Sandra Hill - [Creole]

by Sweeter Savage Love

  Steve nodded. “She says the goal is to convince the woman that she wants something that she says she doesn’t want. Perfect twisted feminine thinking! Hell, why am I even discussing it with you two?”

  “And women like this forceful seduction?” Abel persisted with decided interest, turning to her.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” she responded, “although there has to be a clear line drawn, of course.” And she proceeded to give her routine lecture on the female fantasy that would never die.

  “Aaaarrrgh!” Steve interrupted, right at the good part where she was explaining the difference between S & S and D & D. “Get her out of here,” Steve clipped out.

  “Well, aren’t you the grumpy one tonight!” she observed.

  “That’s just what I was telling him earlier,” Cain told her.

  Steve’s blue eyes flashed angrily, but he made a determined effort not to look at her. Instead he ordered, “Cain, you take her away.”

  “Me?” Cain protested. “Why me?”

  “Abel would probably stop in the luggage compartment for a quick dip of his overused wick.”

  “You don’t want her?” Abel eyed her with decided interest, not at all upset by Steve’s vulgar insult. In fact, he assured Harriet, “I’m never quick, darlin’.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Cain said, narrowing his eyes at Steve. “Are you sayin’ you think we brought this wench here for you?”

  Wench? They’d better not be referring to me as a wench.

  “Exactly,” Steve said. “From the opera house.”

  If Harriet hadn’t been lying down, she would have reeled with confusion. “I think I caught your headache, Steve. Would you mind getting me an aspirin from my briefcase?”

  “Why does she call you Steve?” Cain inquired.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “She wants you to give her an ass burn,” Abel pointed out with glee. “Even I never heard of that. How do you do it? Can we watch? Does it have somethin’ to do with ridin’ her hard? Or spanking?”

  “Tsk-tsk! What have you been hiding from us, my friend?” Cain chastised.

  “Geez!” Harriet contributed to the crazy conversation.

  “Out!” Steve demanded, pushing the two men toward the door. “I’ll handle this whore myself. You two are going to get us all killed with this foolery.”

  “But I had nothing to do with this, Etienne. I swear,” Cain said.

  “Me neither,” Abel added, but he was laughing so hard his words were muffled.

  Whore? Did he say “whore”? Okay, so the rules have changed on this dream business, Harriet decided.

  Steve slammed the door after the departing men. Once again, she was alone with him, and he was glaring at her with evil intent. As if he were the injured party here!

  She stood and wound her right arm in a windmill warm-up exercise, preparing to belt him a good one. Thank goodness, one of her stepfathers had been a boxer. Yep, it’s time to let Steve Morgan know that this lady is no Ginny Brandon, virginal and acquiescent. It’s time to turn the tables on the rogue of the century. It’s time I take a step for all womankind in controlling my destiny, even if I’m only starting with a dream.

  Before Harriet could carry through on her windup, though, the creep grabbed her by the waist, hoisted her over his shoulder with a hand clamped on her almost-bare behind, and deposited her roughly on the floor of the empty corridor.

  “Hey, you can’t leave me out here.”

  “Watch me,” he said grimly.

  “But what am I supposed to do?”

  “Find another customer, sweetheart.” Then he noticed her briefcase sitting on the opposite seat and he flung that out, too, before slamming the compartment door shut, locking her out.

  Harriet stood clumsily and eyed the closed door. Now what? She could scream or bang on the door, but in her nonattire she didn’t really want to gain the attention of the conductor or other passengers. Hmmm. Pursing her lips, she narrowed her eyes and thought for a second. Then she smiled.

  Stepping close to the door, Harriet said in a low voice, “Oh, Steve, what do you think the sheriff will say at our next stop when I tell him about the gold?” In Sweet Savage Love, Steve Morgan had confiscated a shipment of gold that he didn’t want the authorities to know about. Harriet was betting that her threat would make Steve think twice about dumping her.

  It did.

  As the door began to open, Harriet moved to the side.

  Steve stuck his head out, demanding, “How do you know about the gold?”

  And Harriet walloped him over the head with her briefcase, knocking him stone-cold unconscious.

