Seasonal Wind

SEASONAL WIND Charlotte Boyett-Compo SEASONAL WIND By Charlotte Boyett-Compo 1 SEASONAL WIND Charlotte Boyett-Com...

Author: Boyett-Compo Charlotte

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SEASONAL WIND

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

SEASONAL WIND By


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SEASONAL WIND


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© copyright October 2007, Charlotte Boyett-Compo Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright October 2007 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

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Prologue He was prime beef and every woman whose hungry eyes were following him as he stalked through the room damned well knew it. Broad shoulders stretched a sweat dampened blue chambray shirt left unbuttoned halfway down to reveal a chest covered in curly dark hair. Long shirt sleeves had been rolled carelessly up to the elbows to display thick forearms that tapered to very capable looking hands with long, slender fingers. A hard, tight ass that seemed to be begging to be cupped shifted spectacularly beneath tight faded jeans that pulled across muscular thighs, his silver Concho belt buckle shifting back and forth as he strode. Amber eyes flashed hot as lightning one moment then glacial cold the next in a face that was knock-dead gorgeous with sensual full lips, a finely chiseled nose, and one helluva strong chin with a deep, sexy cleft. Add thick brown hair worn unfashionably long beneath a black Stetson with silver conchos and a silver hoop in a perfectly formed left ear and you had the recipe for one fine piece of mouthwatering eye candy. There wasn't a single diabetic among the women watching him strut his stuff and only one among them who didn't want a taste of his special kind of sweetness. "Uh, oh," Beverly Shannon whispered to the woman sitting across from her. "He looks meaner than a junk yard dog today." "Who?" the other woman inquired as she speared a shrimp. "You know who," Beverly whispered. Storm Landers glanced up from her shrimp cocktail and frowned when she saw who was bearing down on her. “Ah, shit," she hissed. "Who told him I was here?" Stopping beside Storm's chair, the Adonis in jeans slapped a document down on her table—his tanned flesh in sharp contrast to the white linen tablecloth as he leaned toward her. "What the hell is this?" he demanded. "You suddenly lose the ability to read, Wyndan?" Storm asked, lifting her head to give her unwanted visitor a disdainful look. Wynd Landers narrowed his eyes to thin slits, a muscle working in his lean jaw. His fingers flexed on the paper as he snatched it up to crumple it. Coming to his full six foot two inch height, he tore the document down the middle before tearing it twice more before contemptuously tossing the pieces on the table. "That's what I think of your goddamned divorce papers, Storm," he growled. "I have no intention of signing them." Storm shrugged. "It doesn't matter whether you do or not. If I need to make a trip down to the Dominican Republic, I will." She locked stares with him. "I'm sure Drake will be happy to fly me there." A collective gasp shot through the room and every ear became primed to hear what Wynd Landers’ response to his wife's challenge would be. Breaths were held, waiting for the explosion.

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With a hiss of unsuppressed fury, Wynd grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it. China, crystal, and silverware went flying, crashing to the floor, scattering food and spilling wine, causing shrieks that filtered like wildfire through those assembled. Eyes wide, mouths open, the diners scrambled away from the mess, linen napkins held before them like shields. Storm sat where she was, flicked a casual glance over the destruction her husband had wrought in the dining room of the country club, then gave him a nasty smile. "Oh that was so mature," she said, "and so predictable." "Fuck you, Storm," he growled before turning and striding off, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Those who got a good look at Wynd Landers' stony face as he shoved his way out of the Bellington Country Club would later swear the devil had taken possession of the man and the fires of hell were burning in his golden glare. Even Clarence, the elderly doorman whom everyone loved and tipped handsomely at Christmastime, would say the young man actually snarled at him on the way out and no one was ever rude to dear Clarence. Dirt crunching under his boot heels, Wynd stalked from the entrance of the country club to the parking lot like a feral beast, his shoulders hunched, his lips skinned back from his teeth. Jerking his truck door open, he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door behind him as hard as he could, rocking the pickup on its base. He sat there with his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel and fought the tears he refused to allow to fall. Straining to keep that weak, unmanly emotion at bay, he snatched his hands from the wheel, curled his fingers inward, and pounded the base of his palms brutally on the wheel, grunting like a wounded animal with every hit, wishing it was Drake Kimberly's smirking face he was striking. "You are way out of her league, Landers," Drake had told him with a sneer. "Once the novelty wears off, she'll come to her senses and realize what a terrible mistake she made in marrying you." The mistake—Wynd thought as he stared blindly through the dusty, streaked windshield—was his, not hers. He'd known better than to go after something he was never meant to possess but like a fool, he'd let his ego dictate to his brain. As a result, pride had gotten in the way of common sense simply because Storm Riley had smiled at him and he had dared to dream. Now the dream had become a nightmare. The sweet taste of passion had turned to ashes lodged in his throat. He had learned the hard way that boys from the wrong side of the tracks rarely kept the uptown girl even when lucky enough to win her hand. "You're a goddamn fool, Landers," he said and reached down to turn the key in the ignition. Putting the truck in reverse, he slung his arm over the back of the seat and twisted around to look out the sliding rear window before gunning the engine and tearing out of the parking spot. Tires squealing, he peeled out of the parking lot, not giving a damn if he hit something on the way. From the dining room window, Storm watched the man she'd been married to for the last three years cut right in front of a delivery van, and she sucked in a worried breath that Wynd would get t-boned by the larger vehicle. A shrill blast of the van's horn accompanied by a shriek of braking tires caused her to tense and come half-way out of her chair before she saw Wynd's rigid middle finger jammed out the window in answer. She snorted at his juvenile display of temper. Once more her soon-to-be ex-husband had scraped by without even slowing down his reckless speed.

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"Winning friends and influencing enemies, as usual," Beverly commented dryly as their table was righted and fresh linen spread over it. "One day he isn't going to be quite so lucky," Storm said on a long sigh. She adjusted the folds of her ankle length, denim broomstick skirt and dusted away a piece of lettuce that clung to the fabric. "He's an accident waiting to happen." "You were warned, my friend," Beverly said and took a sip of the complimentary Bloody Maria the hostess had offered while their table was re-set and fresh food brought. "Yeah, I know," Storm agreed. She fiddled with the new silverware. "I just wish I'd listened." "You were thinking with something other than your noggin'," Beverly reminded her. She shrugged. "To give the boy his due, he was prime beef back then." "Still is," Storm said. "That's part of the problem." "And always will be, sweetie," Beverly stated. "No man should look that good and no woman can keep her hands off him when he does. Him straying had to happen sooner or later. A man like Wynd Landers can't be good no matter how hard he tries. It's in his genes." Storm sat back as the waitress arrived. "The trouble was it didn't stay in his jeans," she mumbled and heard the waitress snicker. Glancing up at the girl, she gave the bleached blonde a derisive look. The girl returned the look with a raised brow then flounced away, her shapely butt gyrating. "Bitch," Storm said beneath her breath. "Not his type," Beverly said with a grunt. "He could do better even on a bad day." "Why is it every woman in town wants me to think she’s been laid by my husband?" Storm asked as she dove into her hot pastrami on rye. She chewed savagely as she swept the room with her angry eyes. Women were surreptitiously glancing her way and whispering to one another. "Wishful thinking," Beverly replied. "He wouldn't give most of them the time of day." Keenly feeling the weight of the gossipy eyes boring into her, Storm flexed her slim shoulders within the confines of the gauze peasant blouse she wore. With elasticized ruffles at the neck and short sleeves, the blouse left her bare along her shoulders and upper arms and she could feel the heat of embarrassment tinting flesh. She shifted again, squirming in her chair then let out a low, inaudible curse. "I hate this," Storm said and pushed her chair back. Tossing her napkin to the table she snatched her shoulder bag from the back of the chair and strode off, ignoring the looks and whispers that followed in her wake. Hating the women of the country club, furious with Wynd for having caused a scene that would further fuel the gossip about them, she headed for her convertible and once there, peeled out of the parking lot with as much recklessness as had her husband. "Arrogant son of a bitch," she called him as she reached down and turned on the radio, cranking up the volume as the wind whipped her shoulder length brown hair into [a] wild tangle around her head. Glancing down at her watch, she knew damned well where he would be right then, and when the road to the creek came into sight, she jerked on the wheel and the little sports car fishtailed into the turn, its rear wheels spraying gravel.

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Wynd heard the approaching engine and snorted. Lifting the long neck to his lips, he took a deep sip of the beer—was taking another—when he heard the skid of tires on the dirt then the angry slam of her car door. "You are a prick, Wynd Landers!" she shouted as she stomped over to where he was lounging on the creek bank, his shirt off, hat hanging on a branch, feet bare. "And you're a cunt, Storm Landers," he answered her insult. "Guess that means we were made for one another." She came to stand over him with her hands on her hips. It made her even angrier to note the lazy way he reclined there with one knee crooked, his buff body braced on an elbow, beer bottle in hand. "Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was at the club?" He tilted his head back and looked up at her, squinting in the sun. "Do you think I give a shit how embarrassed you were at the club, baby cakes? Those uptight rich bitches can kiss this white trash bastard's ass." Storm snorted. "I imagine most of them have at one time or another." His eyes narrowed dangerously, Wynd shot her a hateful look. "Well, somebody's gotta kiss it since you've been slobbering all over Drake Kimberly's flaccid rump." She drew back her foot—intending to kick him in the ribs—but he tossed the beer away to snake out his hand. She shrieked, her mouth open in shock as he caught her foot lightning fast and jerked, causing her to tumble backwards to the ground. She fell hard with the wind knocked out of her but before she could scramble away, he was up and over her, his hard as nails body pressing hers down into the soft grass, his long legs between hers, his knees pushing hers wide. "Uh, unh, baby," he said, his low voice a predatory growl. "You've kicked me while I was down for the last damned time." Storm tried to push him off her but that was futile. He was lying on her skirt and that effectively trapped her legs. He was over two hundred pounds of prime, muscled male—enraged male at that—and she had invaded his territory. She knew he considered her fair game. "Get off me, Wynd!" she hissed, bucking beneath him but all she got for her struggle was the hard stab of his erection digging into her thigh. "Be still," he ordered, grappling with her until he could enclose his strong fingers around her wrists to pin her arms above her. "I'm not letting you go until you listen to me!" "You go to hell," she spat and writhed beneath him, trying to wiggle out from under him. In the process the elastic band on the neck ruffle of her blouse pulled downward to expose the lace of her strapless bra. Wynd's gaze ricocheted down and was caught and held by her heaving bosom as she struggled with him. Instinctively, he ground his lower body into hers, his hips rocking against hers. "Stop that!" she snarled, and when he slowly brought his stare from her chest to her flushed face, her breath stilled for she knew that bold, assessing look all too well. "No, Wynd." The two words were not only a denial but a warning, forced out from between tightly clenched teeth. From years of working her father's fields, from hefting fifty pound bags of manure and fertilizer, from helping to wrangle the quarter horses that were Riley Farms new endeavor, Wynd's hands held a wealth of strength in them and he used that force to transferred her left wrist to her right, easily holding both her fragile wrists in the span of the long, tapered fingers of

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his right hand, leaving his left free to trail down her arm and over her shoulder onto the silky lace of her bra. "Goddamn it, I said no!" she snapped but could not stop the groan that punctuated the denunciation, for her husband was caressing her, the rough pad of his work-worn thumb dragging over the lace. "You want me, Princess," he said and lowered his lips to hers, but when she turned her face away, he wasn't in the least deterred. His mouth went to her ear instead and his hot breath sent shivers down her side. "You know you do." "Wynd, don't," she pleaded. She could feel the weight of his erection, the probe of it as he ground it against her thigh. He flicked his warm, wet tongue into her ear and smiled as she shuddered. His fingers were tugging down the cup of the bra, freeing her nipple to the abrading surface of his calloused thumb. When she stiffened, he rolled that sweet little peak between his fingers, plucking, pinching gently as he worked his hips on hers. "Tell me you don't need what I can give you," he whispered in her ear and caught her earlobe between his teeth. "I don't want what you can give me," she insisted and had to bite her lip to keep from groaning as his lips slid from her ear, down her neck, over the swell of her breast to graze the dusky silk of her areola. She could feel the tip of his tongue fluttering just above the engorged nipple and dared not move. "Baby, you may not want it, but you sure as hell need it," he countered. Pulling her breast free of its silky protection he held it taut in his hand—kneading it, needing it, aching to taste it—easing his lips over the nipple, drawing that puckered bud deep into his mouth. "Wynd....” Her protest was one long whimper of his name. She trembled as his hand left her breast and moved down her body, clutching at the long skirt covering her legs, shifting his lean torso so he could drag the fabric up, inching it up until she felt the sun and the wind playing across her flesh. She smelled of the mango shower gel she used and the gardenia scented perfume that was her trademark. Her flesh was soft as satin, her nipple as sweet as any confection ever created. He became lost each time he put his hands to this woman and in the deepest part of his being he hoped he would never be found. Lying there with her beneath him, his hand smoothing up her silky thigh, touching the lacy edge of her panties, he was in a place he never wanted to leave. "Please don't do this," she said, then gasped as his hand moved between her thighs to cup her. Looking at her, reluctantly withdrawing his mouth from her breast, he willed her to meet his gaze. "You're wet," he said. Storm didn't need him to tell her. She felt this way every time he touched her whether in love or lust or anger. It had always been this way and she feared it always would. He held her trapped in his dark intensity as he rubbed her between the legs, the heat of his palm, the rasp of his calluses plucking at the silk, the scent of her juices flowing making his blood pound in his ears. "Tell me you don't want me," he said, and he moved his hand high so his fingertips were at the waistband of her panties.

