JORDAN

by Lori Foster

  ~ 1 ~

  THE SWINE.

  Jordan Sommerville stared at the hand- painted sign positioned crookedly over the ramshackle building. Visible from the roadway, the sign boasted some of the worst penmanship he'd ever seen. The bright red letters seemed to leap right out at him.

  He cursed as another icy trickle of rain slid down the back of his neck. He could hear the others behind him, murmuring in subdued awe as they took in the sights and sounds of the bar. It was late, it was dark, and for September, it was unseasonably cool. Surely there didn't exist a more idiotic way to spend a Friday night.

  The idea of trying to convince a bar owner to institute a drink limit, especially a bar owner who had thus far allowed quite a few men to overimbibe, seemed futile. Jordan started forward, anxious to get it over with.

  Somehow he'd become the designated leader of the five-man troop, a dubious honor he'd regretfully accepted. The men had been organized by Zenny, a retired farmer who was best described as cantankerous – on his good days. Then there was Walt and Newton, who claimed to be semiretired from their small-town shops, though they still spent every day there. And Howard and Jesse, the town gossips who volunteered for every project, just to make sure they got to stick their noses into anything that was going on.

  Jordan stopped at the neon-lighted doorway to the seedy saloon and turned to face the men. A strobing beer sign in the front window illuminated their rapt faces. Jordan had to shout to be heard over the loud music and laughter blaring from inside the establishment.

  "Now remember," he said, and though he used his customary calm tone, he infused enough command to hold all their attention, "we're going to talk. That's all. There'll be no accusations, no threats and absolutely, under no circumstances, will there be any violence. Understood?"

  Five heads bobbed in agreement even as they looked anxiously beyond Jordan to the rambunctious partying inside. Jordan sighed.

  Buckhorn County was dry, which meant anyone who drank had the good sense to stay indoors and keep it private. There'd been too many accidents on the lake, mostly from vacationers who thought water sports and alcohol went hand in hand, for the citizens to want it any other way.

  But this new bar, a renovated old barn, had opened just over the county line, so the same restriction didn't apply. Lately, some of its customers had tried joyriding through Buckhorn in the dead of the night, hitting fences, tearing up cornfields, terrorizing the farm animals, and generally making minor mayhem. No one had been seriously injured, yet, but in the face of such moronic amusements, it was only a matter of time.

  So the good citizens of Buckhorn had rallied together and, at the suggestion of the Town Advisory Board, decided to try talking to the owner of the bar. They hoped he would be reasonable and agree to restrict drinks to the rowdier customers, or perhaps institute a drink limit for those that leaned toward nefarious tendencies and overindulgence.

  Jordan already knew what a waste of time that would be. He had his own very personal reasons for loathing drunks. He would have gently refused to take part in the futile endeavor tonight, except that he and his brothers were considered leading citizens of Buckhorn, and right now, due to a nasty flu that had swept through the town, Jordan was the only brother available to lead.

  With a sigh, he walked through the scarred wooden doors and stepped inside. The smoke immediately made his lungs hurt. Mixed with the smells of sweat and the sickening sweet odor of liquor, it was enough to cause the strongest stomach to lurch.

  The dank, dark night worked as a seal, enclosing the bar in a sultry cocoon. The walls were covered with dull gray paint. Long fluorescent lights hung down from the exposed ceiling beams, adding a dim illumination to an otherwise gloomy scene.

  Men piled up behind Jordan, looking over his shoulder, breathing on his neck, tsking at what they saw as salacious activity. Which didn't, of course, stop them from ogling the scene in deep fascination. Jordan could almost feel their anticipation and knew the evening was not destined to end well.

  Hoping to locate someone in charge, Jordan looked around. A heavy, sloping counter seated several men, all of them hanging over their beers while a painfully skinny, balding man refilled drinks with the quickness of long practice. At the end of the bar stood a massive, menacing bouncer, the look on his face deliberately intimidating. Jordan snorted, seeing the ploy for what it was; a way to keep the peace in a place that cultivated disagreements by virtue of what it was and the purpose it served.

