by Mimi Riser
Like now.
They'd also both had the hots for Nate, who'd been one of those guys who was just incorrigibly charismatic and damned hard to resist—not to mention bisexual. However, Amalie, in her zeal to turn over a new leaf and be a faithful spouse, had never acted on those feelings.
Richard had. Before marriage he'd been Nate's lover. Afterward, the two had remained friends, but Richard ended the sexual part of their relationship. He'd been uncomfortable with his gay side and never known Amalie might have been amenable to a menage. It was sad the three never got it together. Then again, that was a matter of lust, not love, right? Nate hadn't been the sort to make lasting commitments. “Any port in a storm” was his motto.
Annie wondered where he was now and if he was happy. Rumor had it his spirit haunted this inn, but she didn't want to believe that. Ideally, Nate had reincarnated, too, somewhere, sometime, and finally found a true love of his own. She hoped so, because he deserved it. But all Annie knew at the moment was she had hers.
Focus on the positive.
Only the stupid and ungrateful regretted a long gone past when the present held so much promise, and Annie considered herself neither. Rico should be more than enough for her.
Oh hell, he is!
She cuddled in closer. “We died too soon and tragically. You and Nate drowned at sea, and I killed myself in remorse. But the story has a happy ending."
"How?” Rico sounded dubious at best. He was missing the whole message.
"Because we're together again, sweetie, with a brand new chance to love each other. That's beautiful, don't you think?” Annie did. She nuzzled his neck, inhaling his sexy scent, planting tiny kisses on him between her words. “From what I've read, the main reason for remembering a past life is to learn from the experience. If we screwed up back then, we'll make things right now."
"Such as me staying off pirate ships, and you staying out of dockside bars?"
"Very funny. I have an incredible, mystical revelation that shows we must be soul mates, and all you can do is joke about it? You'll pay for that, smart-ass."
"Hey, babe, I don't need any revelations to remind me how much I love you."
Good answer.
But not quite good enough.
Bent on evil, Annie raked fingers through the hair on his chest, then let her hand drift down over washboard abs to explore the nest of curls at the juncture of his thighs. Talk about hidden jewels. Even soft he was a handful. Rico's breath hitched as she teased him erect with feathery strokes that promised much—then retreated without delivering. He moaned in frustration. Music to Annie's ears.
"You're being punished for mocking me,” she purred. “Never taunt a tavern wench. We're way wicked."
"Like pirates aren't?"
Uh-oh.
An arm whipped around Annie's waist, and Rico rolled, trapping her between the mattress and hard, heavy man. A hungry mouth landed on hers. A silky, wet tongue probed deep. The kiss sucked the air out of her lungs, turned her mind to mush and her insides to a quivering mass of hot, gooey need.
While she lay limp and gasping, Rico dug his knees between hers, shoved apart her thighs, and rammed his cock up to her tonsils, then started pounding her into a breathless pulp. The bedsprings creaked and squeaked in raucous rhythm to his thrusts—motion that mimicked a rolling deck, the rise and fall of waves hitting a hull, a storm at sea. A storm in Annie as well. She had no choice but to wrap legs around his middle, clutch his shoulders, and hang on for the ride.
Okay, he'd proved his point. Nobody did bad like Rico.
Except, maybe, Nate Hawkins.
A guilty thought. But titillating. In reality, Annie knew she'd never fucked Nate in any incarnation. Dreams, however, were another matter, and last night's dream was a lulu. It had triggered her past-life memories, yet been separate from them.
Where the memories told her what actually happened, the dream showed her what might have. In it, Amalie, Richard and Nate had finally enjoyed the menage they'd never experienced in life. Why, Annie wasn't sure, unless it was something her subconscious cooked up to give her closure, to lay the past to rest and let her move on, emotionally unencumbered, into the future.
If so, it hadn't worked. There was nothing restful in her current predicament, making torrid bump-and-grind love with one man while envisioning two. She wondered if Rico might be suffering the same confusion. Annie loved her husband, no doubt about it, but they both harbored dirty little secrets—inherited from Richard and Amalie, perhaps. People died, but not their desires, it seemed. When souls entered new bodies, old longings went with them.