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"You don't play fair," was all she could say. He smiled that cocky, irritating—and endearing—grin that never failed to break her heart every time she saw it. "Never said I did, Princess," he told her. His fingers threaded through the curls covering her mound but stopped just short of touching that part of her she ached to have him stroke. "Tell me," he repeated. Storm shook her head from side to side. She wouldn't lie to him. Despite the lies he'd told her, the promises he'd broken, the trust he'd betrayed, she could not deny that he had been and always would be the only man she ever really wanted. "Tell me." It was a whisper as soft as a breeze. "I can't," she admitted in resignation. She saw triumph in his golden gaze just a fleeting second before he lowered his mouth to hers, parted her lips with his questing tongue, and took her mouth as she knew he would soon take her body. Wynd's middle finger claimed her clit as he swept his tongue into her mouth and withdrew, moved in again to taste her honeyed sweetness. He rubbed that swollen nub and circled it, turning soft flesh to hard. As his kiss deepened, he moved his finger lower until he was stroking the opening of her channel, her wetness clinging to him. Overhead the sun beat down upon them and the fickle southeast Georgia wind shook the leaves of the live oak and the swags of the Spanish moss under which they lay. The smell of honeysuckle and clover washed over and around them and the bubbling creek splashed against rocks half-hidden in its current. Somewhere a cow lowed and another answered. A dog barked. The lazy drone of an airliner passing far overhead echoed back to them. Storm ached to put her arms around her husband. She wanted to hold him, to run her fingers through the dark curly hair that lay at the nape of his strong neck. She wanted to encircle him with her legs. But he held her wrists captive and in some wayward, feminist part of her brain, she reckoned that was better than giving in to him as she yearned to. After all, she was divorcing him. He had been unfaithful and… "Love me, Princess," he said against her mouth. "Love me like I love you." She didn't get a chance to answer him for his finger dipped into her wet sheath and a flood of passion curled low in her belly. She arched her hips up to him, impaling herself on his probing finger and once more his lips were on hers, drawing, and his tongue raping her mouth. She was barely aware of him ripping her fragile panties from her hips, of him fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. Wynd pulled his cock from the constriction of his pants. He was achingly hard, the tip wet and throbbing, needing to be inside its woman's sheath. Guiding himself into her, he sank down into her sweet, moist heat and groaned. He let go of her wrists and jammed both his hands beneath her shapely ass and lifted her to him even as her right leg crooked over his hip, anchoring him to her. Tearing his mouth from hers, he buried his face in her shoulder. "Love me, Storm," he pleaded as he began to pump inside her, his hips rotating as he withdrew and advanced within her creamy channel.

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Storm draped her arms around his neck and one hand spiked through the thick hair at the back of his head. She took a handful of that dark brown silk and held on as his thrusts lengthened and deepened and increased in force. "I do love you, Wynd," she whispered. She closed her eyes to better experience the special bond their lovemaking always wrought between them. If nothing else was right with their joining, the sex was nothing less than spectacular. It had been months since they had lain together but the rhythm of their passion never faltered. The desire would never fade and the need their bodies had for the other could not be denied. Digging the heel of her left foot into the grass, Storm met him thrust for thrust, lifting her hips to him. She could feel the muscles of his back flexing and contracting as he pushed into her and sweat fell from his forehead onto her cheek as he lay there with his face against her shoulder. His fingers were digging into her rump as he held her and his long, powerful strokes rubbed her spine along the ground. "Yes," she said, feeling the coiling of her release tightening like a spring inside her womb. "Yes, Wynd. Yes." His speed increased until he was slamming into her, grunting with the effort. Her sheath was tightening around him and the first faint spasm, that first sweet clench, took hold of his cock and then the dam broke and she was keening in that precious little girl voice as she came again and again, her body milking his, her sex pulling him as deep inside her as his root would go. "Storm!" he cried out and stilled, his hot cum shooting deep and powerfully into her. He grunted, surged against her two more times until the last of his seed was released. He was quivering, his arms trembling, his belly shuddering as he hovered over her then he was dragging breath into his depleted lungs, gasping as he collapsed atop her—spent and satiated—secure in the arms she wrapped so tightly around him. They were both breathing heavily, their hearts pounding, blood racing, and sweat glistening where their flesh touched. A trickle of salty moisture eased down the side of his face and fell to the hollow of her throat. He lapped at it with his tongue, almost too tired to move. Off to the west, a low, ominous rumbling began, and Storm opened her eyes and turned her head to look that way. Dark clouds were building and even as she watched, lightning stair stepped down from the heavens. The ground beneath them echoed with the vibration of the approaching storm. "Come home with me, baby," he asked softly. Storm gazed up at the spreading tree above them. "This doesn't change anything, Wynd," she told him as she uncoiled her arms from around his neck and tugged her bra back into place, hiding herself from his view. He pushed himself up, his rod sliding out of her slick body. "Damn it, Storm. How many times do I have to swear to you that I didn't touch her?" Tears gathered in Storm's eyes. "I saw you," she said. Wynd blinked and his lips parted with surprise. "What?" "I saw you with her," she said. He shook his head. "No, you didn't," he stated. "You couldn't have because I haven't been with her. I told you..."

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"I have a tape of it!" she blurted out, wishing she hadn't, for it was the one piece of leverage her lawyer had insisted she keep to herself. Her lower lip quivered. Stunned by her admission, Wynd could do nothing but stare at her. When she put her hands on his chest and pushed him, he came to his knees, absently tucking himself back into his jeans as she scooted backward and got to her feet, stumbling in her haste. "When?" he asked, lifting his head to look up at her. He was on his knees in front of her, his hands on his thighs, the waistband of his jeans undone. "Oh, I'm not likely to forget the date, Wynd," she threw at him as she bent down to retrieve her torn panties. "The time and date stamp is right there on the tape!" "When?" he repeated, a tic developing in his jaw. "March 14, 2006 at 3:45 AM," she answered. Wynd looked down at the ground, his eyes moving back and forth as though searching the grass for an answer to her charge. His brow furrowed, dragging deep lines between his golden eyes. For the life of him he could not recall where he'd been on that day or even what day of the week it had been. Then the date registered, and his head snapped up as she headed for her car. "I was in Atlanta on March 14th," he said. He got to his feet and started after her. "I know damned well where you were supposed to have been!" she accused. "She wasn't with me," he said, reaching out to grab his wife's arm and spin her around to face him. "I flew to Atlanta alone in the Cessna Monday night. I checked into that hotel alone." Storm tried to jerk her arm away from him, but his fingers tightened just above her elbow. "Then she either came up later or was already there because it's all right there on the tape!" "What tape?" he challenged, his eyes boring into hers. "Where the hell did the tape come from, Storm?" She managed to pull her arm free of his grip and opened her car door, but he reached around her and slammed it shut again, pushing her up against the vehicle, and pinning her there with his body. "Who gave you the tape?" he demanded. "I don't know," she said and strove to push him away. "It was delivered to the house. I didn't see who brought it." She was unaware that tears were sliding down her cheeks. "Maybe good old Rachel brought it by as a memento of your time together." "I have never been with Rachel Dodd!" he shouted at her, making her flinch. His hands were on her shoulders now and he shook her. "I swear to God I have never touched that lying bitch!" "I saw you," Storm said in a small, hurt little voice that broke his heart. He would have gathered her to him but she thrust her arms up through his and slapped them sideways, breaking his hold. Before he could stop her, she'd shoved him as hard as she could and he stumbled backward and away from her. She took advantage of that to wrench open her door and get into the car. "If that tape really exists, it's a forgery," he told her. "Don't you think I know my own husband's body, Wynd?" she yelled at him. "How many men have the same tattoo on their shoulder that you do? It was you, goddamn it. It was you!"

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"It's a forgery," he repeated. "Who made that tape, Storm? Ask yourself who made that tape and why." "Obviously Rachel did," she hissed. Wynd stood there looking at her. "I never touched her," he said, but his words were lost in the whirl of her motor as she cranked the car and gunned it, whipping it around in a circle— narrowly missing a stand of pines—and raced back down the lane. As the wind quickened and the smell of moisture made the air cloying, Wynd reached up to stab a hand through his hair. News of a tape showing him with Rachel Dodd was a damning thing. No wonder Storm was mad as hell. Going back to the tree to retrieve his hat and boots, he got into his pickup, grimacing as his bare back touched the hot, sticky vinyl of the seat. He glanced at the shirt he'd removed earlier and tossed onto the seat but didn't have the energy or the inclination to put it on. He should pick up the two beer bottles lying on the grass, but [he] didn't have the vigor to do that, either. His gaze moved to the other four bottles in the cardboard carrying case. The mature, sensible, legal thing to do would be to get out and get the remaining long necks, but he wasn't feeling mature or sensible at the moment. He decided he'd leave the beer to whoever found it. Turning on the engine, he flinched as the radio came blaring into life and reached over to turn down the volume. It didn't help that the song playing was one of those you-cheated-nowI'm-outta-here songs by some slinky country chanteuse wannabe. He turned off the noise and drew in a long breath, exhaling slowly as he put the truck in gear and drove slowly down the lane, deep in thought. As he pulled onto the cut off to Riley Farms and the job he'd been avoiding since being served with the divorce papers, his mind went back to the first day he'd seen Storm Riley. It had been the day he lost his heart to her.

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Chapter One "The crew is here, boss man," Hector Rodriquez, the farm foreman, told Shane Riley. Dilapidated pickup trucks and a few rusted out station wagons were coming down the dusty road toward them. The migrant workers had arrived to work the fields for the summer harvest. Storm had come down to the staging area to clarify a problem with one of her father's account books but with the arrival of the crew, she knew she'd have to wait. She didn't want to hang around, wasn't interested in the dirty-looking men who worked her father's fields every year, and she was about to head back to the house when a young man sitting in the bed of one of the trucks caught her eye. She did a double take, unaware she was staring openly at him. It was his handsome face she had noticed first but set among those chiseled features were the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen and those eyes were looking back at her with such raw hunger, she was taken aback. No one had ever looked at her like that. No one had ever dared look at her like that, and she didn't like it. Lifting her chin, she gave him her most withering glare. And he smiled very slowly, eyes the color of dark topaz crinkling at the corners as straight, white teeth gleamed behind full, sensuous lips. Insolently, he put his right index finger up to his straw cowboy hat and saluted her, acknowledging her insult. "Creep," she said beneath her breath and spun around. As she walked away, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her and had to force herself not to turn around to shoot him another glower. "She was staring at you," Juan Sanchez commented, jostling Wynd's shoulder with his own. "She wants you, tipo." Wynd laughed as he reached up to settle his hat more comfortably before hopping down from the truck. He was used to girls—of every age—staring openly at him. He had his father's Anglo features and height but his mother's dark Native American coloring and thick dark hair. Girls hovered around him like flies to warm honey but none of them had ever dismissed him as the Anglo girl just had. "That's the boss man's daughter," Manuel Perez told them. "She just graduated from A.B.A.C." "Aback from what?" Juan asked. "Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College," Wynd supplied. "It's a college over in Tifton." "Listen to Mr. Know-it-all," Juan quipped. Wynd shrugged. "I read the highway signs, guys. Try it, you might learn something," he said. He saw Gil Rodriquez, the crew leader motioning him over to where the farm owner and his assistant were standing. "I'll catch up with you guys later," he said and headed toward the other men. "Mr. Riley," Gil said, "this is Wynd Landers. He's the guy I mentioned who'll be working with the crew this summer."

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Shane Riley stuck out his hand. "Rick tells me you just graduated A & M?" he inquired, clasping Wynd's hand. "I received my Masters of Agribusiness," Wynd replied in a low voice, "but I'd just as soon keep that between the four of us." "May I ask why?" Shane queried. "I'll be working alongside the crews and as far as they are concerned, I'm just another bent back in the field." "The men were told that Wynd is training to be a crew leader. It's best they don't know any differently, Mr. Riley," Ricardo said. "They won't trust him if they know he's not really one of them." Shane folded his arms over his chest. "What's your motivation for doing this, son?" he asked. He narrowed his eyes. "Is this one of those exposé type things?" "No, sir," Wynd said. "I'm working on a book about migrant workers and knowing the mindset of the men, experiencing the work itself firsthand will give me insight into what it is like to do the job. I was told you had the best record in the state of Georgia in how you treat your workers. After seeing the worst in the state last summer, this should be a piece of cake." Hector's eyebrows shot up. "You worked the Triple Bar B?" he asked. Wynd nodded. Hector whistled. "That took balls." "Or a lack of sense," Wynd stated. "Well, we'll be sure to treat you like all the rest of our workers. I won't even tell my wife and daughter," Shane said with a grin. "Give us an honest day's work and we'll feed you two square meals a day and a cold sack lunch. There are four air conditioned barracks with fourteen beds in each barracks, a bathroom with two shower stalls, two johns and two sinks. There's also a communal hall where breakfast and supper are served and you can do your laundry, watch a bit of TV at the end of the day if you're not too tired. On Saturdays, we show a movie and on Sunday we provide a van to take you into town to church services if you're inclined to go. The local Catholic Church is Immaculate Conception. We have a nurse practitioner who comes in if needed and there's a small commissary stocked with sundry personal items we sell at fair prices." "Compared to the hell I lived in last summer, I'll think I've died and gone to heaven," Wynd replied. "Anything you want to know, just ask me if I'm around, or else look for Hector," Shane told him. "I do have one question?" Wynd ventured. Shane inclined his head. "Is your daughter seeing someone?" Riley frowned. "And just what is that to you?" Shane challenged. Wynd looked him in the eye. "Have you ever heard of Eagle-Land Enterprises?" A surprised look came over Shane's face. "Eagle-Land as in John Eaglehawk and Jackson Landers? The mega mart chain out west?" He blinked. "Is Jackson your father?" Wynd nodded politely. "That he is, sir." Riley's lips twitched, and Hector chuckled, giving Ricardo a wink. "No, my daughter isn't seeing anyone special, but she does date a guy on a somewhat regular basis and has since high school. He's someone I don't much care for," Shane replied. "A spoiled brat by the name of