  Yippee! Harriet exulted, doing a little victory dance around her prone victim. Chalk one up for womankind.

  It was turning into the best damn dream Harriet had ever had.

  Chapter Three

  After her initial jubilation, Harriet tapped a forefinger against her lips worriedly. What should she do now? The big lug lay like a concrete block at her feet, on his back, out cold.

  Well, she couldn’t just let him remain sprawled half in and half out of her compartment. She should push him out into the corridor and lock the door on him—tit for tat.

  But no, she wanted to put some closure on this nightly torment, once and for all. To know why Steve had switched gears on their crazy “relationship.”

  She huffed and puffed, to no avail. She was only five foot six and weighed a hundred and twenty-five pounds, but she worked out at the gym regularly. Gosh, the brute must weigh at least two hundred pounds. Finally, she saw a wooden luggage dolly sitting in the corridor and used it to haul him into the room. Hey, I don’t have a PhD for nothing.

  Kneeling at his side, she checked his pulse by lifting his limp wrist and pressing her thumb against the blue vein, visible under his dark complexion. Okay pulse normal. The guy’s gonna live. Ha, ha, ha! Live? He’s a dream, for heaven’s sake!

  She smiled to herself at the fanciful thought.

  Then she frowned.

  Because he did have a pulse.

  Oh, boy!

  She noticed something else. If Steve had had a headache before, she had news for him. That goose egg beginning to rise on his forehead spelled more pain to come.

  “What in tarnation is goin’ on here?”

  Harriet practically jumped out of her skin and turned to see the conductor standing in the still-open doorway. But it wasn’t Mr. Jessup, the nice conductor who’d been on duty earlier. This guy, wearing an antiquated railway uniform with a pillbox kind of hat, was tall, white and surly.

  He held up the lantern in his hand to see better. It was the same kind as the one Steve had lit earlier.

  Before she had a chance to puzzle over that oddity, the conductor repeated, “What’s goin’ on here? What’s this man doin’ on the floor? Is he dead?”

  “No, of course he’s not dead. Maybe he had too much to drink…or something.”

  The conductor’s beady eyes took in her silk nightie, and a slow smirk spread across his pockmarked face. This was embarrassing, even in a dream. She was going to have to get her robe from the bathroom real soon with all the people parading in and out of her compartment. It was clear what he thought she was doing here. If she wasn’t careful, he might just follow Steve’s lead and toss her out on her rear, too.

  Or worse.

  Thinking fast, Harriet simpered, “Oh, that Mr. Morgan! He and I never met before; so I didn’t recognize him.” She waved a hand airily, the implication being that she was a prostitute having an assignation with an unknown client. “Oh, well, I guess it doesn’t matter if you leave him there till he wakes up. After all, he and I will be sharing this compartment, if you know what I mean, honey. All the way to New Orleans.” She fluttered her eyelashes meaningfully. “You can just go now.”

  The conductor moved closer.

  “Did you know Mr. Morgan is a gunslinger?” she added, glancing pointedly at the gun belt Steve still wore, low on his hips.

>   The conductor’s eyes widened as they latched onto the two pistols, and he soon left, grumbling something about drunks and whores, the bane of a conductor’s life.

  Harriet shut the door after him. Whew! That was close. Her shoulders slumped then as she surveyed her surroundings. Everything was completely different from when she’d boarded the train several hours ago. The room was smaller, and a film of soot—coal dust—covered just about everything. Two upholstered bench seats faced each other, perpendicular to the windows. Steve’s body took up just about all the space in between. There was no evidence of the small door leading to her private bathroom. So much for getting her robe!

  And while her compartment had been stuffy before, now it was stiflingly hot. She stepped over Steve’s body and tugged on the two wide windows, surprised when the frames moved upward, providing a blast of fresh air from the moving train. Harriet knew that windows in a modern Amtrak didn’t open, for safety reasons, which she considered further proof that she was still dreaming.

  She decided then and there that she was going to make an appointment with her friend, Dr. Julius Franklin, the minute she returned home to Los Angeles. Jules specialized in dream interpretation, and Harriet’s dreams were becoming way too detailed and vivid. They must mean something.