Rico was as bisexual as Richard had been, and even less comfortable with it. Unfortunately for Annie, she was. Her darling had never indulged his gay side and swore he never would. If that ever changed, though—like when hell froze over—would she be willing to share him with another man?
God, yes.
But only if she could join in. Frankly, the idea of three-way sex turned her on big time. Especially now. Blame Nate Hawkins and her dream. That fantasy taste of forbidden fruit had whetted her appetite for the real thing. Too bad she wasn't going to get it. On the other hand, Rico gave her plenty all by himself. Annie knew she had no reason to want more.
So why did she?
A groan escaped her. “I'm a wicked, wicked woman.” Even for a tavern wench. "I oughta be horsewhipped."
Rico paused on an inward thrust and pushed up on his forearms to shoot her an evil grin. “Is that a request?"
Um...
Without waiting for an answer, he climbed off her, out of bed, and padded across the floor toward their suitcase. Seconds later he returned with a leather belt draped over one shoulder and dark determination in his eyes. His right hand held a ball-gag and black scarf, while from his left dangled a pair of fur-lined handcuffs. They'd packed well for this weekend.
Annie's pulse, already speeding, rocketed into overdrive. She and Rico had played light bondage games before, but never anything that involved pain. The belt was a new addition. Not necessarily an unwelcome one, though. She did like being dominated; they both knew that. And she was fucked to a fever pitch and feeling as guilty as she was horny. Some sexy pain might be just what she needed to distract her from naughty thoughts of Nate.
She swallowed, hard, as Rico dropped the cuffs and scarf onto the mattress and stared down at her, his hot gaze like a tangible touch. A giddy rush swept her from head to heels—electric shivers. Rico in Master-mode made her toes curl.
"Last chance to beg out of what's coming,” he warned.
Coming...
Interesting word choice.
Annie hesitated, tempted but still not sure if she wanted to agree or refuse. Before she could do either, Rico's hands flashed forward and stuffed the ball-gag into her mouth. Some chance.
"Mmph,” she complained.
"You snooze, you lose,” he answered.
Very funny.
All business, he flipped her onto her belly and cuffed her hands behind her back, then started to tie the scarf around her eyes. “When one sense is cut off, the others seem sharper, I'm told."
He had that right. Suddenly, she was all ears—along with the whole inn, probably. What the hell was happening below?
"Eeeeeaaaggggh..."
A maniacal shriek sliced through the floorboards.
"Help! He's crazy!” someone screeched. “He wants to drain my force, destroy me!"
"No, matey, I'll just make you wish you were dead,” a baritone voice boomed. “A fine one you are to be calling me mad. Hell's bells!"
"Holy fuck...” Rico dropped the scarf and rolled Annie over to face him. He looked as stricken as she felt, looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Or heard one.
"Mmph-umph!” she protested, which meant “don't you dare leave me alone,” because she knew he was. He sprinted back to their suitcase to pull on shorts and a tank top, then snatched his keys off the dresser and stuffed them into his pocket. Why?
> "Wait here,” he ordered. “I'll be as fast as I can."
Like she could go anywhere naked, handcuffed, and gagged? Annie narrowed her eyes into a razor-edged glare.
Rico ignored it.
Bang!
The door slammed shut behind him.
"Umph,” Annie said.
Translation: Shit.
Shit, shit, shit...
What was that they said about fools rushing in where angels feared to go?
Rico had never been an angel—which told him what he was now. The realization didn't slow him. He raced past the inn's elevator and tore down the fire escape stairs, his heart pounding as fast as his feet. An empty hallway greeted him on the floor below his. Good.
There shouldn't be many people up here this time of day. Most would be on the beach or in the bar, which gave him time to reach the room he sought before the commotion coming from it drew anyone else. To be first on the scene seemed very important somehow. He wasn't sure who he'd find, but he knew who it sounded like—knew he had to help. He felt it deep down inside with a ferocity that twisted his gut. Old training died hard.