  There were booths lining the walls and a few round tables cluttering up the middle of the floor. Overall, the place seemed crowded and loud, but not lively. An atmosphere of depression hung in the air despite the bawdy laughter.

  Then suddenly the noise of conversation, clinking glasses and rowdy music died away. In its place a heavy, expectant hush filled the air. Jordan felt the hair on his arms tingle with a subtle awareness. Everyone stared at a low stage to the left of the front door, almost in the center of the bar. It couldn't have been more than eight feet wide and ten feet long. A faded, threadbare curtain at the back of the stage rustled but didn't open.

  Jordan stared, feeling as mesmerized as everyone else, though he had no idea why. Behind him, old man Zenny coughed. Walt eased closer. Newton bumped into his left side.

  Slowly, so slowly Jordan hardly noticed it at first, music from a hidden stereo began to filter into the quiet. It crackled a bit, as if the speakers had been subjected to excessive volume. It started out low and easy and gradually built to a rousing tempo that made him think of the Lone Ranger series. All the men who'd previously been loud were now subdued and waiting.

  The curtain parted just as the music grabbed a bouncing beat and took off like a horse given his lead. Jordan caught his breath.

  A woman, slight in build except for her truly exceptional breasts, burst onto the stage in what appeared to be an aerobic display except that she moved with the music...and looked seductive as hell.

  He'd seen his three sisters-in-law do similar steps while exercising, but then, his sisters-in-law didn't have breasts like this woman, and they were always dressed in sweats when they worked out.

  And they sure as certain didn't perform for drunks. Nearly spellbound, Jordan couldn't pull his gaze away. His mouth opened on a deep breath, his hands curled into fists and his body tightened. The reaction surprised him and kept him off guard.

  As he stared he realized the woman wasn't exactly doing a seductive dance. But the way she moved, fluid and graceful and fast, each turn or twist or high kick keeping time to the throbbing beat, had every man in the bar – including Jordan – holding his breath, balanced on a keen edge of anticipation.

  She wore a revealing costume of black lace, strategically placed fringe, and little else. The fringe glittered with jet beads that moved as she moved, drawing attention to her bouncing breasts and rotating hips. Her legs were slender, sleekly muscled. She turned her back to the bar, and the fringe on her behind did a little flip – flip – flip. Jordan's right hand twitched, just imagining what that bottom would feel like.

  He cursed under his breath. The costume covered her, and yet it didn't. He'd seen women at the lake wearing bikinis that were much more revealing, but none that were sexier. She kept perfect time with the heavy pulsing of the music and within two minutes her shoulders and upper chest gleamed with a fine mist of sweat, making her glow. Her full breasts, revealed almost to her nipples, somehow managed to stay inside her skimpy costume, but the thought that they might not kept Jordan rigid and enrapt.

  Next to him, Newton whispered, "Lord have mercy," and the same awe Jordan felt was revealed in the older man's voice. Jordan scowled, wishing he could send the men back outside, wishing he could somehow cover the woman up.

  He didn't want others looking at her. But he cou
ld have looked at her all night long.

  His possessive urges toward a complete stranger were absurd, so he buried them away behind a dose of contempt while ignoring the punching beat of his heart.

  The audience cheered, screamed, banged their thick beer mugs on the counter and on the tabletops. Yet the woman's expression never changed. She didn't smile, though her overly lush, wide mouth trembled slightly with her exertions. She had a mouth made for kissing, for devouring. Her lips looked soft and Jordan knew with a man's intuition exactly how sweet they'd feel against his own mouth, his skin. Every now and then she turned in such a way that the lighting reflected in her pale gray eyes, which stared straight ahead, never once focusing on any one man.

  In fact, her complete and utter disregard for her all-male audience was somehow arousing. She looked to be the epitome of sexual temptation, but didn't care. She might have been dancing alone, in the privacy of her bedroom, for all the attention she gave to the shouting, leering spectators.

