When Brett Preston called and reported an intruder on his property taking photographs, the sheriff had rolled his eyes. Without knowing who the offender was or catching him in the act, there was nothing he could do, but the paperwork still had to be filed and inquiries made. He'd tasked one of his deputies to do some calling around, and sent another to the base of the hill where Brett Preston had a solid fence and padlocked gate. It turned out the chain had been snapped by bolt cutters. The trespasser would not be able to claim he'd wandered on to the property by accident. Relieved the long day was finally coming to a close, Ed had just finished clearing his desk when his secretary buzzed.
"Yeah, Judy?"
"Brett Preston on line two. Please can you have him come in? I'm dying to meet him."
"Don't die on me yet. Not until I find a replacement. Did you say line two?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Preston, how can I help?"
"Sheriff, the situation with this photographer has escalated, but there's too much to explain on the phone. Would it be possible to send one of your deputies here?"
"Sure, but can you give me some details?"
"Blackmail and the threat of bodily harm."
"Those are serious allegations. Do you have any proof?"
"Sure do. A recordin' of the conversation."
"I'll come up myself. Is now a good time?"
"Perhaps we should meet in the mornin'. I'm not the one bein' targeted. It's a good friend of mine who's stayin' here and she's still pretty upset. Besides that, we're gettin' pretty windy up here. I've just finished gettin' everything secured."
"I know we're in for a rough night. Thankfully the gusts are supposed to die down pretty quick. Why don't I come up there around ten o'clock?
"Sounds good. Thanks, Sheriff."
"Before you go, I assume you know who this person is."
"Sure do. Andrew Stern. He's stayin' at The White Feather Lodge."
"Got it. Obviously I'll need to talk with you first and get a statement, but I'll keep eyes on him."
"Thanks. I doubt he'll come up here tonight though."
"I agree. I don't think even the paparazzi are that stupid. Mr. Preston, did you make this call from your cell phone?"
"I did."
"I'm going to text my personal cell phone number. You never know about these things. Blackmailers are a breed unto themselves. I know you have excellent security up there, but if he shows up feel free to call me."
"That's real nice of you. I appreciate it."
"You're very welcome, Mr. Preston."
"Please, call me Brett."
"Thanks, Brett. And you can call me Ed. I'll see you in the morning."
"Will do. Bye."
Hanging up the phone, Ed let out an angry grunt. He hated bullies, and he especially hated men who bullied women.
* * * * * * * * * *
Andrew Stern downed the last swallow of his third beer. Robert Hoffman possessed a smooth demeanor, but underneath his charm lived a ruthless tyrant, one who would not be crossed, but his tactics didn't bother Andrew one bit. He found great pleasure watching the rich and famous suffer and squirm. Envy for them motivated him almost as much as the excellent income he enjoyed, but there were times Robert's demands made him squirm almost as much as his wealthy targets.
"Get up there tonight and shoot through those fucking windows!" Robert had demanded when Andrew had reported his conversation with Amber. "I want to see them having sex. I don't trust that bitch. We need more to hang over her head."
Andrew knew any debate would be pointless, and he shuddered at the thought of being alone in the dark woods.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After securing the house, Brett put Johnny and Cash into the Range Rover and drove down to the barn. They'd be spending the blustery night there, but he also wanted to check in with Steve. He found the horses safely in their oversized stalls, and Steve busy closing the shutters over the windows. Brett immediately jumped in to help. The dogs loved the wind, and noisily chased after whatever blew past them. Even the mellow Malamute joined in the fun, but howled more than barked. Finished with the arduous chore, windswept and slightly out of breath, Brett and Steve chased them back into the barn.
"It's gonna be a wild one," Brett remarked. "I'm glad you think it's gonna pass through quick."
"I'll keep my phone turned on."
"I will too. By the way, the sheriff will be here in the mornin'. You were right about Amber bein' involved with that photographer, but when she told him she wanted nothin' more to do with him, he tried to blackmail her. The guy's a real jerk."