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Drake Kimberly who thinks his shit doesn't stink, who wears designer labels that make him look like a New York City fashion model or a refugee from Miami's South Beach." He arched a brow. "If you want to try squeezing Drake out you have my blessing but don't expect Storm to give you the time of day. No offense, son, but being a migrant worker, she won't see much potential in you and neither will her mama." "Well, we'll just have to teach her to look past the label and see the man beneath, now, won't we, sir?" Wynd inquired. Shane laughed. "If you can do that, I'll buy you a case of your favorite beer, son! I love my only child more than life, itself, but she can be a real snob thanks to her mother's side of the family." "That would be Corona Extra, sir," Wynd said, tipping his hat. "Ice cold." **** Storm was in the farm office later that afternoon when Wynd came strolling in. His shirt was plastered to his muscular body, his face gleaming with sweat. Dirty streaks ran along his chiseled jaw. She gave him a disgusted look, recognizing him from earlier. "What is it?" she barked. "I'm supposed to get the fertilizer invoice for Hector," he said in his slow Texas drawl. He took off his hat and armed the sweat from his brow. "Looks like the feed and seed sent the wrong mix." "That's not likely," she snapped and slid her chair back so she could open the file drawer to her left. "Storm, isn't it?" he asked as he put his hat back on. "It's Miss Storm to you," she countered, not bothering to look up at him as she searched for the invoice. "Hey, don't mince words, Princess," he said and locked eyes with her when her head snapped up, and she stared at him with her mouth ajar. "Let's put that wetback in his rightful place right up front. Don't dare give him any ideas." Fury flitted across Storm's face for just a moment before her gaze narrowed dangerously. "You tell Hector to send someone else next time," she said. She jerked the invoice out of the file and practically threw it at him. "I won't have you in my office." "Where would you like to have me then?" he asked in a low, throaty growl. A tight curl rippled through Storm's belly, and she snapped her mouth shut, forcing herself to swallow against the lump suddenly lodged in her throat. The eyes of the man staring back at her were devouring her where she sat and she felt her cheeks burning. When he smiled slowly, knowingly, obviously aware of the effect he was having on her senses, all the spit dried up in her mouth. "Get the hell out of here!" she ordered, pointing at the door. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed. "Right away." He leaned over and picked up the invoice, tipped his hat and turned to go, his lean body moving like that of a stealthy jungle animal, his jeans so tight they left nothing to her imagination, and his gait was more strut than walk. Storm stared after him, unable to move, barely able to breathe as she watched his ass shifting in those jeans. No man should look that good in a pair of dirty pants frayed at the cuff with holes in the knees. As soon as the door closed on his departure, she slumped back in her seat and realized her hands were trembling.

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For the next several weeks Storm saw the hot-looking farm worker whom Hector seemed to have taken a particular shine to—her father as well—all over the place. In the mornings he was climbing up into the back of the truck beds that took the workers to the field, but all during the day she'd see him running errands in her father's truck and more than likely those errands brought him to her office. When she'd tried to talk to both Hector and her father about assigning someone else the task, they had not been agreeable. If anything, they'd been downright adamant. "Wynd is a hard worker and he's smart as a whip," her father had complimented. "I trust him." "Wynd is the best man for the job," Hector pronounced. "I trust him." "Well, I don't!" Storm had complained to her mother. Margie Riley agreed with her daughter. After one look at the sexy young man, she had also tried to dissuade Shane from allowing Wynd free rein of the farm. Her arguments had been met with a stony look and a set mouth. "Wynd's a good man," Shane told his wife. "Leave him be, Margie." He'd shaken a finger at her. "I won't have any of your interfering." Mother and daughter had tried to contrive a way to keep the tall Texan from being alone in the office with Storm and the solution had come when Margie suggested Storm ask her best friend, Beverly, to help out for the summer. On the day Beverly started work, it was raining cats and dogs with lightning popping all around the farm. There would be no working in the fields that day for Shane had declared it too dangerous. "At least I don't have to worry about that man showing up....” Storm was telling Beverly when the office door opened and the object of her disapproval came inside, taking off his hat and shaking his thick dark hair as though he were a terrier. She groaned. "The bottom opened up out there," he said with a grin. "Too bad it didn't drown you in the process," Storm insulted him. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he said and his golden gaze skipped over to Beverly. "Hey." "Hey yourself," Beverly said. "What now?" Storm asked. "Since we can't get out in the fields, your father suggested I come over and annoy you," he answered. "He wants me to learn the coding system for…." "Why?" Storm demanded, her eyes blazing. "For what?" He grinned. "So I can take over for him when you and I get married and he retires and....” Storm shot to her feet. "You are so full of shit your eyes should be brown instead of amber!" she yelled at him. He shrugged. "Happy to know you have noticed the color of my eyes, Princess." He took a step toward her desk. "What color are yours, by the way? I've never gotten close enough to tell. Are they hazel or are they--?" "You're never going to get close enough to tell, you insufferable irritant!" Storm practically bellowed. "Insufferable irritant?" he echoed. He gave Beverly a wounded look. "I just seem to rub her the wrong way, don't I?" "Get out!" Storm ordered. "Now, Princess....” he began. "Get out of here! Now!"

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Beverly sat like a spectator at a tennis match, her head swiveling back and forth between them as they sparred. The sexual tension in the room was so thick it could have been cut with a knife. "Temper, temper, Princess," he said, holding his hands palm out to her. "I'm going." He backed toward the door. He stopped. "Oh, you want me to turn around so you can watch my ass some more?" "Oohh!" Storm shrieked and picked up her paperweight to throw at him. Before she could release it, he was scrambling out the door, laughing as he went. "Holy Mother of God, Storm Lynn," Beverly said as thunder rumbled over the building. "You've got to be kidding me." She fanned herself with a magazine. "Do you see what he does?" Storm said, plopping down in her chair. "He drives me crazy." "He would drive any girl crazy," Beverly said. "Have you taken a good look at him?" Storm buried her face in her hands. "I've done nothing but look at him," she complained with a whine. "But no touching, I hope," Beverly quipped. "Of course not!" Storm hissed. "Good, because he might look good, sweetie, but he's most definitely off limits," Beverly reminded her. "Don't you think I know that?" "I'm surprised Mr. Shane allows him anywhere near you," Beverly commented. "But then I suppose your daddy trusts you not to jump that hunkie boy's bones." Storm whimpered and laid her head on the desk top, lightly pretending to bang her forehead against the surface. "He won't leave me alone, Bev! Every time I turn around, he's in here with his too-tight jeans and his smirk. I could just scream!" "Maybe you need Drake to have a little talk with him," Beverly suggested. Ceasing to bump her head against the desk, Storm looked up. "Maybe you're right. What are boyfriends for if not to discourage unwanted suitors?" "Well, I wouldn't call a migrant worker a suitor of any kind, but I'm sure Drake will handle it." "He's in Birmingham until next weekend," Storm said, "but as soon as he's home, I'm gonna have a talk with him. He'll put that man in his place!" **** Two afternoons later, Wynd Landers was leaning with his hip against the hood of her father's pickup truck when Storm came out of the office. Muscular arms were folded over a broad chest and the deep tan of his arms against the rolled up sleeves of the white shirt that strained at impossibly wide shoulders made something clench deep inside her. The shirt was unbuttoned halfway down that taut chest and dark, crisp hair lay in curls in the opening where a golden medallion hung on a chain around his neck. One long jeans-clad leg was crossed over the other, one booted ankle atop the other as he stood there with the brim of his white straw hat shading the amber heat that was pouring from his eyes. "What do you want now?" she asked with a sigh. "It's Saturday," he stated. "I'm impressed you know the day of the week," she said. "So?"

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"I'll be at the dance in town tonight," he informed her. Storm's eyes narrowed. "And that should be of interest to me because…?" "You can see if my ass moves as well to music as it does the rest of the time," he said huskily. She threw her hands into the air. "I give up with you, Landers!" she snapped. "Why can't you get it through your head that I'm not interested in what you are offering?" He arched a brow then uncrossed his booted feet and pushed his hip from the truck in a single lithe move. "How do you know?" he countered. Deciding she'd had enough of him, she stomped over to him and glared up into his lean face. "You are one of my father's seasonal workers, not even a full-time employee. We are not of the same socio-economic background nor the same religion or even the same educational strata. I am a college graduate with an Associate of Applied Science degree in Agricultural Business Technology and I'll be going on to Valdosta State in the fall to get my Bachelor's. You....” She let her gaze slide down him with contempt. "You are a migrant worker whom I would venture to say barely finished high school, if, indeed, you even did." "And therefore beneath you," he said, a muscle working in his jaw. She lifted her chin. "Precisely." One moment she was turning away from him, her broadside delivered, his set down handed to him cold, and the next he had shot out one arm to encircle her waist and drag her up against him, slamming her body into his, slanting his mouth over hers as he used his other hand to anchor her head for his assault. One taut thigh jammed possessively between hers as she pushed at his broad shoulders in a vain attempt to make him release her, but that maneuver only deepened his kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips to scald her mouth with passionate heat. Almost as though they had a mind of their own her fingers suddenly clutched the sleeves of his shirt and she pressed herself closer to him, her hips arched toward his, dueling with his tongue, giving as good as she was getting. He tore his mouth from hers and stared down into her stunned eyes with such intensity, she trembled. "How 'bout you being beneath me, Princess?" he growled. "On a bed with my body on yours? How's that for precise?" Storm shoved away from him as though she'd been doused with cold water. Her hand came up, and she slapped him so hard he staggered beneath the impact. The imprint of her hit was stamped on his lean jaw and the look he gave her let her know no one had ever slapped him before. He was as stunned by her reaction as she was to realize she was capable of doing such a thing. "I'm…m sorry," she stammered. "I shouldn't have done that." He put a hand to his stinging face. "I deserved it," he said. "I shouldn't have said something so vulgar. I apologize." For a long moment she looked at him with myriad emotions roiling around inside her, then she lifted her chin. "Seven o'clock?" she said. He nodded slowly. "You'll pick me up at the door," she said. It wasn't a question but a command. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed.

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Storm turned away from him and strode quickly to the little red convertible that had been her high school graduation present. She climbed behind the wheel and left without another glance his way. "Damn woman," he said beneath his breath as he rubbed his face. "You sure do hit hard for being such a little thing." He didn't realize he was grinning broadly as he headed for the barracks. **** Shane Riley answered the door that evening and gave his daughter's escort a wry grin. "Wynd," he greeted, stepping back so Wynd could come into the living room. Margie Riley did not smile at the young man. Her blue eyes were narrowed with barely concealed animosity, and when Storm came down the stairs, she gave her daughter a look that could have curdled milk. The older woman's demeanor made it clear how she felt as she took a seat on the sofa. "Tomorrow is church," Margie stated. "I'll be home before midnight, Mama," Storm said. Wynd exchanged a look with his boss then the two men looked away from one another. Opening the door for his date, Wynd smiled gently at Storm. "What was that about?" Storm asked as Wynd escorted her to her father's truck. She wasn't in the least surprised that was to be her transportation since Wynd had been seen all over the farm in her dad's pickup. "What was what?" he asked, opening the truck door for her. "That look that passed between you and Daddy," she said. She paused before climbing into the truck. Over the last two hours her suspicions had been fluttering like butterflies in her belly. "He trusts me," Wynd said, "to have you back before midnight. It was just a little reminder." She stared into his guileless golden eyes for a moment. "Uh, huh," she said, then hopped up on the seat, making sure the skirt of her dress was out of the way of the door closing. Watching him skirt the front of the truck, she realized what was different about him. He didn't have the omnipresent white hat she normally saw him wearing and his dark hair glistened beneath the mercury security light that lit the driveway. When he got into the truck, she also noticed the cologne he was wearing and realized it was a rather expensive one and that surprised her. "You like Z-12?" she said as he turned on the truck engine. "Yeah. It's my favorite," he said then seemed to think better of his answer. He cut his eyes across to her. "It was a present from my mom for Christmas." Storm knew that was a blatant lie by the way he said it, but she let it pass. There was more to the man sitting beside her than he presented. She'd known that from the moment she began noticing Wynd Landers showing up all over the farm doing things that normally Hector or her dad did. Never had either man allowed one of the seasonal workers the liberties or the freedom Wynd was enjoying on Riley Farms. "So where did you live out in Texas?" she asked. "Houston," he supplied as they pulled out onto the roadway. He was driving with his left arm braced on the ledge of the driver side door, his fingers toying with the headliner above. His left leg was crooked comfortably, leaning against the door,

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his right wrist hooked over the top of the steering wheel. To Storm's way of thinking, he was far too at ease and relaxed, too self assured and confident to be what and whom he was pretending to be. She twisted in the seat to face him. "Okay, cowboy," she said. "So who are you really?" Wynd grinned slowly then shot her a quick glance. "Would you believe the sole heir to a billionaire enterprise?" "Cute," she scoffed. "But that makes more sense than my father allowing me to go to a dance with one of his seasonal workers." He laughed and slowed the truck a bit, looking both ways at a railroad crossing before continuing on over the tracks. "Would you believe I'm an INS agent infiltrating your father's crew looking for illegals?" "Not as much," she said. "I prefer the billionaire playboy scenario." "Ever hear of the Eagle-Land Superstores?" he queried. "There was a segment on them not long ago on 60 Minutes," she said. "They are starting to rival Wal-Mart in some areas out west." "Eagle-Land was the brainchild of my father, Jackson, and my mother's brother, John Eaglehawk, when they were in Vietnam. The stores are all family-owned and operated across the southwest but are now expanding into the south and California." "And that's your family?" she asked, eyes like saucers. At his grin she sighed. "I suppose you managed to finish high school then, huh?" "And undergraduate school," he said with pride. "I have my Masters, by the way." She flinched. "Opened mouth and inserted foot on that one," she mumbled. They had arrived at the place where the Knights of Columbus were having a fundraiser for a local family that had suffered a devastating fire. The parking lot was jammed with cars and trucks, and he was lucky to find a place to park. It would be a bit of a walk, but the night was balmy with a light breeze and the moon overhead was bright. "You can't tell anyone about me, Princess," he said as he turned off the truck. "The men I work alongside might not appreciate it." She nodded. "I understand, but my mother should be told." "I expect your dad will tell her," he said. "All set?" "Yes," she said, and when he got out of the truck and came around to open her door for her, she gave him a shake of the head. "You had me going there for awhile." "Class consciousness bothering you?" he teased, taking her hand to help her from the cab. With her hand clasped in his, they started for the building from which country music was pouring into the night. She asked him questions about why he was hiding his identity and when he explained, she leaned against him. "Daddy's response to you makes a whole lot of sense now," she said. "I think he just wanted me to get you away from the guy he doesn't like you dating," he said. "Drake," she said. "No, he doesn't like Drake or his family for that matter." "Then we won't invite them to our wedding," he said. Storm laughed, thinking he was joking, but as they neared the building and the security lights lit his handsome face, she looked up into his eyes and what she saw there made her heart lurch in her chest. "You aren't serious?" she questioned.

