Owner of a Lonely Heart (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  Oh my God. It’s him.

  The banging hot cowboy was the sheriff.

  The table’s umbrella cast a cheerful yellow onto his skin as he looked up at her from his beer. The smile that graced his face when he recognized her seemed to go beyond a professional greeting. Maybe that was because Bettina had just been thinking horny, lewd things about him.

  It was hot that they both had pistols in hip holsters. Bettina wondered why she hadn’t seen their compatibility before. She liked his naivety, his seeming lack of experience with the ladies, and he was hot enough to melt steel. She was horny, and there was nothing on the books about not carousing with local sheriffs.

  “Sheriff.” She nodded as she sat down on a bench. God damnit. I’m nervous. It was like those dreams one had of a sexy nature regarding a coworker. The next day when seeing the coworker, all one could think was, he knows. He knows we had sex in my dreams last night.

  “Call me Crispin. We’re supposed to be friends of Taos’s family, right?” His British accent was ultra-hot, too.

  Right. Now what did you want to see me about?”

  “It was you who wanted to see me.”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah, it’s about Taos, of course. Did you know he’s founding a brand new motorcycle club? Only he calls it a ‘riding club.’”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him around town with Abel Jones and Byron Boxleitner. They both ride Harleys.”

  “Those are the two guys. What do you know about them? He’s not supposed to fraternize with known felons.”

  Crispin scoffed. “Why do you assume they’re known felons, Bettina? Because they ride hogs?”

  Bettina felt herself flush, embarrassed to be caught believing a stereotype. She’d had enough sensitivity training seminars to know how wrong that was. Most bike clubs rode for fun and friendship. Maybe Taos actually did plan on donating poker run proceeds to Big Brothers. “So you’re saying they don’t have criminal records.”

  “No, they don’t. I had the same reaction as you, so just to be sure I double-checked, ran them through NCIC. Nothing. Well, not unless you count Abel’s tickets for having nonoperative vehicles on his property. He builds and restores Harleys in his spare time.”

  “Spare time? He’s actually got a job?”

  It was to Crispin’s credit that he didn’t smirk. He could easily have acted superior when he said, “Yes. He’s a Las Vegas city building inspector.”

  “Oh.”

  Instead, Crispin coolly continued, “Instead, I’d be wondering what he’s doing at the old casino.”

  “Yeah. He said it was the Brothers of Discipline’s new clubhouse.”

  The amused grin looked good on Crispin. “Seriously? That’s their new name? Maybe they’re opening a bondage club on the old casino site.”

  Bettina’s innards were stirred in more ways than one at the idea of a bondage club. It was the perfect opening to see which way Crispin swung. “Oh, wouldn’t that be good for the town’s economy. Those are very big since that whole Fifty Shades thing.”

  It was hard to read Crispin’s expression. “I’m thoroughly familiar with BDSM clubs.” Bettina’s heart leaped, but was dashed within the second. “I was on vice in Vegas for several years, as I’m sure you learned when doing a background check on me.”

  Actually, Bettina had completely forgotten to check on the sheriff’s background. “So you’re pretty burnt out on the club scene, then.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. There are so many different sorts of clubs. I’ve seen some where the filth, dirt, and depravity make you think you’re in a Marquis de Sade novel. I’ve seen some that were so squeaky clean you’d think you stumbled onto the set of a Miley Cyrus movie.”

  Bettina was confused. “I don’t think Miley Cyrus is that clean.”

  “Well. You get what I mean. There’s a wide spectrum of clubs just as there’s a wide spectrum of depravity, or kink.”

  Bettina had to squeeze the sheriff harder to get what she wanted. He was too stiff upper lip. “So you approve of certain kinks.”

  “Oh, without a doubt. Some of them can be quite healthy, I’m sure.”

  That wasn’t good enough for her. Bettina had latched onto this topic and wouldn’t let go. “I don’t even know why they have to say ‘kink.’ It implies it’s out of the norm to, say, enjoy being tied up. Or to enjoy paddling someone. I say as long as you’re not drawing blood, what’s wrong?”