Steve nodded, then dropped his eyes.
Brett remained quiet.
"Mistakes," Steve said solemnly. "They are always forgivable if one has the courage to admit them."
"Is that a quote from Chief Dan George?"
"No. Bruce Lee."
"No shit?"
"No shit."
"Huh. I'd better get back to the house. You stay safe tonight."
"You as well."
"And you two behave yourselves," he said, crouching down and making a fuss of Johnny and Cash.
Marching from the barn and climbing into the Rover, he headed up to the garage. Amber's Subaru and Betsy were already inside, and pulling the SUV into the last empty spot, he closed up the door and entered the kitchen. Amber had drained a pot of pasta and was stirring in sauce she'd found in the pantry. The kitchen table boasted a large white candle and two glasses of red wine. Walking up to her, he moved her hair off her neck and planted his lips against her skin, then wrapping his arms around her waist, he peered over her shoulder.
"Aren't you supposed to put the pasta in a bowl and pour the sauce on top?"
"That widely held belief is completely wrong. My mother is from Sicily. This is correct."
"Really?"
"Really. Can you fetch the plates?"
Moving past her, he opened a cabinet, selected two large, deep dishes and rested them on the counter.
"They're perfect!"
"I should hope so. They're officially pasta plates."
"A cowboy with official pasta plates," she said with a giggle. "I'm impressed."
"Don't be. Jasmine's responsible."
"How do you know her?"
"Through Steve. She's a sweet lady, but she likes to keep a distance."
"Does that bother you?"
"Not a bit," he replied, opening the refrigerator to fetch a jar of parmesan cheese. "I have a feelin' about those two. I could be wrong, but I think there's something there," he continued, carrying the cheese to the table while she served up the steaming pasta.
"Where are the dogs?" she asked, as he hurried back to help her pick up the plates now laden with the steaming spaghetti.
"With Steve. I won't be able to walk them later, and they don't have to go outside if they're in the barn."
"Oh, right."
"Amber, do you mind if I ask you about this situation with Undercover Publishin'?" he asked as they sat down. "If you're not ready to talk about it, I understand. I don't wanna upset you."
"Ask away. Yeah, it's uncomfortable, but I can't tell you what a relief it is to have this all out in the open."
"Why did you contact them in the first place?"
"I wish I hadn't," she murmured. "I thought I'd leave college with my wonderful degree and land a high-paying job, but that didn't happen. Talk about a disaster. I sent out resumes, called, wrote personal notes, and after a year all I had for my trouble was a sickening stack of rejections. My fabulous job ended up being a cocktail waitress at a hotel bar. I was desperate, then Heath called and said you were looking for a ghost writer. I couldn't believe it. That's when the idea came to me, and I thought I could help you write your book, and one of my own for them, but I swear, even when I first reached out to Undercover Publishing, I'd already decided not to reveal anything scandalous or too personal."
"But why were you so desperate? You could have negotiated my offer if—"
"This is so embarrassing," she mumbled, dropping her eyes as she cut him off. "I don't think I can talk about that yet. Can we please change the subject?"
He paused. Her face had flushed red.
"Okay. When you're ready to tell me, I'll be ready to listen," he said, picking up his glass. "A toast. To old times and new beginnings."
"Old times and new beginnings," she echoed, clinking his glass. "Do you remember when we got caught in that unexpected downpour?"
"Do I remember? We were drenched, and tryin' to get you inside your house without wakin' your parents we almost drowned," he said, laughing out loud. "What a night that was."
Their conversation continued down memory lane, and when their plates and glasses were empty, Brett leaned across the table and reached for her hand.
"Are you feelin' as good as I am?"
"How good is that?"
"In the words of my buddy Dustin Lynch, as good as it gets."
"I guess I am. I can't remember the last time I was this happy."
"You know what you're gonna do now?"
"Apparently not."
Chuckling, he shook his head.
"What?" she said with a giggle.
