by Vonna Harper
“I don’t know how to explain it.” His heartbeat increased, only partly due to her presence. “If there’s such a thing as reincarnation, I must have once lived here.”
“On the island?”
Grateful for her serious question, he shrugged. “Maybe not. There isn’t a lot to the place. But in this part of the state and in the wilderness.”
Stopped by his declaration, he wrapped his arms around her. If not for the insects and other creatures that called the ground home, he would have asked her to join him on it. They’d fuck, oblivious to sand, grass and ferns.
“What about when you were growing up?” she asked. “Maybe your folks lived—”
“They didn’t. My old man slipped in and out of my life all the time I was growing up. I spent a little more time with my mother, but she often left me with relatives, friends, even strangers.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It is what it is. I just wish I knew more about my parents.”
“Are they dead?”
Stop before it’s too late and she knows everything. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, god.” Pushing back, she stared up at him. “How could they do that to a child? To not give you any sense of belonging—”
“I can’t do anything about that.” Too late. I’ve opened the gate. “One thing I did learn from a cousin of my old man’s that I was with for a while—I have Native American blood in me.”
She sighed. “I know, or rather I was fairly sure you did.”
“What makes you say that?”
She smiled a smile he felt clear through him. “Those beautiful dark eyes of yours and that black hair—the moment that thought came to me it felt right.”
In the short time they’d been talking, the frogs had all but fallen silent. They wouldn’t raise their voices again until nightfall.
“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.
Wondering if she’d read his mind, he did what he’d been wanting to almost from when she’d first spoken to him. He kissed her. Her lips were like old whiskey, offering escape.
“Neither do I,” he said.
“You’re serious? You aren’t just saying that so we’ll have sex again?”
“I want sex, but that isn’t why I said what I did.”
He hadn’t known the meaning of fear for a long time. At least he’d refused to acknowledge the emotion. But Charli had gotten into his skin, and that unnerved him. At the same time, talking to her felt as right as standing in the preserve did.
“What would you do if you stayed?” she asked. “Let’s say my brother decides to buy the resort, which I’m going to recommend, and I agree to oversee the work it needs. How handy are you with a hammer?”
She wasn’t just throwing words at him—he read the truth in her eyes.
“Not enough. What about the preserve? What plans do you and your brother have for it?”
Growing up, he’d seen need in the mirror so he recognized the emotion in her.
“That’s a question I should be asking you,” she said.
Fantasy time. Crazy moments when he didn’t have to guard what came out of his mouth.
“This part of Florida was once home to the Calusa Indians,” he said. “Before the Spanish came, they were the predominant tribe. Their culture flourished until they were forced off the land. That culture and heritage died along with them, but I believe elements of it can be restored here.”
“Turn this into a monument to the Calusa, you mean?”
“Yeah.” He was vaguely aware that she was holding on to his wrists and her gaze hadn’t left him. “Much of what made them unique has been lost, but at least visitors would be able to experience the environment the tribe lived in, the respect they had for nature.”
“You can make it happen. I know you can.”
His doubts died in the wake of her confidence in him, and when he again pulled her against his chest, her tears dampened his shirt. He kissed the top of her head then widened his stance and drew her into the space he’d created. His cock came to life. Her hard nipples ground into him.
“We’d better get back to the cabin,” he told her. “Otherwise, I’m going to take you here where the frogs will see.”
Laughing, she kissed the hollow of his throat. “Ranger?”
“What?”
“Calusa blood runs in your veins.”
“You believe—?”
“With all my heart.”
“I needed to hear that.”
“Because?”
“I’ve come to the same conclusion.”
“This is a start,” she said. “But we have a lot of work ahead of us, an entire culture to recreate to the best of our ability. Are you certain—?”
“Positive.” He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to say more.
“It’ll take us working together.” She touched his cheek. “A lot.”
“For years, maybe.”
“I don’t believe there’s a maybe to it.”
Say it. Leave nothing unsaid. “Neither do I.”
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Her Red Corset
Vonna Harper
Excerpt
Chapter One
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“This was what?”
“A brothel.”
Sheri Brooks laughed. The half dozen rooms above the historic restaurant smelled as if the windows hadn’t been opened in decades. No furniture remained, and the wallpaper was so faded she could barely make out the red and black horizontal stripes. A dusty brocade drape partly covered the cracked window in the room she and the building’s soon-to-be former owner were standing in.
“I never guessed,” she admitted. “All the times I’ve been to the restaurant, I had no idea what was up here. Why didn’t you say anything about this having also been a house of ill repute? Talk about a drawing card.”
Camellia Archer shrugged, but Sheri caught a glint of amusement in the older woman’s eyes. “My siblings and I thought about it, but look around. It would have taken a lot of money to fix up the rooms. Our parents were determined to establish Archers as a fine dining establishment. They were afraid some of the snooty customers wouldn’t have liked knowing they were eating in a whorehouse.”
Although, if it had been her, she would have promoted the heck out of the building’s notorious past, Sheri nodded. As the youngest member of the town’s historic review commission, she was here to consult with the new owner about what he could and couldn’t do with the brick structure located in the middle of the historic district.
Despite her considerable curiosity about what must have taken place here, she was a professional charged with responsibility for keeping one Gage “Wham-Bam” DeStefano in line. Dealing with DeStefano meant being hard-nosed and no-nonsense. After all, the hotshot developer had earned his nickname because he had less than no patience for rules and regulations.
Well, he’d have to learn patience working with her. They didn’t call her a hard-ass, by-the-book historian for nothing. In truth, she itched to go head-to-head with DeStefano. The man was about to meet his match. She had no intention of backing down as much as an inch. Growing up with three older brothers had taught her a lot about male bravado. Bottom line, most men didn’t know what to do with a woman who stood up to them.