  “Yes. There’s a saying in the bondage world, I believe. ‘Safe, sane, consensual.’”

  Bettina’s heart soared. “Yes, exactly! I think some of those bondage outfits can be quite sexy. Nothing wrong with a little bondage and domination.”

  Crispin looked at his own beer shyly. He dared a couple glances up at her as he said, “I can quite picture you in one of those hourglass corsets, whip in hand. You’ve got quite the domineering personality.”

  Bettina’s ego was pumped beyond belief. He wants to see me in a corset. “Oh, I like to think I’m a little switchy. I can go either way. So you practice safe, sane, and consensual in your own life?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that. It was just something I’ve heard. Having dealt in vice, you’ve pretty much heard it all.”

  Bettina was confused again. “But you said that I’d look good…” She allowed her sentence to trail off, hoping Crispin would clarify things.

  “In a corset, yes. I was just making an honest observation.” Damn, he’s got a sexy smile. “You would look good dressed up like that. You’ve got the figure for it. And now I’m going to be slapped with a sexual harassment suit. What a wazzock I am. Years in vice did nothing for my worldliness.”

  “Oh, good Lord, Crispin. I’m flattered, not offended. So you know nothing of any kink in your own life, from your own personal experience—you just observed it from afar.”

  “That’s about it. My ex-wife used to accuse me of being completely unimaginative, one of her many complaints. I’m afraid I’m just a total loss when it comes to romance. That’s why I’ve been happy to be stuck out in Moapa. I’m perfectly content with my horses.”

  Ex-wife. Bettina’s passion for the cultured sheriff was growing by the second. So what if he was a little square between the sheets? There was nothing under the sun that couldn’t be learned. And it would be hot keeping an eye on the muscular cowboy while she taught him. “Perfectly content?”

  Crispin looked over at her from under his long lashes. A man who had reached his thirties inexperienced in bed was a new, enticing thing for her. Taos would be the opposite, but he was off-limits. The sheriff in no way could be accused of being cajoled or unduly influenced into falling under her spell. In fact, this was a fun, sexy challenge for Bettina—something to amuse her while they were together on stakeout watching over the bad boy Taos. “Well…not perfectly. But that’s not your worry.”

  Bettina scooted closer on the bench. “Oh, I’d say it is. I’m extremely interested. Would you be at all open-minded to things of that nature?”

  “Theoretically, of course. Who doesn’t like the fantasy of a curvaceous redhead in stockings and high heels? Although of course you probably wouldn’t go for the heel part. You’re more of a steel-toed boot gal, or a cowboy boot type.”

  “Never say never. I’m sure I could be convinced to don a pair of slingbacks if the man doing the convincing was you.”

  Bettina knew she was making huge progress. Crispin sat absolutely frozen, not even his eyelashes stirring, looking her directly in the eye. She had gotten to him—she had affected him. Every inch of her skin tingled with the anticipation of being touched by him, although of course she knew the sheriff couldn’t be seen touching a woman in public, family friend or not.

  But she was getting to him. She could practically feel the testosterone oozing from his pores. He quite literally oozed sex appeal, and her pussy lips expanded and filled with blood from longing for him.

  He finally spoke. “If it was you wearing the heels, I’m sure I’d just be a puddle of goo on
the floor.”

  He might as well have said “puddle of semen” for the effect it had on Bettina. He had given her the courage to put her hand on his bare forearm.

  “Why don’t we go—”

  “What would you like to drink?” said the waiter as he set a little cocktail napkin on the picnic table in front of Bettina.

  What the fuck? Was she in some kind of romcom movie? She looked incredulously at the waiter, snarling. “Can’t you see we’re—”

  “It’s all right.” Crispin swallowed the last few gulps of his beer and stood. “Bettina, why don’t we go down and have a look at Taos’s new clubhouse?”

  Bettina looked up at him, stupefied. “You mean the old casino?”

  “The old Aces High?” said the waiter. “Yeah, I heard they’re opening that back up again. It’ll be awesome for business, and of course for the town, too.”