"Just you, Sassy Lassy. You're goin' upstairs to my bathroom, you're gonna soak in a hot tub, and when you come out I'll have a surprise waitin'."
"What kind of surprise?"
"That would be tellin'."
Rising from the table, he pulled her to her feet, and holding her face between his hands he sank his lips on hers. She tasted like dinner. Rich. Smooth. Delicious.
"Mmmm. I don't want to leave after that," she murmured, resting her head against his shoulder.
"Then how can I give you the surprise?"
"Good point. Okay. I'm going."
"Stay in the bathroom at least twenty-minutes."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good answer."
Kissing him softly, she slowly walked away, but paused at the door to stare back at him.
He'd picked up the plates and was carrying them to the sink.
As if sensing her stare, he stopped.
Wordlessly they shared the moment.
In spite of the fury of the winds outside, and Andrew Stern's disgusting blackmail attempt, everything felt right with the world.
* * * * * * * * * *
Sliding into the foamy water, as she felt the day's tension melt away, Amber's mind drifted to Brett's comment earlier that day.
Tonight we're goin' to bed early, and I'm gonna stop time.
Her stomach flipped, and saying a silent thank you to the powers that be, she closed her eyes and let herself drift.
In the bedroom, dressed only in a black bathrobe, Brett had finished his preparations. He'd taken a quick shower in one of the guest rooms, then dug out his rarely opened box of wicked toys. Loathe to expose his dark, decadent nature for fear of scandal, the leather, fur-lined cuffs and blindfold that sat on the bed had yet to be used. Next to the salacious items was a handwritten note with simple instructions.
The fireplace glowed its warmth, and ambling across the room, he stared out at the windswept night. Below him the totem pole stood tall, proud and unmoving, as though showing its power over the angry gale, and like a distant spotlight, the bright moon in the warm clear sky glowed over the hills. Though the trees were being ravaged, they appeared to be frolicking, their branches like arms reaching out to one another in a group dance. Reluctant to close the drapes, he told himself no-one would dare venture out in such treacherous conditions.
The sound of the bath being drained caught his attention, and moving hastily into his closet, he left the door open barely a crack. Amber appeared wearing a pale pink, thin cotton robe, breaking into a smile as she spied the wicked items and the piece of paper. His cock grew to attention as he watched her read the short message.
Place the cuffs on your wrists and ankles and the blindfold over your eyes. Wait for me naked.
Mesmerized, he watched her slip off the robe and sit on the edge of the bed. Wrapped in the amber glow of the fire and the silver sheen of the moon, her perfect body sent a surge of energy through his loins. Shackling her wrists and ankles, she secured the blindfold, but with no direction whether she should stand, sit, or lie down, he waited anxiously to see her choice. She remained sitting, but as he was about to leave his hiding place, she lifted her blindfold, then turned and crawled on the bed. Grabbing two pillows she placed them in the center, laid across them, then pulled the blindfold back into place. He hadn't imagined she would present herself so salaciously, and with the blood coursing through his veins, he strode from the closet.
"You look amazin'," he purred, leaning down to whisper in her ear.
"Sir," she began, her voice breathless. "Please may I ask you something?"
"Sure, darlin'."
"Please will you spank me? I mean, really spank me? I tried to con you and I still feel so guilty. Please, I, uh, I want you to punish me."
He'd hoped for the request. Only after she'd paid for her crime would she be relieved of her guilty shame and begin to heal.
"Sure will, hon," he murmured, smoothing his hand across her back. "I know you need it."
Kissing her cheek, he left her wrists unrestrained, but moved down the bed and joined her ankle cuffs together, then removing his robe, he straddled her body to face her feet. Her perfect, naked moons sat waiting for his spanking hand, but he softly squeezed the plump flesh before landing the first hot slap. She gasped. He smacked the opposite cheek, then fell into a steady rhythm, delivering his flattened palm from side-to-side without pause. Increasing the force as he continued, he remained unfazed by her utterances of pain, continuing until her skin was bright pink, and finishing with a volley of rapid-fire swats.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" she suddenly squealed as he rubbed her glowing, red bottom. "I'll never do anything like it again!"