  Feigning nonchalance, Jordan crossed his arms over his chest and decided to wait until her show ended before finding the proprietor. Not because she interested him. Of course not. But because right now it would be useless to start his search, being that everyone was caught up in the show.

  Despite his attempt at indifference, Jordan's gaze never left her, and every so often it seemed his heartbeat mirrored her rhythm. Beneath his skin, a strange warmth expanded, pulsed. Something about her, something elusive yet intrinsically female, called to him. He ignored the call. He was not a man drawn in by flagrant sexuality. No, when a woman caught his attention, it was because of her gentleness, her intelligence, her morals. Unlike his brothers – who were the finest men he knew – he'd never been a slave to his libido. They'd often teased him about his staid personality, his lack of fire, because he'd made a point of keeping his composure in all things. At least most of the time.

  His eyes narrowed.

  Short, golden brown curls framed her face and were beginning to darken with sweat, clinging to her temples and her throat. It was an earthy look, dredging up basic primal appetites. Jordan wondered what those damp curls would feel like in his fingers, what her heated skin would taste like to his tongue. How her warmed body would feel under his, moving as smoothly to his sexual demands as it moved to the music.

  As the rhythmic beat began to fade, she dropped smoothly to her knees, then her stomach. Palms flat on the floor, arms extended, she arched her body in a parody of a woman in the throes of pleasure. The move was blatantly sexual, deliberately seducing, causing the crowd to almost riot and making Jordan catch his breath.

  Her face was exquisite at that moment, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted, nostrils flaring. Jordan locked his jaw against the mental images filling his brain – images of him holding her hips while she rode him in just that way, taking him deep inside her body.

  He wanted to banish the thoughts, but they wouldn't budge. Anger at himself and at the woman conflicted with his growing tension.

  He knew every damn man in the place was imagining the same thing and it enraged him.

  In that instant her eyes slowly opened and her glittering gray gaze locked on his. Jordan sucked in a breath, feeling as though she'd just touched him in all the right places. They were connected as surely as any lovers, despite the space between them, the surroundings and the lack of prior knowledge. Her eyes turned hot and a bit frightened as they filled with awareness. Then she caught herself and with a lift of her chin, she swung her legs around and came effortlessly to her feet.

  Scowling at the unexpected effect of her, Jordan tried, without success, to pull his gaze away. There was nothing about a mostly naked vamp dancing in a sleazy bar for the delectation of drunks that should appeal to him.

  So why was he so aroused?

  He hadn't had such a staggering reaction to a female since his teens when puberty had made him more interested in sex than just about anything else. But he'd grown up since then. He was a mature, responsible man now. He was...

  The music died away to utter silence. The hush in the room was rich and hungry.

  She wasn't beautiful, Jordan insisted to himself, attempting to argue away his racing heartbeat, his clenched muscles and his swelling sex. In fact, she was barely pretty. But she was as sexy as the original temptation, her appeal basic and erotic.

  Over the silence, Jordan detected the sound of her heavy breathing with the force of a thunderclap. A roar of approval started the massive applause, and within seconds the room rocked with the sounds of masculine appreciation and entreaties for more. Jordan continued to watch her, not smiling, not about to encourage her. He waited for her to meet his gaze again, but she didn't. She looked straight ahead, deliberately ignoring him.

  Anger simmered inside him, warring with lust.

  Slowly, still struggling for breath, she took a bow. He hadn't noticed until that moment that she wore high heels. Amazing, he thought, remembering how she'd moved, the gracefulness of her every step. Her legs looked especially long in the spiked heels.

  She tottered slightly as if in exhaustion, appearing young and vulnerable for the space of a heartbeat. Money was thrown onstage, some of it hitting the open urn positioned at the edge, most of it landing around her feet. She didn't bend to pick it up or acknowledge the money in any way. She merely stood there, as proud and imperious as a queen while the men played homage, begging her for more, emptying their pockets.

  If Jordan hadn't been watching her so closely, he wouldn't have seen her hands curl into fists, or the way her soft mouth tightened. With one last nod of her head, she turned to leave the stage. That's when the trouble started.

