her pussy, pupils dilated with lust and 67

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nostrils flaring at her musky scent. His hands ran up her stocking-clad legs. She shivered, regret running through her. If they had more time, she might tease him by moving her pussy close to his face or rubbing along his hair-bristled thigh. Instead, she lowered herself straight onto his shaft and whooshed out a breath. “Yes, I have been waiting for this feeling for so long.” “An hour is so long?” Infusing her gaze with all the passion she felt, she stared into his dark eyes. “I’ve wanted you longer than just today, Pierre Gaspard.” Eyes wide in surprise, he thrust upward, holding her in place. “You know my full name?” “You’re who I’m thinking of during my rides on Blackie. Ah.” She circled her hips on his shaft and bit her lower lip, the pleasure spiraling low in her belly. “I’m close. Just a bit more…” His hands circled her hips and guided her movements, up and down along his cock. Faster, harder. Their words stopped and their bodies took over, moving in a lover’s harmony and with a rhythm that gathered strength. Fingers caressed nipples, tongues licked skin, lips nibbled and kissed, until they groaned aloud in mutual satisfaction and exhaled sated breaths. Drained of energy, they fell sideways on the settee and lazily stroked each other. Ana couldn’t remember feeling so content—ever. Her mind couldn’t think of anything outside this room—just the feel of his body and the scent of leather 68

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and male skin. Fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head close. Pierre’s lips brushed over hers, his tongue outlining her mouth. “We really do have to put on our clothes and leave.” “Not yet.” Her hand tightened on his arm. She felt protected in his embrace. Being with this man was too special to end so soon. “Clooney will need his shop.” “Hmm?” She propped a fist on his chest and rested her chin on it, her gaze perusing the handsome man at her side. Parts of her body still throbbed, but she wanted him again. What had he said? Clooney…shop? “Oh, I want to see the money. Where is it?” Pierre clasped her arms and lifted her up so he could swing his legs over the cushion. “Dress first and then I’ll give you your portion.” A thrill ran through her at his commanding tone. Deep inside, she loved the feeling, but wasn’t about to let him know that. “You’re issuing orders?” He stood, arms over his muscled chest and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Fine, I’m dressing.” The man might not know it yet, but he was all hers. With a secret smile, she stood and looked around for her clothes. The next few minutes were filled with a frenzy of fastening buttons, setting hooks, tying laces. Ana retrieved her hairpins and clip and twisted up her hair as best as she could. As promised, Pierre shared the photograph money. Once they 69

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were presentable for public viewing, they strode arm in arm out the door, leaving the shop unlocked. Ana squeezed Pierre’s hand as he helped her into the landau, being sure to drag a finger down the center of his palm when she loosened her hold. His dark gaze heated and his lips pressed into a tight line. Then he stepped back and inclined his head in a show of respect. She left her gaze drift below his belt and saw the ridge bulging under his trousers. This forbidden passion was highly arousing. No words of promise had been spoken, but she knew a bond existed. Pierre climbed into the front seat and untied the reins. With ceremony for anyone within hearing range, he looked over his shoulder, doffed his cap and asked, “Back to Shady Maples, miss?” Through half-closed eyes, she gave his body a slow perusal. “Not if I find a better spot sooner.”

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LAYLA CHASE

Layla Chase writes contemporary stories as well as historicals and is published in short romantic fiction. Years spent in the business world prompted her to seek out her more creative side. There, she discovered all sorts of characters whose stories she needed to share. A native of California, she now lives in Texas with her husband and the youngest of her three children. *

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stagecoach flares into a rousing night of passion in which she loses a little bit of her heart. The following day, when the stagecoach is robbed and the women kidnapped, Jazzy is crushed at leaving a beaten Slade behind. Planning an escape against huge odds is tough, but confessing her past to a respectable man like Slade is almost impossible. And Slade must also make a decision that could change his life—capturing the bandits, or saving Jazzy…a choice between his duty and his heart.

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