"Not to me, you won't."
"Not to anyone. I swear."
Sliding a finger into her soaked sex he couldn't suppress his groan, and as she wriggled against his touch, he ached to plunge into her warm, wet depths.
He had to deny himself.
He wanted her.
Desperately.
But she needed more.
"I'll be bright back," he promised, climbing off her and padding across the room.
Entering the bathroom and opening a drawer, he withdrew a wooden hairbrush. It had lived there, untouched, for almost three years. Though it appeared similar to any found in a drugstore, the bristles were remarkably soft. The back, however, was hard, polished wood. He'd purchased the item from an online BDSM boutique. Returning to the bed, he kneeled up behind her, and placing his legs on either side of hers, he moved the velvety bristles over her hot, stinging skin.
"Sir, thank you. That feels so good."
Her gratitude had been a moaned whisper, and he continued the comforting caress, simultaneously pushing his finger into her drenched channel. She let out a cry, wriggling in an earnest plea for more, and he obliged, sending a second finger to join the first, thrusting in and out until she panted her plea to climax.
"Nope. Not yet. I'm not finished spankin'," he declared, dropping his hand away and tapping the wood against her bottom. "Tell me why I'm about to make your ass sting."
"Ooh, Sir, because I asked you to?"
"Yep, but that's not the answer I'm lookin' for."
"I deserve it?"
"Uh-huh, but there's another reason. The most important one."
"Because you love me?"
"That's it, darlin'. 'Cos I love you. After every swat you're gonna say, I'm sorry, Sir. Thank you for punishin' me."
"Yes, Sir."
"You ready?"
"Yes, Sir."
Lifting the brush, he landed a solid smack.
"Ow! I'm sorry, Sir. Thank you for punishin' me."
Repeating the swat on the opposite cheek, he heard a gasp, but she repeated the phrase. Moving the wicked implement to h
er sit spot, he slid it back and forth, then delivered the blow.
"Ow! Ow! I'm sorry, Sir. Thank you for punishin' me."
Moving it to the other side, he dispatched another.
"Ouch! I'm sorry, Sir. Thank you for punishin' me."
"I'm gonna smack you faster now, so just say thank you, Sir after each one."
Quickly swatting across the width and breadth of her backside, though she tried she couldn't keep up, and her words changed into wails of protest.
"We're done," he suddenly declared, abruptly tossing the brush aside.
"Ooh, Sir, it hurts."
"I know, darlin'," he crooned, rubbing her seared skin, "but it's over now. You're properly punished."
"Thank you, Sir," she mewled. "Thank you, so much."
Quickly unsnapping her ankles, he stretched out beside her and wrapped her into his arms.
"Catch your breath. Soon this whole crazy ass mess will be history."
"Do you really forgive me?"
"Hey, you know I do. I also know you must've had a gun to your head. We make bad choices when we feel things are spiralin' outta control. I love you, Amber. I've always loved you. Don't ever forget that."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Removing the pillows from under Amber's pelvis, Brett rolled her on her back, attached leather straps to the ankle cuffs, spread her legs and secured them to the footboard.
"How's my girl," he whispered, leaning over to place his lips against her ear. "Is she ready to be devoured?"
"Yes, Sir. So ready."
Raising her arms above her head, he locked her wrist cuffs together.
"Keep them there," he murmured, then softly kissing her, he traveled his mouth to her breasts and sucked in her nipples.
As she raised her chest to meet his lips, he went quickly from one to the next, then roamed his hand down her body and dropped it between her legs. Massaging her clit, her gasps and cries grew louder, and lifting his head he saw her chest had blushed red. His cock craving her glorious grotto, he grabbed her hips, and placing his member at her entrance, he pushed through her slick wetness.
To Con A Cowboy (Hunks and Horses Book 3) Page 12