  Two men reached for her, one catching her wrist, the other stroking her knee and thigh.

  A wave of rage hit Jordan with such force, it nearly took him to his knees.

  He couldn't dispute his own reaction, and started toward her. At almost the same time, the bouncer pushed himself away from the back wall, but Jordan barely noticed him. He kept his gaze on the woman's face as she tried to pull her hand free, but the drunken men had other plans. One of them attempted to press money into her hand while he suggested several lecherous possibilities, egged on by his buddy.

  Others seconded the drunks' suggestions, throwing more money, making catcalls and urging her to another dance...and more.

  She firmly refused, and again tried to step away. Her gaze sought out the bouncer, but he'd been detained by a table full of younger men who were insisting the woman should continue.

  Jordan reached the edge of the stage just as she said, "Go on home to your wife, Larry. The show's over."

  Her deep throaty voice was filled with loathing and exhaustion. It affected Jordan almost as strongly as the sight of the drunk's rough hand wrapped around her slender wrist. He barely restrained himself from attacking the man, and that alone was an aberration. Jordan had never considered himself a violent or overly aggressive person.

  "Let the lady go."

  Reacting to the command in Jordan's tone, the man released her automatically, only to turn on Jordan with a growl.

  "Who the hell are you?" As he asked it, Larry took a threatening step forward.

  Jordan gave him a stark look of contempt. In as reasonable a voice as he could muster, considering his mood and the obstreperous noise of the bar, he said, "You're drunk and I'm not. I'm bigger in every way. And right now, I'd like to tear you in two." Jordan watched him, his gaze unwavering. "Does it really matter who I am?"

  Larry reeked of alcohol, as if he'd been at the bar all day. Perhaps that accounted for his loss of good sense. But for whatever reason, he disregarded Jordan's warning and attempted a clumsy punch. Jordan leaned back two inches so that Larry's limp fist whipped right past his jaw, then he stuck his foot out, gave the smaller man a shove, and sent him sprawling. Larry screeched like a wet hen, but when he hit the dusty barn floor he landed hard, and he didn't look sober enough to get back up.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake..."
The dancer's words were muttered low, but Jordan heard her. He glanced up. The other man stepped back quickly at the look of menace in Jordan's eyes. Unfortunately, he still had his hand hooked around the woman's knee and his sudden retreat pulled her off balance. With a loud gasp, she stumbled right off the edge of the low stage and would have landed next to Larry if Jordan hadn't caught her.

  The impact of her small, lush body caused Jordan to stumble, too, but he easily regained his balance and, acting on pure male instinct, wrapped his arms tightly around her bottom. Her belly landed flush against his lower chest, her ripe breasts pressed to his face. Jordan stood, for a single instant, stunned.

  Her small hands felt cool on his burning skin, the contrast maddening. Braced against his shoulders, she pushed back and Jordan was able to see her angry face.

  "Are you insane?" she demanded.

  "At this moment?" Jordan asked, unable to concentrate on anything of import, not with those incredible breasts a mere breath away. "I believe so."

  He held very still, feeling trapped by her nearness, by the deep timbre of her voice, her warm, gentle weight, her seductive movements. Her body was lithe and supple, soft, despite her determination to push away from him. Acutely aware of one firm breast pressing into his jaw, he could see far too much cleavage to allow for divided attention.

  Her black lace bodysuit dipped low in front, displaying the paleness and lush roundness of her breasts; the material was so sheer he could plainly make out the outline of her puckered nipples, thrusting noticeably against the material. His mouth went dry. He was so hard he hurt.

  He wanted to taste her.

  Contrary to all reason, to the situation, to the crowd around them, to his own basic nature, he wanted to draw her into the heat of his mouth, lick her, taste her, hear her husky moans. He'd only need to turn his head a scant two inches and...

  His breath came faster, his stomach cramped.

  Her naked thighs were sleek and smooth and warm against his forearms, which he had crossed beneath her bottom. Up close, her overdone makeup was even more apparent – but then, so was her allure. Jordan met her gaze and they each stalled.