  Already Crispin was heading for the back deck steps, and Bettina had to stride to keep up with him. “What the fuck, Crispin? When were you planning on telling this to me?”

  He headed toward his truck that was parked in the lot. He didn’t seem to even have a regulation sheriff’s vehicle. “If you recall, the conversation sort of strayed into rather lewd territory.”

  She’d give him “lewd territory”! With her hand on his passenger door handle, she shouted, “Well, tell me now!”

  He got into the driver’s seat before unlocking Bettina’s door. She swung herself violently onto the bench seat and glared at him.

  “He picked up the building from the owner who filed a foreclosure notice. Regulators are transferring the gaming license to the upstanding business owner, Taos Hopewell of El Paso, Texas. Apparently someone did such an outstanding job of creating his new background, they gave a “preliminary finding of suitability” on the businessman who has no history of gaming.” Crispin looked pointedly at her while turning the key in his ignition. She was speechless anyway, so he added, “Shall we go see what your client has gotten himself into?” He drove down the main street.

  “But you’ve got eyes on him, Crispin. You should’ve e-mailed me when you heard about it. How did you hear about it, anyway?”

  “We go to the gym together. He has a background in mixed martial arts, and I’ve got a brown belt in Brazilian jiujitsu.”

  Bettina rolled her eyes. “Now, why am I not surprised? But I just don’t understand how he’s paying for all of this with his windsurfing salary.”

  “I’d venture to guess he’s not.”

  “You mean…” How stupid can I be? This is really, really embarrassing. “Oh. Of course he’s not doing it with his windsurfing salary.”

  “He didn’t forfeit any of his assets when he was arrested in that Texas warehouse, right?”

  “Right,” Bettina said numbly. “His financial records were cleaned by us and assigned to his new name.”

  “He’s smart as a fox, Bettina. Nothing stops him from operating his own business, does it? Gambling is legal in Nevada.”

  “I just…it doesn’t strike me as the sort of thing a federally protected witness should be doing. There’s just too much exposure.”

  “Maybe he plans on just owning it and hiring a manager. You should ask him. He’s your witness.”

  Bettina sank lower in her seat, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. “Yeah, but you’re his best friend, apparently.”

  Chapter Five

  “Oh, man.” Taos speared his fingers through his long hair and smoothed it away from his face, resting his elbows on the desk.

  The computer screen in front of him spelled out his fate.

  He had logged onto Facebook a week ago using his regular e-mail address. Why not? The new and improved Taos Hopewell, businessman, would have a Facebook account. He needed to Facebook with his new motorcycle brothers, Abel and Byron. And they’d brought three more guys to the clubhouse, so the Brothers of Discipline were growing by leaps and bounds. Naturally, Taos was the president, a nice step up from being secretary to the Rabid Raiders.

  Taos could have easily joined forces with Abel in his Harley repair shop. It would have been more in line with what he did in his former life. But if he wanted to start all over again, he’d need a whole new career. Rejuvenating the old casino was part of that. Byron McKinley, new club treasurer, also had ten years’ experience managing a casino on Fremont Street in Vegas. Byron wanted something closer to home, so he was ideal to run the new DelHart casino for Taos.

  The casino name, now, that was a risky thing. It was a combination of his old last name, Hartley, and the name of his best friend in Refugio, Del. It actually sounded like a Vegas casino, so he doubted anyone would pick up on it. Except maybe that sharp—and stacked—handler of his, Bettina. Not only was she a curvaceous hottie, but she was a regular firebrand of a woman. Taos had practically broken a leg ordering a new King and Queen seat for his bike so they could go canyon carving together. He’d probably shoot his load if he had Bettina Crenshaw for a back warmer.

  Yet they were all pipe dreams. There was no way in hell a by-the-book fed like Bettina would hook up with a lowlife biker like him, even if he wasn’t a federally protected witness. She was just too much of a rigid hard-liner. Hell, he couldn’t even tell if she had any passion for him. She probably just always yelled at everyone. Yet she’d expressed interest on going on a run with him. With his nonexistent love life, that prospect alone was enough to keep Taos stoked.