  Could she be having a nervous breakdown? Harriet had been pushing herself especially hard the past year. Meeting a tight deadline for delivery of her latest book. Lecturing at UCLA. Finding an apartment for her mother, who was husbandless once again, although Riff had soon bopped into the picture, vying to be spouse number six. Then this book tour.

  Tears of exhaustion and frustration brimmed in her eyes. She needed to wake up from this damn dream. But to do that, she first needed to fall asleep. Not that she wasn’t already asleep and dreaming, but she needed to sleep in her sleep. Even her fuzzy brain saw the contradiction in that logic.

  Okay, so that’s the plan, she thought, wiping at her eyes. Sleep. Wake up. End of problem.

  Steve moaned softly and threw an arm up over his head, shifting slightly in the cramped space. She could tell by his even breathing that he now slept, no longer unconscious.

  She was about to lie down on the bench seat, then hesitated. She’d better not take any chances, even if it was a dream. Reaching down, she carefully removed first one, then the other revolver from Steve’s gun belt, placing the weapons out of his reach at the far end of the other seat, near the door.

  Harriet tried lying on her side, then her back, her stomach, then her other side. She couldn’t get comfortable. Geez, even in a dream, she couldn’t fall asleep. But then, in her dreams, she was accustomed to sleeping with the rascal.

  Do I dare?

  Why not?

  So Harriet blew out the lantern and slid down to the floor, nestling her body up against that of her dream lover. She rested her face on his chest, where she could feel his heart beat strongly against her cheek, and even wrapped his one arm over her shoulder. With a grin, she threw one leg over his thighs.

  An outrageous idea occurred to her. Maybe I should be the forceful seducer, for a change.

  Oh, yeah! Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

  Heck, why not? “Sluts ‘R’ Us” is apparently my motto these days.

  But I’m too tired right now.

  Wimp!

  Maybe later.

  She snuggled closer, relishing the familiar scent and contours of her lover’s body. Strangely, she felt at home in this man’s arms.

  Within seconds, she succumbed to sleep…in her sleep.

  Etienne opened his eyes to bright sunlight, and immediately shuttered them against the pain. He tried to focus on the ache throbbing behind his right temple, to will away the agony.

  All those months in a dark hole, the repeated beatings…he’d have thought his body would welcome the sun’s rays. But, no, his prison torment only took on another guise when he’d left the bars behind five years ago—the debilitating headaches.

  After a few minutes of deep breathing and disciplined concentration, he felt the pain ease. When he cracked his eyelids slowly, he became aware of two important facts. First, he was stretched out on the floor of a railway compartment. Second, a sleeping woman had attached herself to him like barnacles on a sunken ship.

  He couldn’t see her face, but her warm breath tickled his neck. He blew out a few strands of her long, sable hair, which had managed to land in his open mouth—he’d probably been snoring—and sniffed deeply. Her hair smelled of lemons and fresh gulf breezes. But it didn’t taste very good.

  One of her hands lay possessively under his vest, over his heart. And a bare, creamy thigh had nudged its way between his legs so that she reclined half on top of him. His one arm encircled the woman’s shoulders, cuddling her into his embrace.

  Still sleep-hazy, he didn’t know who she was; nor did he care at this stage. He just wanted to luxuriate in the sensuousness of the moment. To forget his past—the mistakes and regrets. To relax and not worry about the danger ahead. To find the Etienne Baptiste who’d been lost for so long.

  Using his free hand, he examined the woman blindly, sweeping a callused palm over her shoulders, along the indentation of her small waist, to her curvy hips and long legs.

  Instead of protesting, she sighed softly and nestled closer.

  Had they made love?

  Probably.

  It wasn’t too surprising that he wouldn’t remember, either. Most of his sexual encounters in the past few years had been less than memorable. Ever since Vera had…no, he didn’t want to think about that…about anything. He just wanted to luxuriate in the sybaritic sensation of mere feeling. Long years of suppressing his emotions had left him cold inside, but he was definitely thawing now.