“Are you ready to leave?” Camellia asked.
“In a minute.” For some reason she was reluctant to leave the “caught in the past” room. Despite the stale air and poor lighting, it felt alive. Time hung suspended here. Waiting. “I’m just surprised your family didn’t utilize this space. It seems so sad the way it is.”
“Sad?” Camellia drew out the word. Her expression became wistful, young. “I loved coming in here. Being alone with the…the memories.”
“Of what? Sex for hire?”
Camellia blushed and stroked her neck. “There are so many stories, so many lives. Let’s just say that the past exists here, at least it
does for me.”
Maybe the past does live here, Sheri pondered a few minutes later. When Camellia had been called downstairs by one of her brothers, Sheri had stalled, saying she wanted to check the walls’ structural integrity. But although she should’ve been looking for dry rot, instead she turned in a slow circle. It had to be the dim lighting, but she half-believed she was standing next to a large, canopied bed with the aroma of sex clinging to the sheets.
Camellia reminded her of the stereotypical librarian, a dried-up prune with her best years behind her, but she had glowed while she was in here. There was no other way of putting it. And the way Camellia had stroked her papery neck—as if she was deliberately turning herself on.
Hell, Camellia wasn’t the only one who needed to get laid. One of the drawbacks to having broken up with Mr. Wrong meant there’d been no sex.
Biting down a frustrated groan, Sheri started toward the door. “Wham-Bam” was already late. Dollars to donuts the man was playing one-upmanship with her, determined to make the point that he considered the historic commission a bunch of busybodies he intended to run roughshod over.
Bring it on, buster. You aren’t the only one who can play hardball.
“There are other ways of playing.”
Sheri jumped. Her hand flew to her breast. Who the hell—?
Her eyes burned, forcing her to blink repeatedly. Hadn’t she been leaving the room? What then was she doing leaning against a far wall?
And where had the three-dimensional bed come from?
Seriously freaked, she stood her ground. Okay, one bed. An ornate canopy draped with red silk, black heart-shaped pillows artfully tossed on the vibrant red brocade spread, more brocade for the lush, full drapes, plush carpet underfoot, lighted candles on the mahogany dresser, a black velvet, floor-length gown, stockings and a deep red corset on the bed.
“Oh shit.”
Her outburst bounced off the walls, drawing her still-freaked attention to the richly flocked scarlet and black wallpaper. Several large paintings of well-endowed, lounging, nude females had been placed in ornate gold frames. Day had turned into night.
“Oh shit.”
Get the hell out of here. Find the twenty-first century, pronto!
Instead, Sheri pushed herself away from the wall and crept toward the bed. Her hands shook as she picked up the gown. It was cut low with a million tiny buttons in front. The fabric felt incredibly rich and spoke of opulence, decadence, sex.
You’re losing your frickin’ mind.
Granted, but maybe she didn’t need it anyway.
Holding the gown as if it had been given to her by a lover, she glanced at her watch—or she would have if she still wore one. It was gone, as was her purse and briefcase, her cell phone, her shoes. Where the hell were her sensible loafers? And who was responsible for the open-toe spikes decorated with some kind of fluffy something peeking out from under the bed?
Even more important, why was she reaching for the buttons on her blazer?
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Lightheaded and smelling of the musky perfume she’d found in a nightstand drawer, Sheri stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror. Thanks to the damnably uncomfortable corset she’d only partially tugged herself into, impressive cleavage strained the top of the luxurious gown now clinging to her. Wriggling and wrenching her way into the corset and buttoning all the tiny dress buttons had taken forever, but the effect was worth it. So was shaking her hair loose from its practical barrette so the auburn strands cascaded over her shoulders. The heels she’d put on were a country mile from being comfortable, and she couldn’t imagine ever getting used to stockings and garters. Ah, the price of beauty.
The price of being a courtesan, more like it.
Frowning, she debated what she would have been called during the early 1900s when the building had been constructed. Soiled dove had a tragic tone to it. Whore? Hardly. She’d punch out whoever tried that. Lady of the night? Yeah, that was possible.
No pimp for her. If she plied her trade here, she’d have a madam, a pit bull of a woman with the proverbial heart of gold and a keen business sense. The madam would filter out the riffraff and gunslingers. She’d cater to the town’s bankers, cattlemen and other movers and shakers. And she’d send the cream of the crop to her best lady of the night, one Sheri Brooks.
As for Sheri Brooks, the lady in question wouldn’t take any crap off any man. She’d insist he hang up his guns and take off his spurs before climbing into her bed. She’d demand to see the color of his money or the size of his gold poke before she’d spread her legs. Oh yes, she’d be known far and wide as the harlot with the most tricks up her nonexistent sleeve.
Hmm. Before she could get away with charging top dollar, she’d have to learn a few more bedroom tricks than she already had. A lot of them.
Her madam, a former lady of the night herself, would teach her everything she needed to know about the male animal. No problem. No problem at all.
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About the Author
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What prompts a mild-mannered mostly law abiding woman to write erotica and erotic romance, a lot revolving around BDSM and capture/bondage? Is it the complex issue of taking or giving up control?
Vonna Harper doesn't know and she has given up trying to find the answer. It's enough that many readers are drawn to what some call the dark side. All she asks is that readers understand she writes fiction--a brand of fiction she finds fascinating.
Vonna has lost count of the number of books, novellas, and short stories she's written. What she has no doubt of, it's a hell of a ride.
Email: [email protected]
Vonna loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
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Also by Vonna Harper
Getting Laid
Cowboy Pickup
Her Red Corset
Carnal Secrets: Naked Nights
Carnal Secrets: Her Submission
Carnal Secrets: Taking her Down
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