So did old emotions—love, lust, loyalty. And old anger. What spurred Rico forward was older than his flesh, something he'd carried with him since before birth, stamped on his soul. Something that expanded the concept of undying devotion to scary new dimensions, inexplicable but undeniable.
Annie was right about their past lives. Damn it. Rico had experienced the same sultry, surrealistic dream she had—just hadn't wanted to admit it, not to her and especially not to himself. The implications were too nerve-wracking to consider—raised questions with insane answers. He'd gone to great lengths today, pulled out all the sexual stops trying to keep his mind off the impossible. But he couldn't play ostrich forever, hiding his head in the gritty sands of denial. It was time to quit fucking around and discover the truth.
Something way weird had happened last night. The mere fact they'd dreamed the same thing suggested it wasn't a dream. What they'd done during it defied description. If he was correct in his suspicions, they had a hell of a lot more than memories to deal with.
They had a fucking pirate on their hands.
He skidded to a stop near the door to his destination, mentally bracing himself for whatever lay hidden behind it. He should have braced himself physically as well. Before he could make another move—or even decide his next move—the door flew open and a naked young man burst forth, eyes bugged out in hysterics, and babbling about bloodthirsty ghosts trying to suck his life-force.
"No fair! That's my game.” A high-pitched cackle punctuated the cry. “I should've believed him when he said who he was—he looks just like his picture for chrissakes!"
What the...
Rico leapt to the side to avoid being flattened as Mr. Maniac streaked past.
"I'm outta here! Watch me flyyyyy...” Arms flailing, the guy crashed headfirst through a window at the end of the hall.
But not before Rico recognized him. Seth Barrow looked like his picture, too, which had been featured on the news recently as the target of an east coast manhunt.
Fuck, there was an escaped psychopath at the Jolly Roger, and no one else had recognized him? Then again, Seth had that generic beach-beefcake look that blended in so seamlessly at seaside resorts.
Rico shook his head. They'd probably recognize Seth now—once they scraped up the pieces, and the police ran an ID. You had to figure his fingerprints would still be intact even if the rest of him wasn't. From the angle of Seth's exit, he'd probably landed on his face and snapped his neck.
Ouch.
Shouts and calls filtered through the broken glass of the window. It sounded like the shit had hit the fan already down there, but Rico had problems of his own up here.
"Hell's bells,” a voice grumbled from inside the room Seth had fled.
Nate's voice.
Followed by Nate's form filling the doorway—and nothing ghostly about him. He stood tall, solid and muscular. Unmistakable. But unaware of Rico who hovered nearby, studying him in aching silence.
A naked Nate with his hands cuffed in front and holding a pair of khaki shorts—his dark hair loose and wild about his shoulders and the sheen of sweat on his skin, a fierce but dazed gleam in his eyes. He swayed slightly. Drunk? Drugged? What the fuck had he and Seth been doing? Besides trying to kill each other...
Rico's gut knotted. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, and hadn't time to ask, anyway. Very likely this place would be crawling with cops soon, who'd probably want to question everyone on the premises. How did you explain a resurrected eighteenth century buccaneer?
With a ton of trouble, or not at all.
Rico chose the latter.
He fought back a firestorm of feelings as Nate stared at the broken window down the hall.
"God, poor bastard was mad as a hatter,” Nate muttered to himself while climbing into his shorts.
"So are you,” Rico gritted out through clenched teeth. And me. “Come on, we gotta make tracks while we can.” Load Nate in the car, then come back for Annie...
Without waiting for a response, he pulled Nate through the doorway and started pushing him toward the stairs. Nate pushed back, forcing them both to a halt.
"Richard?” His voice cracked on the name.
Rico winced. “Not anymore. The name's Rico now. Enrico Verdi."
"One and the same, lad.” Slowly, Nate turned, bringing them face to face, a strained smile on his lips and the longing of ages in his eyes. “What are you doing here?"
"Saving your ass."
Though the desire to kick it burned almost as strong. Desire burned, period. They stood so close...too close...almost in kissing distance. A dangerous thought. Rico sensed Nate's body heat drawing him closer, like a magnet. He stepped back a pace to put needed space between them, to give himself room to think.