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"As the proverbial heart attack," he said. He stopped, put his free hand to his heart, and looked down at her without blinking. "I took one look at you and knew, Princess. It was the same with my dad and his dad." He shrugged. "Landers men just know when they see the right woman that it's gonna be her for them forever." She stared into his golden eyes and was lost. "Drake know you're slumming with the hired help?" a sneering voice asked from the side of the building. Storm looked around to see Ty Carlton, one of Drake's friends, standing with a couple of their buddies from college. "What I do isn't any of your business, Tyler," she snapped and urged Wynd into the building. "I saw you at the feed store last week," Ty said, strolling over, his buddies close behind. "You're one of them greasers from Texas." Wynd tensed, his hand jerking within Storm's. She tugged on him, pleading silently with him not to buy into Ty's insults. He gave her a curt nod and escorted her on into the building with a hand to the small of her back. "Your kind ain't welcome in Bellington, boy," Ty called out to them and his friends guffawed. "Why don't you stay on your side of the tracks?" "Don't listen to him," Storm said. "He's a drunk." Wynd had no illusions about the men standing outside. He'd come up against idiots just like them the summer before. Determined to show Storm a great evening, he pushed thoughts of the good old boys out of his mind for the time being. Beverly Shannon, Storm's best friend, hurried over to her, her face pale as she saw who Storm was with. She cast Wynd a horrified look before grabbing hold of Storm's arm and pulling her off to one side. "What in the name of the Lord are you doing, Riley?" she demanded. "Trust me to know what I'm doing, okay?" Storm said. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Tonight, I'm with Wynd." She pulled her arm free and went back to her date, leaving Beverly staring after her with a worried look. "Let's dance," Wynd said when she joined him. Every eye in the place was on the two of them as they took the dance floor. With his ass in those tight jeans swaying sensuously to a slow Tim McGraw song, Wynd had the women's undivided attention, and with Storm's pale beauty held in the strong, tanned arms of her escort, the men who believed she was Drake Kimberly's property were glaring at him. "That man moves like liquid sex," Sheila Tucker commented to Beverly, the words ending on a long sigh. "He won't be moving at all once Drake gets hold of him," Ann Harrelson snorted. "What was Storm thinking?" Patti Neil asked. "Pretty to look at and pretty to hold," Beverly said as she watched Wynd dancing close to Storm, her friend's head on the Texan's shoulder. "I guess she had to get it out of her system." Wynd felt the weight of the stares accompanying them across the floor. He glanced around, smiled at some of the women—who were quick to smile back—and caught the glares of some of the men. He held those glares until the men looked away, letting them know he wasn’t intimidated by their hard looks.

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"I'm afraid there'll be trouble, Wynd," Storm said, chewing on her bottom lip. She was seeing the glares as well and it made her nervous. "Maybe you should tell them who you really are." "Wouldn't matter if I was one of the Kennedys," he said. "I'm an outsider and they want me to know it. Don't worry about it, Princess. I'm not." But Storm was more than worried. She knew what the men in Drake's crowd were capable of doing. She'd seen it time and again after football games in high school and later at college events. He waltzed her across the floor, and when the music ended, took her hand to lead her to the refreshment table where punch and cookies were being served. "Who's your new friend, Storm?" a striking blond ladling the punch asked. Her blue eyes were crawling all over Wynd. She gave him a sultry smile. "How 'bout introducing us?" "Lynette Forbes, Wynd Landers," Storm said in an offhand manner, taking the Styrofoam cup from Wynd's hand. "I work for her father," Wynd said. "I pick cantaloupes for a living." The smile on Lynette's face flickered. Her left eyebrow arched upward. "Oh, really?" she drawled, her voice no longer friendly or flirting. "How quaint." With that, she turned her back on them. "Ouch," Wynd said. "Cut right to the quick." "She's a bitch," Storm said. "And half the boys at school have been in her pants." Wynd grinned. He knew the type. As a fast song started, they strolled over to one of the few empty tables and sat down to sip their punch. No one came over to speak to them, but everyone continued to stare unabashedly. Neither let it concern them and they danced all evening, lost in their own world with just one another. By the time the crowd started thinning out and interest in the music being played by the DJ waned, Storm was ready to call it a night. "Tired?" Wynd asked. At her nod he suggested they leave. "I promised to have you home before the truck turned into a pumpkin anyway." "I'm not ready for the evening to end," she said. Storm looked into her eyes and knew what she was offering. He reached out to cup her cheek. "I know this place....”

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Chapter Two Storm had expected there to be trouble when they'd walked through the parking lot to her father's truck but no one had been lurking about. Ty and his drunken friends were nowhere to be seen, but she didn't breathe a sigh of relief until they were out of town with no cars following them. Nevertheless, she kept looking around, glancing out the sliding window of the truck. "They won't come after me as long as you're with me, Princess," he told her. "I don't want them to come after you at all!" she insisted. Wynd didn't seem concerned about it and when he turned down the lane to the creek that ran behind her family's farm, she made sure no one was following them. "Relax," he encouraged. "I have a black belt in jujitkaratkwando." She gave him a droll look, her lips pursed. "There's no such thing, cowboy." He gasped. "You're kidding? Are you sure?" He shook his head as he turned off the truck. He swiveled around in the seat to face her. "And to think I learned to play the numchucks for nothing." He reached across the seat to thread his fingers through hers. Storm laughed, shaking her head at his silliness. The moonlight was shining down on his grinning face and catching in those amber eyes. "Come here, woman," he said in a husky voice, tugging her toward him. She slid across the seat and reclined against him, his arms going around her as he pulled her into his lap. Tilting her head back against the glass on the driver's window, she lifted her lips to his and when he closed his mouth over hers, she felt heat coiling deep in her belly. The moment his hand molded around her breast her body melted into his. Wynd knew taking this woman in the cab of her father's truck was not the right way to start off their relationship. He ached with wanting her, his body was hard and oozing for need of her, but he never wanted her to regret their first time, never wanted her to feel guilty over where that consummation had taken place. He eased his mouth from hers. "Let's take this outside," he said. Storm nodded, although she wasn't all that keen on lying down on the damp grass. When she moved away from him, she realized he was reaching behind the truck seat into the extended cab. "You came prepared," she accused as she saw what he was retrieving. "Not mine," he said as he pulled the plaid blanket toward him. "I just noticed it was there." He opened his door and got out, holding his hand out to her to help her scoot out from beneath the wheel. Shutting the door, he led her over to the tall oak tree that spread a portion of its ancient gnarled branches over the tumbling creek. "They call this Catfish Run," she said, indicating the creek. "Have you been fishing in it?" He shook his head as he let go of her hand to spread the blanket on the ground. "No, I just come here at night to think." He hunkered down to his knees, lifting his arms up to her. "I'm not a fisherman."

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"Oh, I don't know about that," she said as she sank down before him. "You caught me, didn't you?" She slipped her arms around his neck as he pulled her to him. "You flicked out your line, I took a nibble, and you reeled me in. I'd say you are one helluva fisherman, cowboy." He smiled as he put his hands to either side of her face and pushed her short hair back. "I stand corrected. I'm a master fisherman to have brought in a catch like you." His warm hands on her cheeks made Storm feel so protected and when he brought her lips to his, she sank against him, offering all she had to give. The moment his flesh touched hers, his tongue slipped between her lips, passion flared deep within her, and she moaned. Slipping one hand from her face, over her shoulder and behind her back, Wynd eased her down to the blanket, careful not to crush her as he laid his body upon hers. She could feel the pressure of his erection along her thigh and reached down to touch him. Wynd sucked in a breath as her hand cupped him. He was leaning over her, his eyes on hers, his heart pounding in his chest and reacted by lightly gripping her wrist though he made no move to ease her hand from him. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm not a virgin," she said softly. "I know what I want." He knew what he wanted, as well. Slanting his mouth over hers, he thrust his tongue gently between her lips and took her mouth with such a sweet, passionate claiming that Storm was panting beneath that kiss before he released her. His kiss was hot and thorough. She writhed under him, reveling in the pressure of his broad, hard chest angled across hers, sliding her hands to his shoulders to grip him. His hand covered her breast and he kneaded her, his thumb rubbing over the fabric of her bodice as he planted fleeting kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her chin, then trailed down her neck to flick his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat. Her fingers were stitched through his thick hair, holding his head, as he nibbled sweetly at that tender spot where her neck met her shoulder before easing his mouth to her ear, blowing his breath gently into the spiral before clamping tenderly upon her lobe. "You are wicked," she told him. His palm was radiating heat through the material covering her breast and her nipple was hard and aching. When he plucked at it, she tightened her grip on his hair. "Would you want me to be a good boy?" he teased, grinding his erection against her. "Hell, no," she said. He chuckled and pushed up to unsnap the pearl buttons on his shirt front. Peeling it off to reveal his wide, muscular chest with that enticing pelt of crisp hair that streaked in a slim tiger line toward his crotch, he tossed the garment aside and unbuckled his belt, pulling it free of its loops. Storm lay there staring up at him, one jean clad knee planted between her legs, holding her long skirt down. The sight of his naked chest made her mouth water, and she licked her lips, smiling as he growled at seeing that. She heard his zipper go down and lowered her gaze as he moved back, freeing her skirt to push it up her leg, his hand cupping her thigh as he pushed the fabric aside, hot palm sliding along her flesh. "Your skin is like silk," he whispered as he trailed his fingers lightly upon the sensitive inner flesh of her thigh.

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She reached up to trace a fingernail around the dark areole of one pec and across his nipple. "And you are as hard as a rock." She tweaked his flesh and heard him gasp in a quick breath. Wynd growled low in his throat, and he put his hand to the bodice of her dress and began to unbutton it. He was being careful not to rip or tear the material although every instinct screamed at him to rend the blouse and lower his mouth to her straining peak. He was delighted to see the bra had a front closure and flicked it open with ease. When the material parted to reveal her lush breasts, he lowered his head to feast upon them, alternating his devout attention between first one and then the other firm globe. Storm shivered beneath his knowing mouth. His tongue was dragging over her nipples, his teeth grazing the engorged peaks, his lips drawing the tip deep into his mouth. He was cupping her beneath that aching flesh, lifting her for his sensual assault, tasting her, nibbling upon her, and tremors shook her, making her belly quiver. By the time he lowered a hand to pass over her stomach and delve down beneath the waistband of her skirt, she was completely lost. "Take it off," she whispered as his mouth returned to hers for a searing kiss. "Take off my skirt!" He pushed back and reached for her, helping her to tug the skirt over her head, finished pulling off her undone bra. He tossed them both away and stretched out atop her once again, the only things between his flesh and hers [were her panties and his jeans. When she tugged at his waistband, he got to his feet like a shot. It was comical watching him hop on first one leg then the other as he took his boots off, but there was nothing funny about watching him peel those tight jeans down over his lean hips, down his muscular thighs and off, his bare backside letting her know underwear was something he had no use for. But it was the jut of his powerful shaft that drew and held her rapt attention. It was standing straight out from his body, and it was long and thick with a gloriously rounded head. As soon as he dropped back down on the blanket, she wanted to wrap her fingers around that pulsing cock, and she did, reaching for him. "Found something you like?" he queried. "Yes, sir," she said and ran her thumb over the slight ooze that had eased from his tip. She spread it around his head, gripping him lightly, tugging gently. "Lie down." "I am all yours," he said and stretched out beside her. Storm moved up and over him so she was kneeling between his thighs. The soft white lace of her panties gleamed in the moonlight, drawing his attention away from her sweet breasts. No novice to what a man liked, Storm knew how to massage Wynd's cock. If Drake had taught her nothing else, he'd taught her that. She lavished attention on Wynd's sac and upon the creases to either side. She stroked her fingers beneath his rigid length and pressed him between her hands in one long, slow glide. She ran her fingernails along his inner thighs and across the hard top, feeling him shiver beneath her touch. She worked the moisture seeping from him onto his tip until he was panting beneath her ministrations. "Princess, you need to stop that before I come," he whispered and put his hands on her shoulders to swing her down beside him, moving over her to pin her down, his cock grinding against her as he swooped down to claim her mouth once more.