  He let his hand explore more. She was a small-boned female of medium height with a behind that would fit very nicely into a man’s hands, he ascertained with a slow smile, palming said mounds appreciatively. It was the kind of well-rounded ass that petite women hated, but men loved. Men, of course, having a natural appreciation for the finer points of a woman’s figure. Like a good ass.

  That was when he added important fact number three to his list. He had a huge erection rising against the woman’s inner thigh. Cain and Abel always said the morning rooster rose early. He had to say this rooster was about to crow, early or not.

  Without thinking, he shifted the woman’s body so she lay on top of him, her full breasts on his chest and the vee of her womanhood riding the ridge of his hardness. Her long, raven hair fell forward, screening her face. Lifting the hem of her tiny garment, he took one bare buttock in each of his hands and moved her against him rhythmically.

  He groaned. The pleasure was so painfully exquisite.

  She groaned, too…a soft, kittenish sound. Then she raised her head slightly, blinking at him through muddy green eyes, like a cat. “Again?”

  “Again?” he repeated dully, transfixed by her eyes.

  “Uh-huh,” she purred, tracing a forefinger over his scratchy jaw, then over his lips.

  As the vixen rubbed herself against him with feline persuasiveness, a red haze of arousal clouded Etienne’s vision. He arched his neck, panting hard, in an effort to slow the pace. Lord, had anything in his life ever felt this good?

  “How do you like having someone take you against your will?”

  Against my will? Hell, if I were any more willing, I’d explode.

  Etienne closed his eyes, trying to pay attention. But the hot blood churning in his brain wanted only one thing…his hardness imbedded inside the sweet cat’s heat. He tried to tell her, but his tongue grew thick, barring words. Instead, he raised his hips up against her in silent invitation.

  A low, seductive laugh of triumph trilled from her throat, and he opened his eyes slowly, waiting for an explanation.

  “I decided last night that I should be the aggressor next time in this forceful seduction game,” she murmured, the whole time nibbling at his neck. He could swear her tongue really was abrasiv
e and catlike. “Would you like that, Steve?”

  Etienne blinked as the words forceful seduction and Steve wormed their way into his foggy memory, jolting him. “Damn!” Etienne lost his lustful inclinations immediately as understanding hit him like a runaway train. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  This cat-woman in the leopard-print chemise…this seductress turning him mindless with lust…it was the woman he’d booted out of his compartment last night. The one who’d…Oh, my God! He put a hand to his forehead where a bump rose ignominiously, explaining his throbbing headache. The woman had dared to strike him with her satchel. She must have knocked him unconscious.

  She was still gazing at him with those huge, green, feline eyes, imploring him to…what?

  “Are you going to surrender to me?” she whispered in a sinfully sexy voice, low and husky and full of enticing mystery.

  “Surrender?” he choked out. Then he looked downward, which was a big mistake. Because he got a bird’s-eye view of the prettiest pair of breasts this side of heaven—uptilted, with hardened pink nipples.

  But no, something was wrong with this picture. Etienne forced himself to recollect. The woman had entered his compartment, uninvited, just as he and Cain and Abel were about to embark on the most dangerous assignment of their lives. She knew about the gold and his army background. She’d knocked him unconscious. Now she ogled him like he was a griddle cake, and she was the hot molasses. And she wanted him to…surrender?

  Suddenly Etienne knew. Another person was about to slip the knife of betrayal through his vulnerable ribs. Like Vera. When the hell would he ever learn to be more cautious? His heart skipped a beat with alarm, then began to chug slowly with fury. Just as the sitting train was beginning to chug up its engines and build steam.

  Sitting train? Etienne shot up off the floor, dumping the woman unceremoniously, and scrambled to look out the window.

  That was when important fact number four dawned on him—the most important fact of all. Panicked, he peered out the window at the train station, which was becoming increasingly smaller as they moved away. With a silent curse, he recognized the black man standing, hands on hips, next to a wagon in the distance—Abel. And he realized that he’d missed his critical stop in Memphis. This woman—whoever she was—had ruined the entire mission.