"Surprised?” he asked. Bullshit. “You knew damn well I was here at the inn. After last night's dream, you had to."
"Aye, but I didn't expect you to remember it or me. I didn't expect to be here now, like this, myself. ‘Twas but a vision I conjured last night—a bit of ghostly fun, I thought. I didn't recognize you at first, you see, so I'd no way of guessing things would turn out as they did."
Nate shrugged—a helpless gesture—and raised his cuffed hands palms up as though hoping some easy answer would drop into them. When none did, his smile softened into wry resignation. “If I'm alive again, ‘tis your doing more than mine. You brought me back, lad. You breathed your own energy into me."
Unfortunately, he might be correct. What Nate said was what Rico had sensed during the vision, what he'd been worrying about since. He remembered, all right—but without comprehension—remembered kissing cold lips, willing heat into Nate, melting the ice of death...
Shit, sometimes he really didn't know his own strength. The knot in his stomach tightened. This whole thing was nuts, impossible. Yet the results stood before him, indisputable. Nate was here, pulsing with life, whatever the rhyme or reason.
And the police were on the way. Rico heard sirens in the distance. Double shit.
"Okay, okay, we'll discuss it later. Now move!” He grabbed Nate's shoulders, spun him around and steered him down the stairs and out the inn's north side door to the parking lot, supporting him the entire way, as Nate—definitely drugged—was none too steady on his feet.
Neither was Rico with Nate's warm body leaning against him. Long dormant memories flared to life. Sensual memories of the flesh—hot, sticky, and distracting. With every step his dick twitched and the crotch seam of his shorts chafed his balls, making movement a genuine pain in the pants.
He heaved a sigh of relief when they reached his white Mercedes without anyone stopping them. Few even noticed them. The action was on the inn's opposite side, where Seth landed. Quite a crowd had gathered over there, gauging by the noise.
"Bloody vultures,” Nate muttered.
"Yeah, but don't feel too bad about it.
That guy was wanted for killing a hospital worker and two other people before that.” Always seducing and drugging his victims first, according to the news reports. “You could have been number four."
Nate snorted. “Not bloody likely. I'm no easy target. Don't forget we killed more than a few in our time, Rich."
"Never if we could avoid it—and only in fair fights, open battles where everyone had the same chance. Not the way he did it for sick thrills."
They'd been soldier-sailors more than pirates up until their last voyage, Yankee privateers who preyed on British ships during the Revolutionary War—and then attacked one more ship after the war. Their big mistake.
"We still died for it.” Nate chuckled.
Rico didn't. “And whose fault was that?"
When the Mermaid broke apart under British cannon, they could have escaped in her longboat, if Nate hadn't insisted a good captain went down with his ship. They'd drowned while arguing the point. And Rico was still pissed about it. Was that ridiculous, or what?
He paused in the act of fishing keys out of his pocket. “Hell, I have never killed anyone. I'm Rico—not Richard, not Rich. Rico. Get it through your thick head."
A crooked grin met his scowl.
"I will if you will, lad. If you're not Richard, why blame me for his death, eh? I told you to take the goddamned longboat and go, didn't I? You didn't have to drown with me."
No, but Nate had that kind of effect on him—made him do treacherous, troublesome things. Like now. He yanked out his keys, opened the car door, and shoved Nate onto the rear seat.
"Just shut up and sit there until I get back. Don't move, don't talk to anyone, don't touch anything. You think you can manage that, Captain?"
Nate's grin narrowed to a tight line. “I'll do my best, matey."
"Good.” Rico locked eyeballs with him, leaned into the Mercedes, and lowered his voice to a hiss. “Because this isn't over yet, not by a long shot. I know what happened last night"—a ghost became a man—"but not how or why. Which means you have a fucking lot of explaining to do later."
"How about right now?” A pair of hands shot up and fisted in Rico's shirt. “You want to know how and why I'm alive, do you? The first I've already answered—'twas your doing—and the second you just answered yourself. Because nothing is over, that's why. We've unfinished business, you and I. And I think we both know what it is, don't we?” The fisted hands tightened their grip. “So let's forget the explanations and jump straight to the fucking."