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Storm looped her arms around his shoulders and brought one leg up to cock around his hip. His tongue dueled with hers, thrusting in and out and around inside her mouth. He tasted like warm honey, his breath fanning across her face. When his hand slid down her belly to cup her between the legs, she arched up against his palm. "Oh, baby, you are wet," he said, stroking her. "I'm wet for you," she said against his mouth. He slipped a finger under the leg band of her panties and stroked her, his short fingernail grazing the tender fold. "My God, you are hot," he whispered and slid his finger into her. Storm's hips thrust up against his sweet invasion, impaling him on her slick sheath. She tightened the muscles of her vagina around his fingers then felt him moving it inside her— twisting from side to side before going a bit deeper—then stopped breathing as he added a second, then third, finger to stretch her, turning his hand so he could search for that illusive Gspot she had heard about but wasn't sure existed. With a suddenness that made her cry out, she knew Wynd had found that mysterious spongy center and was pressing it, soothing it, making her bear down on his hand with such sweet bliss, her eyelids fluttered closed, and she arched her head back on the blanket. "Is that it?" he asked, stroking her. "Yes," she purred, grinding her hips as he kept pressure on that sensual area. She was amazed that he was so perceptive to her feelings, to what she was experiencing and as the pressure began building, the heat curling and uncurling in her loins, the ooze of her passion flowing over his questing fingers, she felt her heartbeat speed up, her breath begin coming in short little hitches. "Come for me, baby," he ordered and shifted so he could place his other hand on her breast to bring her nipple to his lips. He was suckling her, massaging her with one hand and with the other he was causing such an intense sensation of desire to build up inside her, she thought she might spiral out of control. His body against hers was hard and lean and muscular. She could feel the wiry crispness of his chest hair tickling her. His fingers were knowing and expert at what they were doing and they were eliciting a vast degree of pure lust from her body. "Yes," she sighed, writhing beneath him. "Yes, Wynd. Yes!" The spasms began high in her abdomen then rippled downward to clutch and throb against his fingers. He was pushing in and out of her, thrusting, milking, going deep, withdrawing to stroke her clit before delving deep again as her orgasm rocketed over in a wild burst. "Wynd!" she cried out and slapped her hand on his wrist to hold his hand steady inside her as she came and came again around him. Her hips were lurching upward over and over again as his fingers probed deeply within her. His mouth stilled on her breast though his tongue continued to flick across her sensitive nipple until she shuddered hard and then laid still, her thighs splaying open in wanton surrender to his mastery. "That's my girl," he said, and while she lay there as limp as a noodle, he rose up and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and removed them. "That's my girl." She knew he hadn't been fulfilled, and she reached for him, but he would not allow it. He lightly batted her hands away and slid down her, taking her into his mouth, claiming her clit between gently clenched teeth.

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"Oh, my God!" she hissed, and her hands went to his hair. She grabbed a handful of the thick curls and held on as he plied her body into a second then a third orgasm so quickly she couldn't tell where one left off and the other began. She was riding his mouth with his tongue lapping at her, that powerful muscle dragging up and down her folds then stabbing as far as he could put it inside her wet channel. Another orgasm shot over her and she began to tremble so violently from it, her teeth were chattering. "My turn," he said and slithered over her, his knees pushing hers far apart as he sank down into her. He slipped his hands under her and lifted her, pushing deep inside. Storm's legs jerked, and she wrapped them around his hips, holding on for the ride as he began pumping into her with hard, fierce strokes that branded her his. His fingers were clamped into her flesh and his face buried against her shoulder as he thrust powerfully. When he came he stiffened. His arms went rigid above her as he braced his weight on the curl of his bent wrists. His hips pumped once, twice and then his cum shot long and warmly inside her, his full cock throbbing and pulsing as it took her. She had never felt so thoroughly taken. His body had put its stamp of ownership upon hers in such a way she knew she would always belong to this man. No matter where either of them was at any one given time, their hearts and souls would be together. "I love you," she heard him whisper and was shocked to the very root of her being. Men just didn't say such things anymore and certainly not with the meaning with which he'd made his simple statement. "Wynd....” she began, thinking he'd merely been caught up in the moment, in the special rightness of it. "I think I've loved you from the moment I first saw you," he said and laid his body gently down on hers, turning his cheek so it rested against her breast. "I'm not just saying that, Storm. I mean it." She wrapped her arms around him and held him, listening to his breath return to normal, feeling the slickness of his sweat mingling with hers. The night air was wafting over them to cool their fevered flesh, but she honestly didn't think anything would ever put out the fire that had suddenly blazed into life inside her heart. "When its right, it's right," she heard him say. "And you know it." He lifted his head and found her eyes in the moonlight. "My grandfather always said that and I never really understood what it meant until tonight." She placed a soft kiss on his brow and smiled. "You may be right," she said. "I will always love you," he swore. "Always." **** When he said goodnight to her at her door half an hour later, he had taken her hand in his and brought it to his lips, smiling at her under the sweep of his long, dark eyelashes. It was the only thing he could do, for her mother stood behind her, glaring at him with what he knew was suspicion. "That's enough, young man," she snapped and put a heavy hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Time to come in, Storm Lynn." Though she ached to have his lips upon hers one more time before the night was through, Storm knew that wasn't going to happen. She sighed and stepped back, letting her fingers slide through his.

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"Good night, Mrs. Riley," Wynd said to her mother. "I don't care for deceit, young man," her mother told him. "In any form." "No, ma'am," he agreed and moved back on the porch. "I understand." "If you are going to court my daughter, you will do so as who you are and not what you are pretending to be or you will leave her alone. Is that clear?" "Yes, ma'am," he said, putting a hand to his heart. "I promise." "Humph," her mother snorted then closed the door in his face. Wynd smiled. Despite the stiffness of Storm's mother's mouth, he had seen a sparkle in the older woman's eyes that told him more than her words. Digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he headed toward the barracks, whistling as he went. He never saw the two by four coming at him out of the darkness, but he felt the air it misplaced and turned in surprise. It was a good thing he did for what had been aimed at his head slammed into his hastily thrown up arm instead. A certain concussion became a dislocated shoulder instead. Manuel Perez had just come out of the barracks to smoke, since the habit was not allowed inside the building, when he heard a muffled curse and the sound of scuffling. He paused in striking a match to his cigarillo and turned toward the sound. "Break his arm!" he heard someone say. "He won't be picking cantaloupes then!" Fury shot over Manuel. "Fight!" he yelled as loud as he could and took off running toward the sounds of someone being beaten. He barely heard the scrambling of other feet coming out of the barracks behind him. Wynd was on the ground, and three men were busy kicking him in the ribs and back. He was on his belly, striving to get away from them—one arm hanging oddly at his side—as he dug his feet into the dirt. His head was down in an obvious attempt to keep his attackers from kicking him in the face. As Manuel ran toward him, one booted foot of those beating him caught Wynd in the midsection and flipped him over, the young Texan crying out in agony as he rolled onto his dislocated shoulder. "Let's get out of here!" one of the attackers shouted, and all three took off running into the night. Four men from two of the barracks had come running when Manuel had called out. Two took out after the fleeing men but the other two bent down with Manuel to assess the damage done to Wynd. "Go get Senior Hector!" Manuel ordered. "The boy is hurt!" Blood was pouring from cuts on Wynd's face, and he was clutching his arm as waves of pain undulated through it. He knew he had some broken ribs for he could feel them grating against one another with every breath he took. He thought his nose might have broken as well when he'd gone down hard with the first brutal hit that had driven into the side of his head. One eye was rapidly swelling shut, and he could taste blood inside his mouth. "Sons of bitches!" Manuel hissed as he reached for his handkerchief and blotted at the blood streaming from the cut over Wynd's left eye. "Did you see who they were?" "I know who they were," Wynd said and gasped as pain radiated throughout his upper body. He was seeing stars at the periphery of his vision and knew he was a heartbeat away from passing out. "Hold on, tipo," Manuel said. "We'll get you to the hospital."

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It wasn't the first time Wynd had been in a fight, but it was the first time he'd come out on the losing end of one. He'd taken hits before, but he'd always managed to give as good as he got. Three on one hadn't been good odds to begin with, and since the cowards had attacked him out of the night—sneaking up on him and lying in wait—he hadn't had much chance to defend himself. Next time—and he knew damned well there was going to be a next time—he'd come out on top. "How badly is he hurt?" he heard Hector asking. The older man hunkered down beside him. "Do we need an ambulance?" "No," Wynd was quick to say. He didn't want the sound of an ambulance to frighten Storm and her parents. "Just get me to the ER." "Get my Mercury!" Hector ordered. "The keys are in it." He glanced around at Juan. "Go up to the big house and....” "No!" Wynd was quick to deny. "They don't need to know about this." "The boss man will want to know," Hector said. "In the morning," Wynd said. His truck brought around, Hector and Manuel managed to get Wynd to his feet and help him into the backseat. He was bleeding badly although one of the men had taken off his shirt to give to Wynd to staunch the flow. He apologized to Hector for the mess he was making. "You never mind about that," Hector growled as he climbed behind the wheel and slammed the big car into reverse. His arm was on the back of the seat as he backed the car up then swung it around hard. "Just lay there and shut up." Wynd couldn't do anything else, for the bumpy ride back over the lane and out to the road was an agony unto itself. His shoulder was throbbing so fiercely he lost consciousness after the car's tire rolled into one deep pothole. He was still out when Hector drove them to the hospital emergency room and a gurney was rolled out to take him from the back seat. **** Shane Riley was having his second cup of coffee of the morning as his wife fried up a half dozen eggs for his breakfast. He heard the scuffle of boot heels on the back porch and nodded to Hector when his foreman sauntered in. Behind him the morning was spreading crimson fire through the eastern sky. "You know what they say about red sky in the morning," Shane commented as Hector greeted Margie Riley then poured himself a cup of coffee. "What is it they say?" Hector asked as he declined breakfast and took a seat at the table with his boss. Years of friendship and working alongside the man across from him made it an easy relationship. "Sailors take warning," Margie said as she ladled scrambled eggs onto a big mound of buttered grits on her husband's plate and then piled half a pound of bacon and several slices of buttered toast atop that. "Means we're gonna be in for a rough day," Shane said. "Well that ought to go real well with the rough night we just had," Hector commented and took a healthy sip of his hot coffee. "Something happen overnight?" Shane inquired. He was slathering Mayhaw jelly [Mmm. I love that stuff!] on his toast. "Wynd Landers is in the hospital with a dislocated shoulder, a broken wrist, three broken ribs, a broken nose, bruised kidneys, ruptured spleen, and a light concussion," Hector replied.

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Margie gasped, nearly dropping her bowl of oatmeal. "Oh, dear Lord! What happened?" "He got jumped out there by the barracks," Hector replied. "Doc had to remove his spleen, by the way. He's gonna be out of commission awhile." "And you didn't call me?" Shane demanded, his eyes flaring. "Boy didn't want me to bother you," Hector said. "Begged me not to. Didn't want to worry you." "Didn't want to worry Storm, you mean," Margie said, sitting down as though the air had been sucked out of her body. "Who was it?" Shane growled. "Some of Drake's buddies is my guess," Hector said. "I heard they were at the dance last night. Must have followed him home." "On Riley property," Shane said, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "I'll have their balls for this!" "Shane, don't be vulgar," Margie warned although a militant light had crept into her normally placid brown eyes. "Let the law handle it." "Nobody saw 'em do it, Miss Margie," Hector said. "We already talked to the sheriff about this. It would be their word against his and though he can identify them if he saw [them] again, he didn't know their names." "What does he want to do?" Shane asked. "He wants to handle it himself when he's able," Hector said. "And I think that's the best way to go. Unless I miss my guess, he's gonna wipe the floor up with those jerks." "Didn't do too well against them the first go round," Margie commented. "They jumped him. Give him a fair fight and my money will be on Wynd," Hector pointed out. "Dirty little cowards," Shane said, his appetite gone. "I'll be willing to bet good money one of them was that Carlton boy, Ty." "Most likely," Hector agreed. "And he'll be sitting in church beside his father this morning acting like nothing happened," Shane snarled. "Take a look at his hands," Hector advised. "You see bruises and scrapes, you know what he's been up to." "What whose been up to, Hector?" Storm asked as she came padding into the kitchen, her bare feet making no sound on the tile. She gave her father a peck on the cheek and headed for the coffee pot. Margie shook her head at her husband and Hector. She didn't want Storm to find out until the girl had a few sips of coffee under the belt of her terrycloth robe. "How was the dance?" Hector countered. "Really good," she said. "I had a great time and....” She stopped, aware the three older people weren't looking at her. She paused in pouring her coffee. "What's happened?" "There was a bit of trouble last night," Shane said. "Nothing we can't handle." Switching her attention from her father to her mother, Storm saw concern in her mother's face, and her hand shook on the coffee pot. "What happened?" she repeated. "Come sit down," her mother said. "Let's discuss this like a family."

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Hector had long since been included as part of the family so it wasn't a strange request her mother had made, but it was the way the words were spoken that sent a chill down Storm's back. "Mama?" she asked, fear making her voice sound far younger than its years. "Wynd was hurt last night," Shane began but before he could finish, his wife held up a hand to ward off the terror that had shot across her daughter's face. "He's okay. He's going to be just fine, but they had to remove his spleen so he'll be in the hospital a few days. He--" Margie began but Storm was up and running, tearing up the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her. "I don't believe Storm Lynn will be accompanying us to church today, Margie," Shane said. "I don't think you ought to press the issue, either." "I'll take her into town," Hector said. He finished his coffee. "I don't think she should drive herself." "Thank you, Hector," Margie said, content to let the foreman do it since he always went to church on Saturday afternoons at Immaculate Conception for his weekly obligation and would not miss hearing God's word to take Storm to the hospital. "We'll be by as soon as Sunday Services are over," Shane said. **** Storm was shaking so badly she could barely walk as she entered Wynd's room. She didn't know what to expect even though Hector had warned her that the young man had a badly bruised eye, cuts on his face, a broken nose, and his left arm in a sling. "He's sleeping," the nurse—Lynette Forbes' mother, Peggy—said as she looked up from adjusting Wynd's IV drip. "Try not to wake him. He needs his rest." "Has the Doc been in to see him this morning?" Hector asked quietly. Peggy nodded. "He's doing as well as can be expected. I believe his father was called so his family is on their way down." Storm was standing just inside the room beside the heavy open door. Hector was beside her and had to ease Storm out of the way as Peggy left. He kept hold of the young woman's arm. "I'm okay," she said, her eyes locked on Wynd's still face. Hector let go of her arm, patted her on the shoulder and left quietly, giving her time alone with the injured man. For a long time, Storm wasn't able to walk any closer to the bed. She was aware that tears were falling down her cheeks, but she made no effort to bat them away. Her heart was aching and her lip trembling. She knew as well as she knew her own name that she was ultimately responsible for what had happened to Wynd. Had she left him alone, he would not be lying unconscious in a hospital room with broken bones and a missing spleen. "Oh," she whispered and covered her face with her hands. She was miserable, feeling so guilty she hated herself, and so angry at Drake's friends she wanted to mow them down with her car. "Do I look that bad, Princess?" She snapped her head up, her eyes wide as she realized he was awake and looking at her— or trying to for one eye was completely shut, and the other was terribly bloodshot. She hurried to the bed, wanting to take his hand but unable to because of the cast on his forearm. "Wynd, I am so sorry," she said, tears flowing freely.