  But he’d taken an even bigger risk. As Taos Hopewell, a name absolutely zero people in the state of Texas were familiar with, he’d sent a friend request to Delano Pruitt of Refugio, Texas. Of course he wasn’t idiotic enough to have any photos of himself on his profile, but he’d left a few tiny clues that only Del would pick up on. His favorite sport, of course, was surfing. His favorite TV show was The Munsters. It wasn’t, really, but only Del would remember that month Tim Hartley had spent bedridden after taking a low slide on his bike while lane splitting. He’d broken his leg, but maybe worse was the road rash. They’d gone through so many TV shows they were down to The Munsters, and they actually laughed a lot over it.

  Taos left other clues for Del. Only Del would know that high on Taos’s bucket list was a trip to the Hermitage and the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, Russia. Now that was something he knew he’d never mentioned to another Raider. And no Raider had better know that he read poetry by Langston Hughes. Or that he thought palm trees were cool. Or that he owned a copy of Love Actually.

  Del knew all these things and more, so he’d accepted the friend request. Taos had proceeded to private message his best friend a cryptic message, in case the US Marshals Service was monitoring his Facebook.

  Have you ever watched Rescue Me?

  Del messaged back.

  No, but I’ll watch it right away.

  That was it. Taos knew Del would get it. Del would never think that Taos was talking about a TV show. It was a good sign Del hadn’t even asked, “Who are you?” No, he’d just responded immediately. I’ll watch it right away.

  Just now, Taos hadn’t been able to resist adding to the conversation.

  Did you see it? It’s the episode where the fireman has the surf ‘n’ turf dinner.

  That was an even more blatant clue as to his whereabouts, pretty obvious to even the biggest moron on the planet. Instantly Del had messaged back,

  Yeah. Good episode. I’ll rewatch it immediately.

  That could only mean one thing. Taos was both flushed with anticipation and knotted up with dread at what might happen. Del was the sharpest knife in the drawer. That’s why they’d been connected at the hip since the short pants days. Del had been living with Taos and his father due to his own parents having gone off to rehab. Both teens worked at the same motorcycle repair shop where they were recruited for the Raiders.

  Reality got a grip on Taos, and he instantly logged off Facebook. He even left the computer on the innocuous homepage of the Nevada Gaming Commission as though doing research, on the billion to o
ne chance Bettina came by.

  He was already late to meet Crispin at the gym. He found Crispin sparring in a bareknuckle bout with another guy Taos didn’t know. Crispin was beating the hell out of the guy. Taos had been convincing Crispin to join him in Muay Thai Boxing but Crispin was focused, dead set on his jiujitsu practice, one component of mixed martial arts. That was cool. Taos went to the locker room to change.

  It was good enough that Crispin worked out with him. This way the image they were family friends would sink into citizens’ brains. Besides, Crispin truly did enjoy the sheriff’s company. They had an interest in law enforcement in common, for one thing. Although Taos was on the wrong side of the discussion.

  “Bettina finally found out about the DelHart.”

  Taos could smell Crispin before he saw him. The wave of fresh male sweat wasn’t repulsive—it only became that way when it coated the inside of lockers, or worse. The gym was trying to enforce a rule against shirtlessness outside on the gym floor but it was very impractical for some sports, boxing being one of them. Crispin stood in all his shirtless glory, wetly slapping his bare abdomen. The loose, floppy nylon shorts were all he wore aside from a pair of black ankle support wraps.

  Taos respected that Crispin walked the walk. He was a seriously badass cowboy as well as a sheriff. He broke wild broncs and he shot at drug dealers. He was strong as Sampson to toss some of those heavyweights in the air like he did. Taos never thought he’d see the day he’d admire a sheriff, but that day had come.

  Pretending it didn’t matter to him, Taos continued taking off his T-shirt. “What was her reaction?”

  Crispin took his long hair out of the rubber band and finger-combed it. “Pretty much what you’d expect. I’d try to avoid her for awhile if I was you.”

  “Not like I have the choice. She’s always asking if she can go inside my trailer while I’m at work. If I said no, it’d look like I had something to hide, so I always say yes.”