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"Not your fault," he said, and his words were slurred. She hoped that was from the medication they were giving him and not the concussion he'd suffered. "If we hadn't gone to the dance....” she began, but he shushed her, trying to reach her with the fingers of the hand from which the IV cannula was taped. "I'd have met up with them sooner or later. Cowards run in packs, didn't you know that?" He smiled, wincing as his cut lip obviously gave him pain. She came around to the other side of the bed. "I could kill Ty and his cohorts!" she said, eyes blazing, lips peeled back. "If he so much as says one word to me, I swear, I'll castrate him!" "Ouch," Wynd said and tried not to laugh. "That's a little severe for merely whipping my ass, don't you think?" "No," she said and hesitated before she finally managed to enclose his fingers in hers. He sighed heavily. "I feel like I'm encased in cotton," he said. He smacked his lips. "Probably the drugs," she said and couldn't resist reaching down to smooth a lock of his hair from his forehead. "How do you feel?" "Am I supposed to be feeling something?" he countered with a grin. "Idjut," she called him, stroking his cheek. "I guess the meds are working." "Good stuff, whatever it is," he told her. "I'd better enjoy it before my old man gets here. He's the kind who has dental work done with Novocain." "Hector said you'd be here a few days," she said. "I'm looking at four to six according to Nurse Goodbody," he replied. "Then six weeks of hanging around doing nothing while the incision heals." He frowned. "That's a bummer." "You can learn all the ins and outs of Riley Farms in that time," she said. When he lifted his gaze to hers, she shrugged. "Since you are going to be running it when the old man retires." "And I have the care and feeding of his lovely daughter all for my own evil purposes?" he countered, eyebrows wagging despite the stitches over the left one. "I don't remember you asking him for my hand," she reminded him. "Minor technicality," he admitted. "If you approve, I'll do that when he visits today." She shook her head at him. "Let's give it a few weeks to make sure I still want you when you're up and about." "You will," he stated. "I'm gonna ask him." A thrill shot through Storm, and she realized that she wanted him to. Though this was happening too fast, too soon, too intently, it felt right to her. "Besides, we forgot something last night," he said, his face sobering. "What?" she asked. He blushed. "Ah, protection." Storm's mouth dropped open. "Oh, my God, Wynd! I never even thought....” "I didn't either," he admitted. "So as far as I'm concerned, it's a done deal." "Yes, but....” "You could be pregnant," he said softly. "You'd be awfully potent if I am," she said but could see the wisdom in what he was saying. "You want me," he said. "It's a done deal."

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But that had been before the red-headed virago with the flashing gray eyes and size 40DD's came barreling into the room like a tornado, throwing her arms around Wynd despite his yelp of pain. "Oh, baby! Look at you!" the tall, shapely woman who looked like she could be a top New York model gushed. "What have they done to my snookems?" "Snookems?" Storm repeated, staring aghast at the woman who was practically lying atop Wynd, oblivious to him trying to push her off. Before she could order the woman to back off, help arrived in the form of a rescuer who couldn't be much over four foot seven inches tall. "Rachel, get the gooddamned hell off him!" an imperious voice barked from the door and an older woman—ninety if she was [a] day—came striding into the room, flashing Storm a cursory glance before grabbing hold of the model's arm and yanking her back with a strength that was surprising in a woman her age. "Can't you see the boy is in pain?" Wynd's face had lost all its color. His eyes leapt to Storm's, and she could see the embarrassment that was flooding his features. "But Grammie, look at what they've done to my baby!" the red head complained. "He's not your baby and I'm not your grandmother, you simpleminded twit!" the old lady snapped. She pushed the redhead aside with her hip and leaned over Wynd. "Did that girl hurt you, son?" "My arm," Wynd managed to say. He was sweating bullets. "I think it's dislocated again." "Goddamn it!" the old woman swore, spinning around to pierce the red head with a look that should have dropped the younger woman in her tracks. "Go fetch the nurse. Now!" With a pout on her highly-glossed lips, the red head flounced out of the room, her shapely butt gyrating in a skin-tight skirt that barely covered the cheeks of her ass. She mumbled something to someone just outside the door. "Who the hell are you?" the old woman asked Storm. Storm lifted her chin. "His fiancé," she stated, ignoring the middle aged man and woman who had come quietly into the room. "Who the hell are you?" Cinnamon Berrigan Landers blinked then narrowed a pair of brown eyes that glinted with golden highlights. "His grandmother, you insolent little chit." "Grammie....” Wynd said, trying to push himself up in bed. "Storm and I....” "Storm?" the old woman echoed. "That's my name. What's yours?" Storm challenged. Cinnamon arched one thick white brow. "Oh, now ain't that just jim-crack dandy!" She twisted her head around to pierce her only son with a knowing look. "Wynd and Storm. What are the odds of that, Jackson?" The tall man who looked so much like Wynd that they could have passed for brothers, smiled gently at Storm. "Sounds like a hurricane in a teapot just waiting to brew up all kinds of mischief," he said with a wink. "To me, too," the old woman agreed with a quick nod of her head. "Come here, girl, and let me get a good look at you." Storm glanced at Wynd, saw him roll his eyes, and skirted the bed. She came up to the old woman—towering above her—and stared down into a pair of eyes that missed nothing. "Pretty, but can you cook?" "Can you?" Storm returned.

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"Goddamned right I can," Cinnamon stated. "They didn't name me Cinnamon for nothing!" "Spicy are you?" Storm asked. "Got a bite you don't want me to test on you, child," the old woman declared. "I've had my shots," Storm said with a shrug. Thin lips twitched then those dark brown eyes gleamed with laughter. "You've a smart mouth on you, girl. We're gonna get along real good." "I'm Little Dawn Landers," Wynd's mother said, holding out a slim, dark hand. "Make sure you keep your tetanus up to date." Storm took the pretty woman's hand just as the nurse and doctor came back in, the red head flouncing behind them. She shot Storm an annoyed look then proceeded to ignore her. "Everybody out while I look at his arm," Doc Benson ordered, shooing everyone away although he hesitated when he encountered the merciless eyes of the older woman. "Ah, you, too, Ma'am." "I was nursing G.I.s in England while you were still a gleam in your daddy's eye, boy. I'm staying!" Cinnamon declared, folding her arms over her diminutive chest. Jackson pushed the red head from the room and Little Dawn followed with Storm behind her. "Who are you?" the red head demanded as soon as they were in the hall. "This is Rachel Dodd," Little Dawn said. "She and Wynd used to date." "We are engaged to be married," Rachel pronounced. "I'll ask you again—who are you?" "Unless Wynd is a Mormon and not the Catholic I believe him to be, I'm the woman he's marrying next summer," Storm said, surprising her with the statement. Rachel's eyes flared, and she took a step forward. Had Jackson not moved in front of her, it was obvious the red head would have slapped Storm. Her hand was already raised to do just that. "I told you not to come," Jackson said, his eyes stern, "but you didn't listen. Now, maybe you will." "That bitch is lying!" Rachel accused, her face ugly. "Wynd and I have it all arranged, Jack. You know that!" "You have it all arranged," Little Dawn said. "I've never heard my son say one thing about the two of you getting married, Rachel." "We are!" the red head exclaimed. "We are in love!" "Obviously not," Jackson said, "if he's asked Storm to marry him." "You thieving cunt!" Rachel threw at Storm and tried once more to get around Jackson. "You stole my man! If you think I'll let you marry the man I love, you are sadly mistaken, you diseased whore!" That was the shrill words Shane and Margie Riley heard as they came down the hallway toward Wynd's room. Margie's face turned bright red, and she stumbled to a halt, shocked to the core of her being at such language directed at her daughter. "What's going on here?" Shane asked. He knew the tall man standing near Storm had to be Jackson Landers and the beautiful Native American beside him the young man's mother. Who the red head with the foul mouth was he neither knew nor cared to know.

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"I'm Jackson and this is my wife, Little Dawn," Wynd's father said, striding forward to put out a hand. "Are you Storm's dad?" "Shane Riley of Riley Farms," Shane introduced himself. "Your daughter is a slut!" Rachel shouted. Margie gasped, her hand fluttering to her mouth. Had Shane not reached out to steady her, she might well have collapsed. "Shut that goddamned filthy mouth of yours!" another voice intruded on the scene and Shane and Margie turned to see an infuriated elderly woman storming up to the red head. She snaked out a hand and clamped it around the red head's wrist and jerked brutally. "You come with me before I stomp your silicon boobs into the terrazzo, you two-bit whore!" Rachel sputtered as Cinnamon dragged her down the hall but knew better than to balk. The old woman had the look of the devil in her narrowed eyes. "Storm?" Margie asked weakly. "Who was that awful woman?" "That's my mother," Jackson said, then at his wife's whisper, realized Margie meant the red head. "Oh, that was our son's friend." He held up his hands. "Nothing else. Just friends but Rachel had other ideas despite Wynd trying to convince her otherwise." "What's happening here?" Margie asked, her lips trembling. She was grateful when the woman who had been introduced as Wynd's mother came over and put a comforting arm around her. "Let's go find us a strong cup of tea, dear," Little Dawn said. "I believe we both need something fortifying, don't you?" Margie nodded. "Yes, I surely do." She lowered her voice. "I wish we had a liberal amount of good Irish whiskey to fortify it even more!" The two women giggled and an instant bond formed between them—a bond that was already developing between the two fathers. There was a cut-off yelp inside Wynd's room, and Storm thought her knees would buckle. Her father started toward her but she waved him off. "I think they had to re-set his shoulder," she said, hating the red head with every fiber of her being for having added to Wynd's pain. She leaned against the wall. She had never liked confrontations though she had never backed down from one. Seeing a woman intent on having Wynd, who claimed him as her own, did something strange to Storm's backbone—it turned it to unbending steel. No way was she going to allow another woman to have her man! That Wynd was hers was no longer in doubt. He was. He would remain hers and if the red head had designs on him, well that was just too fucking bad for her! "Storm?" she heard her father question. "Yes, sir?" "Did you hear what Wynd's father asked?" Storm shook her head. "No, I'm sorry, but I didn't." Jackson liked this slip of a girl with her direct eyes and pretty face, her polite manners and respectful tone. He could see what had attracted his finicky son to her. He smiled at Storm. "I asked if you would like to have supper with my wife, my mother, and myself this evening. We've invited your dad and mom as well." Storm lifted her chin. "Will that Rachel person be joining us?" "No," Jackson was quick to say. "She most certainly will not."

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"Then I would very much like to get to know Wynd's family better," she stated. The doctor and nurse came out of Wynd's room, the doctor with a sharp frown on his face. "Well, I hope no permanent damage has been done. Please keep that woman away from him until she can behave responsibly," Doc Benson grumbled. "She's not going to be allowed to go back in to see him, period," Storm said. "I agree," Jackson said. He gave Storm a nod. "Why don't you spend a few minutes with him while your dad and I get to know one another better?" Storm agreed and went back into Wynd's room, shaking her head at him when she saw how pale and sweaty his face was. "Was it really bad, baby?" she asked. "I don't want to have to go through that again," he said. "Well, Carrot Top isn't going to be visiting you again so you don't have to worry about her squashing you," she said. "There's nothing between us, Princess," he said and held his hand out to her. "I swear it. Not anymore." She came to the bed and took his hand in hers. She had to ask. "Were you lovers?" He looked down at her hand. "For awhile but not for nearly a year now. I couldn't take her trashy mouth and the way she flirted with everything in britches." "I told her we were engaged," she said. "I heard," he replied with a grin. "So does that make it official?" She shook her head. "Not until you ask, cowboy, and I haven't heard you ask." When he opened his mouth, she held up a hand. "You have to do it the right way. You ask Daddy first, and then you ask me." He sighed heavily. "He's gonna say yes. I'm quite the catch, you know." "There's no ego in your family is there?" she teased. He pulled on her hand until she was leaning over him, her face close to his. "Kiss me and make it better," he ordered. She slid her lips over his, kissed him gently then deeply before straightening up. "You rest and I'll send Daddy in to see you when he and your father are finished doing their male bonding rituals." "Are they hitting it off?" "Yep and so are our moms. We're going to be one big happy family," she said with a grin. She tucked the cover around his chest. "Now you rest." Before he could ask her to stay, she was leaving the room, giving him a saucy look on her way out. He smiled and closed his eyes, settling down in the bed as best he could, his shoulder throbbing unmercifully. He was almost asleep when he felt himself being caressed. He grinned without opening his eyes. "I'll give you an hour to stop that," he said with a sigh. The hand tightened on his flesh and he grew hard and full. It wasn't until he heard a gasp and a rush of movement toward the bed that he opened his eyes and looked up in the surprised gaze of Rachel as she snatched her hand out from under his covers. "If you don't get the hell away from my man, I'm going to stomp you like the bug you are!" Storm shouted. "Get out of here. Now!"

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Rachel moved so fast, she was a blur as she shot past Storm, giving the younger woman a wide berth. She was practically running from the room with Storm jerking the door wide behind her exit. "And stay out, you sneaky tramp!" Storm yelled and when several shushes sounded along the corridor, she told whoever it was that was trying to quiet her to shush themselves. Shane Riley pushed his daughter back into the room and tried to calm her. "Jackson is going to handle it, little bit. Don't get all ballistic now." "I won't have that woman pawing all over Wynd!" Storm said. "I understand," Shane said in a reasonable voice. "Now go find your mama and ask her to drive you and Wynd's mother home. They're gonna be staying with us while he's laid up." When she started protest, he laid his fingers over her lips. "Do what I tell you. Jackson and I will be along shortly. " Storm looked around at Wynd then flounced out of the room. "I'm sorry, Mr. Riley," Wynd began but Shane shook his head. "You can't be held accountable for what some crazy woman does," Shane said. He came over to the bed, folded his arms over his chest, and then gave Wynd a steady look. "I understand you have something you want to ask me?" Wynd tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. "Yes, sir," he managed to squeak, his mouth as dry as a peanut field after harvest. "I do." Shane's lips twitched. "Then you'd better make it good, son."

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Chapter Three Sitting behind the wheel of her car, Storm was having trouble making her mind up whether or not to show the tape to Beverly. As far as she knew, no one other than herself and whoever had made the vile thing had seen it, and she was loathe letting Bev see what a turd Wynd really was, but his vehement denial that anything had happened with Rachel Dodd needed verification. Finally making up her mind, she leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and took out the VHS tape and dropped it into her tote bag. With her jaw tight, she got out of the car and went up to Bev's door and rang the bell. Bev had a baby on her hip when she came to the door. Little Tad was just eight months old and was more like his linebacker father than Beverly. Chubby and drooling, the little boy held his pudgy arms out to his Aunt Storm. "How's my little angel?" Storm said, giving the baby a loud raspberry under his little chin. Taddy cooed and gave Storm a sloppy kiss. "Did you run him over?" Bev asked as she led Storm back through the house and into the den. She placed Taddy in his play pen and took a seat on the sofa. "I know you followed him out to the creek." "Does the whole town know?" Storm asked. "Just those of us who know the two of you," Bev replied. "So did you run him over?" "No," Storm snapped. "So what's up?" "I've got something I need you to look at," Storm said. She bent over to retrieve the tape from the tote. "Oh, no!" Bev said, eyes wide. "Is that the infamous tape?" "I want you to look at it and give me your honest opinion," Storm said. "Storm, I don't know....” Bev began. It was obvious from the distasteful look on her face that she didn't want to be a voyeur into Wynd's extramarital shenanigans. "Just look at it, please," Storm begged. She extended the tape toward Bev. "You're asking a lot, girlfriend," Bev said. "I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't so important, Bev. Please?" After a long moment, Bev took the tape with her lips pressed tightly together. She stood and took the tape over to the VHS/DVD player. "I hope you know what a real bitch this is going to be for me, Storm Lynn," she said as she turned on the TV and popped the tape into the machine. She looked around. "Hey, where are you going?" "I can't look at it again," Storm said and went over to play with Taddy as the tape began to play. Bev took a deep breath and sat down in Tad Senior's recliner. She tucked her feet beneath her and put a thumbnail to her lips—a habit she had when nervous or upset. The tape began with a slow pan of a room that was obviously in a hotel. There was a set of louvered closet doors, a door opening into a large bathroom, a king size bed with dual

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nightstands, a huge armoire with TV, a sofa and two chairs, a table with two chairs. The décor was modern and done in shades of green and rust with a gold floral carpet on the floor. On one nightstand was an ice bucket from which protruded the top of a champagne bottle and beside it stood two fluted wine glasses. The bed had been turned down and the lights turned down low to mute the otherwise garishness of the hotel ambience. "What am I supposed to be seeing here?" Bev asked, glancing over [at] Storm and Taddy. "Just wait," Storm said. Bev looked back at the screen and the scene changed. This time there was a lush red head standing at the foot of the bed. She was wearing a tight black sheath. From her movements, she stepped out of a pair of high heels and put her hand behind her back to pull down her zipper. "God, I've been waiting so long for this," the red head said in a sultry voice to someone off camera. "You make me so damned hot." "Oh, shit," Bev said and ducked her head. She reached over and snatched up a pillow from the sofa and held it over the lower portion of her face. The red head undressed slowly, peeling her dress off to reveal a skimpy black lace bra and even skimpier thong that was nothing more than a piece of dental floss between her curvaceous hips. "When you called and told me to meet you, I could only hope it meant what I thought it did." "It did. I was on pins and needles all the way up here." Bev recognized that voice and sat up straighter, but the tape didn't shift to the speaker. "I'm so glad you've decided to leave her," the red head said. "Me, too." Bev cut her eyes across to Storm and saw her friend's mouth trembling. "Well, we're gonna have a great time," the red head that Bev knew was Rachel Dodd— Wynd's old flame—declared. "I’m gonna make you forget she ever existed." "I know you can." For the next half hour Bev watched Rachel Dodd take off what was left of her scanty attire and crawl into the bed like some jungle pantheress tracking her prey. The camera followed her long legs as her knees dipped into the mattress, and she slinked over the naked body of Wynd Landers lying on his back, his face in profile to the camera, his eyes closed. Storm heard Bev gag and knew the tape had come to the part where Rachel was going down on Wynd, drawing his cock slowly in and out between her cherry-red lips, slathering her tongue around his head, flicking it into the slit, suck him deep into her mouth, lapping his balls, slowly insinuating one crimson-tipped nail into his anus as she suckled his shaft. "Oh, this is just sick," Bev said at one point. "Do it," Storm heard her husband say, but for the first time, she heard something odd in the way he'd spoken the words and she looked around to watch Bev's reaction. Bev was wearing a deep frown and she was no longer sitting back in the recliner as though it was her security blanket. She was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, her eyes intent on the screen. "I like that. Can you make it harder?" "Huh?" Bev questioned and reached for the remote, running the tape back and replaying Wynd's words.

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Storm picked up the stuffed animal Taddy threw out of the playpen and gave it back to him then got up to sit in the chair across from the TV. She didn't look at the screen because she knew the damned tape by heart. She knew Rachel would be rolling her more than ample breasts all over Wynd's face, would be reaching down to stuff him into her waiting cunt, would be grinding her hips upon his as the camera got a bird's eye view of her shapely ass. "That's just the way I want it." Wynd's laughter followed his words on the tape. "Unh, unh," Bev said, shaking her head. Storm squeezed her eyes shut, for this part of the tape would be where Rachel was lying beneath Wynd, his lower body between her gaping thighs, his head pillowed on her breasts, his lips right next to one large nipple, his eyes closed as though he were in heaven as her legs wrapped around him and her arms held him tightly to her. "I needed that," Wynd said. "That's exactly what I've been missing all this time." The tape stopped with a freeze frame of Rachel's mouth plastered to Wynd's, his cheeks cupped between her palms. Bev didn't move as the tape stopped. She was staring at the screen with her mouth ajar, her forehead creased. "No way," she said at last, looking around at Storm. "No way at all!" "What do you mean?" Storm asked. "He didn't move a muscle during the whole thing," Bev declared. "That man was unconscious the entire time." Storm flinched as though she'd been slapped. "What?" "He was out of it, Storm," Bev said. "And whoever dubbed his voice onto the tape didn't do a very good job of it, either." "Dubbed?" Storm repeated. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears. "Dubbed," Bev pronounced. "Not once did Wynd open his eyes. Not once did he move on his own. He just lay there and whenever you hear him speak, the camera is on Rachel or on Wynd's cock or somewhere other than on his face. The man was either drunk or drugged." Storm stared at her friend. "Are you sure?" she asked in a small voice. "I know dubbed and spliced tape when I see it," Bev said. "I took enough courses in college I could qualify as an expert. If you listen very closely to what Wynd says on the tape, you'll hear the quality isn't the same. Those words are coming over a telephone line. I'd stake my degree in Journalism on it!" Tears gathered in Storm's eyes. "Oh, Bev, he swore he didn't touch Rachel and I didn't believe him. After seeing that tape....” "Go take it to your dad," Bev suggested. At Storm's horrified expression, she nodded emphatically. "Take it to your dad and ask him his opinion. If he sees and hears what I'm seeing and hearing, you'll know it's a forgery." "But who would…?" Storm began but it was all too obvious who would do such a thing. Rachel had reason and Drake did as well. If the two of them had collaborated…. "Show it to your dad," Bev said again. **** Shane cursed and picked up the remote to point it angrily at the machine. He punched several buttons before the tape finally stopped. Throwing the offending little clicker onto the

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sofa, he stood and snatched his cell phone from the sheath at his side, punching in numbers with his thumbs as he continued to curse under his breath. "Where are you?" he barked into the phone when it was answered at the other end. He listened for a second. "Get the hell over to the house. Now!" Storm watched her father flip the phone shut then toss it beside the remote on the sofa. She had not stayed in Shane's office as he viewed the VHS tape but had stood at the door to watch his reaction to what he was seeing. She watched him pacing back and forth in front of his desk, his head down, his face livid. "The boy is innocent," her father declared. He glanced around at her. "Didn't you notice that he didn't move the entire time, Storm?" She told him that she hadn't. She had been too upset, too heartsick to notice anything other than her husband in a strange bed with Rachel Dodd, the red head's mouth all over his privates. "Someone set him up," Shane said, "and I'll give you one guess who it was and who her accomplice was!" "I can't believe Drake would do something so underhanded," Storm said. "Why not?" Shane demanded. "That little bastard is capable of anything." "But....” "Wynd beat the shit out of him and Tyler Carlton that summer or have you forgotten?" Shane reminded his daughter. "They shouldn't have come after him again when Wynd got out of the hospital," Storm said. "He warned them, and they ignored him." "Well, common sense never was high on Drake's list of attributes," Shane scoffed. "And then Wynd won that contract Tyler was hoping for from the Agri-Systems people, ruining Ty's prospects as well as the prospects of those other two cronies of Drake's. They had it in for him. Your husband doesn't always play by the rules and this was their way of getting him back." "They deserved what happened, Daddy," she said. "True, but when Wynd sets out to cripple the competition, he doesn't just cut them off at the knees. He goes for the jugular and they knew the only way to really hurt him was to make you leave him. You are his one true weakness, Storm Lynn." The sound of a truck door slamming outside made Storm move into her dad's office and slither over to his couch. She curled up at one end, knowing the tape would be shown again, this time to the man whose boot heels were thudding across the front porch. The screech of the screen door opening made her flinch. "We're in here!" Shane called out. He had gone over to the VHS machine to rewind the tape. Wynd came into the office, saw Storm, and stopped. "What's going on?" he asked. When no one answered, he flexed his shoulders. "I told her I wasn't going to sign those damned papers, Shane. I--” "Sit down," Shane ordered. He started the tape. "I'm not going to just meekly roll over and--” "Sit the fuck down, Wyndan!" Shane shouted, pointing at the other end of the couch.

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Wynd blinked. Through all of what had been happening, not once had Shane yelled at him or shown any kind of anger. Disappointment—yes—but not anger. He took a seat, glancing at Storm's hurt face. "Where is that, Wynd?" Shane asked, pointing to the opening scene. Wynd turned away from Storm and looked at the TV. He frowned, studying the [room]. "It looks like a hotel room," he said. Realization set in as he noticed the time and date stamp on the tape. "Is this that tape you told me about? Is that the hotel in Atlanta?" "Just watch," Shane said. It was the hardest thing in the world Wynd had ever done to sit there and watch what was playing out before him. His face alternated between turning pale as buttermilk and red as a beet then settled into a mask of fury that made his golden eyes burn with rage. When the freeze frame ended the tape, he slowly turned his head toward Storm. "I don't know how that was done, but I swear to God I was not....” "Did you have a drink with someone in the hotel that evening?" Shane interrupted. Wynd's forehead creased. "There was a guy sitting at the bar when I went in. I just wanted a nightcap to take back to my room." "Is that a normal thing with you?" her father asked, eyes shrewd. Wynd looked like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "When I'm away from home and by myself, it helps me sleep." "Were you sitting close to the guy?" Wynd shrugged. "We were the only two at the bar. He invited me to sit beside him and we struck up a conversation." Shane nodded. "Well, my guess is that guy slipped something into your drink while you weren't looking or else the bartender was paid to do it. If it's something you normally do, that Dodd woman probably knew about it or Drake found out somehow," Shane said. "I swear to you, Shane, I did not....” He stopped when Shane shook his head. "We know," Storm said for the both of them and swiped at a tear. "I am sorry, Wynd. I didn't see anything but that woman all over you. It took Bev to realize it was a forgery." "What about what you were saying on the tape?" Shane asked. "I can't be sure, but I think those are bits and pieces of conversations I had with different people, one with the company who was setting up those concrete forms for the new warehouse. I asked him to make the consistency harder," Wynd replied. "I know that part about me being on pins and needles was about flying through a storm when I went up to Charleston. As to what I'd been missing all the time, it was a part for my laptop." "Oh, Wynd," Storm said and began sobbing. "Baby, don't do that," Wynd said. He scooted over to her and took her into his arms. "I'll let you two talk this over," Shane said, shutting off the TV. He walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. "I am so sorry," she repeated, clinging to him. "Shush, baby," he said, smoothing her hair. "After seeing that, I understand why you reacted like you did. I wish you'd trusted me, but I don't know that I wouldn't have done just what you did if I'd gotten a tape like that." "She literally raped you!" Storm cried, and when he flinched, her lips trembled. "She did awful things to you and you weren't even aware she was doing them!"

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"Yeah," he said, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. "And I think the police are going to want to have a good long talk with her." Storm thought of all the lies Drake had spread around Bellington about Wynd and how her husband had supposedly bedded women left and right. She'd believed the gossip because the women had acted like it was true. Now she knew they wanted her to think they'd slept with her husband, hoping to get him on the rebound. Her husband was an alpha male who could be ruthless when he needed to be and women always went after men like that, were always waiting to try and entice such a man from the woman whose heart held him. "If Kimberly thinks I shat on him before," Wynd said, his face hard, "he better stock up on toilet paper because I'm gonna drown him in shit this time." Storm smiled. She knew her husband meant it. Her smile faded. "What?" Wynd asked. "I've had a few dates with the bastard since we split up," she said and when his eyes leapt with flame, she held up a hand. "Just supper and movies. He hasn't laid a hand to me, cowboy!" "That's good because if he had, I'd break him in half," he vowed. "Now....” Storm looked up as her husband got to his feet then gasped as he shot his arms under her and lifted her high against his chest. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Where's your room, Princess?" he asked, heading for the stairs. "I've always had fantasies about taking you in your room." Storm's face turned red. "Mama is....” "In the kitchen and not interested in what you're doing!" came a voice. "Have fun, Wyndan!" "I will!" Wynd yelled back. "Oh, my," Storm said as she buried her face against her husband's shoulder. She could feel the heat in her cheeks scalding her. "Which room?" he asked. He was stalking up the stairs. "First door on the left," she mumbled. Luckily the door was ajar else he might have been tempted to kick it open with his booted foot. As it was, he nudged it closed before taking her to a bed that was still home to at least a dozen stuffed animals. He laid her down then sat beside her to pull off his boots. "This seems so wicked," she said, looking at the teddy bears and bunnies lined up on her pillows. "Yeah," he agreed. "Don't it?" His boots made hard thuds on her carpet as he took them off. She watched him stand, tug the shirt from his jeans, and she licked her lips. His eyes were fused with hers, and as he began unbuttoning his shirt, she felt heat curling in the pit of her stomach. "I think every boy wants to know what it's like to take a girl right under her daddy's nose," he said, shrugging off the shirt then yanking at his belt, stripping it from the loops then undoing his zipper. "You are terrible," she said.

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"Yes, I am," he agreed then shucked off his pants and—as was usual with her cowboy— he was commando with no underwear in sight as he peeled the denims down his long legs and kicked them off. "Either take off those clothes, woman, or I'm going to rip 'em off," he warned, putting a knee to her mattress. Liking her outfit too much to see it destroyed, Storm quickly divested herself of the skirt and blouse, tossing them aside before holding her arms out to her husband. "Come here, cowboy," she said in a low, growling voice. Wynd's mouth pulled up at one corner, and he slithered over her, his body molding to hers like hot syrup to French toast. His mouth slanted over hers and his tongue slid sweetly inside as his arms slid under her to hold her tightly. "Umm," Storm sighed as she draped her arms around his wide shoulders. She put a leg over his and rubbed his calf. She knew how that turned him on, her toes sliding behind his knee to the soft flesh there. She felt him tremble. Wynd took his mouth from hers and stared down into her pretty eyes. "I want you to listen to what I'm about to say, Princess," he said. There was no humor on his face, no expression at all. "Okay?" Storm nodded, her heart suddenly in her throat. "I will never be unfaithful to you," he said, holding her gaze. "Not ever." "I shouldn't have....” "No," he said, "you shouldn't have, but I understand why you did. I admit that tape looks damning but if something like that ever shows up again, I--” "From now on," she interrupted, "when you make a trip for the farm, I'll be going with you. We won't give them the chance to pull something like this again." "They won't," he stated and from the look that entered his golden eyes she knew he meant it. "I can guarantee it." "What--?" He claimed her mouth again, cutting off whatever she'd been about to ask. Moving over her, the stab of his erection slid sweetly between her naked thighs. She arched against him, offering her heat to him, her wetness, everything that was hers. "Let's make a baby," he said and his smile became a slow, hot challenge. "A big, beautiful bouncing baby boy." She ran her hands up and down his arms. "What will we name him?" "Vind," he said. "Vind Landers." Storm's answering smile was filled with happiness. "And if it's a girl?" "We'll name her Tempest," he said with surety. He moved his hands to her hips and gripped her, positioned his cock at the entrance to her channel and with one deft movement slide into her all the way to the hilt. Storm's sigh of contentment as she brought her legs up to encircle his waist, was music to his ears. He slid back then thrust in slowly, building the friction they knew so well together. Storm clasped her hands just above his elbows and held on to him as his fingers went beneath her to grasp her rump, to lift her higher for his penetration. She arched her head back on the pillow—giggling as one of her childhood teddy bears seemed to give her a reproachful look. "This is so wrong," she whispered as her husband increased his rhythm.

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"It is so right," he returned and pressed as deep inside her as he could go, silencing her. Wynd's body had been made to fit hers. His shaft slid in and out of her sheath—deeper with each thrust, harder with each re-entry until they were straining against one another with pounding hearts, racing blood and panting breaths. Her fingers dug into his arms; his fingers dug into her sweet rump. When they came, they came together. Storm's body gripped his tightly and he pressed to the hilt within her to better feel the spasms of her inner muscles, the pulses of his rigid shaft. His cum shot hot and full into her waiting body and filled her as it never had before. There was no doubt for either of them that they had conceived in that wild moment of such intense passion. **** In the distance thunder rumbled, but the lovers were lost in their own private world as the wind increased outside. The stifling heat bore down on Shane and Margie Landers as they sat on the front porch, watching the approaching storm, the smell of ozone ripe on the breeze. "You've being awful quiet. What are you thinking about, doll?" Shane inquired. "I'm thinking I should go have a little talk with Drake's mama," Margie replied as she rocked gently in the comfortable old chair that her great-grandfather had made with his own hands. The two women had known one another since nursery school and were, in fact, distant cousins. "And say what exactly?" Shane countered. He watched a bolt of lightning lacing across the heavens. "If I'm not mistaken, there was a time when Drake wanted to do a documentary on the Kimberly family. I think that was when the Daughters of the Confederacy were inducting Drake's sister, Tanya. His uncle Latham bought all that fancy equipment that Earl put out in the Butler building he bought for Christina's picture taking enterprise," Margie said. "Remember how Christina was going to start up her own portrait studio out there?" "Oh, yeah," Shane agreed with a snort. He thought of Drake's younger sister and how her father, Earl, never could deny the girl anything. "That lasted all of about two months." "Not even that long," Margie said. "When she figured out people wouldn't be as accommodating as her own family was, she lost interest real quick." "Those Kimberly kids were always spoiled so rotten salt wouldn't help. So what are you going to talk to their mother Maveen about?" Shane asked. "I'm sure if she was to find out her son had been up to no good making up a forged tape of our son-in-law and that Texas slut, she would be a mite upset," Margie said. "Mav is a good woman and if there are some pieces of film and such out there in that building, tapes of phone conversations Wynd had and the like, I'm sure she'd be happy to give them to me. Knowing Maveen, she'd have a good long discussion with Drake about it afterwards." "Don't you think Drake would have had sense enough to destroy…?" Shane began then let out a long breath. "Nevermind. I just remembered who I was talking about and answered my own question." He gave his wife a puzzled look. "But what would you do with all that once you got it, Margie?" "I'd turn it over to the kids," she said. "What they do with it is their concern." "Jackson and Little Dawn need to be told about this," Shane said. "They've been as upset about this estrangement as we have."

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His wife stopped rocking. "Then let's go call 'em and give them the news the kids are back together," Margie said. "You think it's a done deal, do you?" he asked as he stood and held out a hand to his wife. "Oh, I know it is," Margie said. "Wynd is persistent if nothing else." The first fat splatters of rain hit the red Georgia clay as Shane opened the screen door for his lady. A dusty smell came from the ground, and he turned to look back at the approaching dark clouds. The fields needed a good soaking rain and it looked like one was about to be provided.

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Epilogue

"They're here, Daddy," sixteen-year old Tempest told her father. Wynd looked up from his daughter's inquisitive green eyes to gaze out across the field. A dust cloud was rolling toward them and ahead of the dust were rusted cars, dented trucks, and a few pitted vans. "Uh huh," Wynd said. "Don't get in the way, now." He motioned for Diego, his foreman, to join him in welcoming the first old truck that had pulled up to the barn. Tempest was straddling her brand new blue bicycle as the caravan of workers approached. She smiled and waved at those workers she'd seen over the years, the ones who came back season after season to work for her father and grandfather. Most greeted her by the name her father called her—poca tormento—which meant little storm. It was the young man's grimy face she noticed first, but set in that mask of indifference were eyes that were glaring at her with such anger, she was taken aback. No one had ever looked at her like that and it made her skin crawl. "Hello," she said, offering him a tentative smile. "What you looking at, girl?" the young man challenged her, his nose crinkling. "Hush your mouth, Tito!" an older man sitting beside the boy hissed, cuffing the boy on the side of his head. "That's the boss' daughter." "I don't give a rat's ass who she is," Tito snarled, batting away another attempt at chastisement. He scrambled up and jumped over the side of the truck, his torn and faded clothes throwing up a layer of dust as his feet hit the ground. Tempest just stood there staring at this belligerent individual who was glowering at her with narrowed eyes and tight lips. She wasn't used to anyone looking at her with such hatred. "What's the matter?" Tito asked with a snort. "Never seen one of your daddy's slaves up close before, Princess?" For a moment Tempest bristled at his words then she took in his torn jeans, his worn down sneakers, and his frayed shirt that was much too small. Her heart suddenly ached for him, but she knew he would throw her pity back in her face so she shrugged indifferently. "If that's how you see yourself, that's not my fault," she said, her pert little nose in the air. Before he could comment, she stood up on the pedals and pushed off, giving him a flip of her long black braid as she sped away. "Don't be taking your anger out on the little princess. The Landers and the Rileys are good people," one of the older workers commented to the boy. "That little girl is a real sweetheart." "And the apple of her daddy's eye," another man declared. "She's nothing special," Tito denied, hitching up his tattered jeans, but his eyes were locked on the girl as she pedaled toward the big white house beyond the barn. Looking at her had

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been like taking a long drink of cold water on a hot day. He had felt something turn deep inside him and for the first time in his life, it mattered to him how someone else saw him. The next morning, the wagons were loading up with workers to be carted out to the fields and the young man fell into line behind the bastard who was now his mother's common law husband, hating Juan Lopez as he'd never hated anyone or anything in his young life. He glared at the back of his stepfather's head, wishing he had the guts to take a rock and bash the bastard's brains out, but what little Juan made and didn't shell out for booze would be sent home to Texas and the frail woman waiting there. "Listen to what your father tells you, Tito," his mother had begged as she'd sent them off to Georgia, a blood-smeared handkerchief held to her pale lips. "Be a good boy for me." After years of working in the fields where pesticides had eaten away the lining of her lungs, Faleena Vasquez was too sick to work the migrant routes. She was spending her days in the four room hovel she shared with her only son and Juan Lopez, taking in ironing and doing alterations for other women. Grabbing the hand of Jesus Lopez, Tito hopped up onto the flatbed of the wagon. "She's looking at you," Jesus said, bumping Tito's leg with his shoulder as the younger boy slid down beside him. Diego cocked his chin toward the barn. Beneath the brim of his battered straw hat, eighteen year-old Tito could see the young girl lurking there by the barn. He lifted his head and looked right at her—expecting her to jump back again—but this time she came out of hiding and stood staring right back at him. She was digging one tennis shoe-shod foot into the dirt, her arms clasped behind her at the elbow, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. "That's my future wife," Tito told the men in the truck. "Dream on, pequeño hermano," Jesus guffawed. "No shit, man, I mean it," Tito stated as the wagon lurched forward. "That's the future Senora Tito Vasquez." Those on the wagon who heard him brayed with laughter. All month long as the workers toiled in the fields, Tempest kept a close eye on the tall boy with the dark brown eyes. While she was watching Tito, her daddy kept an eye on her, smiling to himself as he took the young man under his wing, schooling him in ways that took the sharp edges off Vasquez. Wynd saw a bit of himself in the young Texan and began mentoring him as years before Manuel and Hector had mentored a brash young man who had set his eye on the boss man's daughter. Though she was never allowed in the fields, Tempest was always there at the barn when Tito came back at the end of the day and always managed a quick, shy smile at him before he joined the others in the communal hall for their supper. She never spoke to him, and he never called out to her. He barely acknowledged her presence each day, but she knew he was as aware of her as she was of him. She'd seen him cut his eyes to her time and again when he thought she wasn't looking. Her reward for her daily patience was always a slow nod from him and a quirk of his lips that she thought must pass for a smile before he entered the hall to eat. Each Sunday as she headed off to the First Baptist Church with her mother, she saw him standing with his friends as they waited for the van her father drove that would take them to Immaculate Conception for their own services. He was always neatly dressed in a white shirt that had seen better days and dark jeans she realized must be reserved only for Sunday wear. His dark

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hair was neatly combed, usually still wet and curling around his ears. Among the other men, he stood out not only because he was taller, but because he held himself straight with his shoulders back, his head high. At summer's end, when the crop was all in and it came time for the workers to leave, Tempest felt an ache beginning in the region of her heart. She stood to one side and watched the object of her devotion settling down in the bed of one of the old trucks, his face turned away from her. Aching for him to look her way, she took a step away from the barn—then another— until one of the boys beside him pointed her way. As he looked around at her with those dark brown eyes that seemed to delve right down to her soul, she saw him slowly wink before giving her a broad, white toothed smile that took her breath away. "See ya next summer, poca tormenta!" he called out to her as the truck pulled away. Long after the caravan of beat-up old cars and trucks and station wagons was gone, Tempest stood beside the barn. She knew that wink had been a promise of things to come. Her daddy knew it, too.

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