Taming His Wild Girl (Wild Whip Ranch Book 2)

by Lee Savino

  I stumbled into my room and collapsed on my bed. This was my life now. A year of exposing my private parts to strangers. Four nights a week. A horrible, squirmy feeling went through me. I crammed the sleeve of my sweater into my mouth, and squeezed my eyes shut.

  Come and stay with me. I’ll take care of you.

  Joel’s words had lit a flicker of hope in my heart. The thought of getting away from all this. Of never having to go back to Beyond Hope again. It was like a beautiful dream.

  I snorted. I used to dream about being a famous ballerina. Now I dreamed about not being killed by the mob. What an innocent child I’d been.

  There’d been such shock in those amber eyes of his. Not horror and disgust at what I was doing, but concern for me. For a dumb moment, I’d longed to throw myself into his arms. Wrap my arms around his waist and press my head against his big chest. As I lay in my bed, I let the daydream continue. I imagined him stroking my hair, gently lifting my chin, then pressing his firm, full lips to mine. A reenactment of the kiss I couldn’t even remember.

  The thought of him flooded my veins, with a sweetness I hadn’t felt for years. He’d even smelled the same. Spearmint gum, and that woodsy cologne he used to wear in the evenings. And underneath that, his natural scent of fresh air and hard work, with a hint of hay drying in the sun.

  It didn’t seem possible, but after everything I’d done, he still cared for me. He must have waited for me outside the club for two hours tonight. That meant something.

  But staying with him was dangerous. For me and for him. Joel didn’t know Anton like I did. He hadn’t seen the little cutting motion Anton had done across his throat to warn me not to let Joel come around the club again. They’d kill us both; I knew that.

  Which meant I could never see Joel again.

  I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They coursed down my cheeks, and before I knew it, I was sobbing, my face buried in my pillow, muffling the sounds.

  There would be no rescue. There would be no Joel.

  I’d made my bed. I was just going to have to lie in it for the next year.

  Chapter 4

  Joel

  I followed Isabelle home.

  I wasn’t proud of it. Especially when she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me. But no way was I was going to let her go. Not when I’d been looking for her for so long.

  Not when she needed me.

  A taxi slid up behind her bus, and I yanked open the door and jumped in.

  “Hey,” the driver grunted. “I was just getting off shift.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” I told him. “Is Tayleworth far?”

  He shrugged. “A half hour or so.”

  “Okay, follow that bus.”

  He grumbled all the way as we crept along at snail’s pace, the bus lurching into almost every stop.

  And at every stop, I stuck my head out the window, watching anxiously for Isabelle to exit.

  Eventually, a couple of stops from Tayleworth, a small figure in a hooded sweatshirt stepped down. She’d been wearing a beanie earlier—but no, it was her. I knew her height and build, and the fragile way she held herself. I shoved a wad of cash at the driver and started to follow her along the sidewalk from a distance.

  Her spine was tilted sideways from the heavy bag she was carrying, and it cost me everything I had not to run up to her and snatch it off her shoulder. She turned down one dark street, then another. I hated that she was walking these deserted streets alone, so late at night. But her steps were slow, dragging, as if she was in no hurry to reach her destination. She had no home. I sensed that in my gut, and I ached for this lonely, orphaned girl.

  She stopped in front of a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates. Then she fiddled in her pocket and one of the gates slid open. She passed through, and it slid closed behind her. Staying in the shadows, I watched as she walked along a driveway and disappeared from view. I made out a parking lot, a bunch of foliage, and a long, white-fronted building. Swanky looking. It was one of those exclusive apartment complexes. I’d bet my bottom dollar it was owned by the thugs from the club. Maybe they gave her a special deal—something to tie her to the club. Lose your job, you lose your home. I’d heard some employers were smart like that.

  I went and stood in front of the gates, watching the building. Four minutes after she’d disappeared from view, a light came on at a window on the top floor. I hoped it was hers.

  I turned away and retraced my steps. There was no point hanging around there any longer. She’d be safe tonight, at least.

  It took a long while to find a taxi and get back to the hotel. All night, I tossed and turned on the unfamiliar bed while my roommate, Kevin, snored like a hog beside me. My mind was full of Isabelle. I replayed every moment of our interaction again and again, wondering if I’d done the right thing. How the hell was I going to get her away from that dump? Maybe I should’ve just kidnapped her then and there.

  Actually, that wasn’t such a dumb idea.

  The next morning, I got everyone up and went through the motions of making sure Deacon had the best bachelor’s party of his life—as he put it. But my thoughts were elsewhere.

  Later that afternoon, when I was back in my truck, I called the strip club and asked which dancers would be on that night. Apparently it was a normal question to ask.

  “Destiny, Jewel, Marnie, Bunni, Charity, Sapphire, Tiffany,” the guy recited in a robotic tone.

  But not Isabelle. Relief rushed through me, and I cut the call.

  Then I shook my head. No way in hell would she be using her real name. I called again, put on my best creeper voice, and asked if that “hot little ballerina’s dancing tonight.”

  “Naw,” the guy said. “She’s back Tuesday. You coming for the countdown?”

  “Countdown?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, a little bit more every week, until in three weeks’ time, when she shows you everything she’s got. Naked on stage for the first time ever. Like a virgin. Touch for the very first time—” He gave a throaty chuckle. “Only if you pay enough—”

  I stabbed at the end-call button, and hurled my phone onto the passenger seat.

  She hasn’t fully stripped yet. Not that it mattered. The beautiful doll, forced to prance in front of these men in humiliating display. Still dancing on demand, those lovely blue eyes vacant as before.

  I had to stop it. Three weeks’ time, when she shows you everything she’s got. Naked on stage for the first time ever.

  Poor, sweet tiny dancer.

  I couldn’t save Isabelle from the cage of her life, her strict parents, or the accident that cost her everything. But I could save her from this.

  I had three weeks.

  The ranch felt different when I pulled into the lot later that night. It was like I was walking into a time warp from four years ago. When I’d seen Isabelle and her family for the first time. Two homely parents, two rough-and-tumble kids who loved horseback riding, and Isabelle, their little star. She wasn’t allowed to run or ride horses or do anything that might injure her or alter the formation of her muscles. Instead, she had to practice her ballet every day in the barn. I was in charge of sweeping up the space, and I stayed to watch, curious to know what a young ballet star looked like.

  And it was beautiful. Isabelle executed leaps and turns like gravity didn’t apply to her. She hung on the air like a mote of sunlight. Her dance was an art, and a sport, and a discipline, demanding her all. At dusk she’d finally stop, her trembling muscles and the sheen on her smooth forehead the only sign she was at her limit. She’d unwrap her tortured feet from the pink satin shoes, and only then did I realize what it cost her to keep her face calm, expressionless.

  Freedom, she’d told me that night in my truck, and I’d thought it strange. Physical sports were freeing to me. I loved speed—galloping across the plains on my favorite horse until we were both exhausted, or barrel racing at the rodeo. And on occasion, I’d been known to dance at the hoe-downs in the
town hall. But ballet seemed all about control.

  Maybe Isabelle liked control. To some people, being bound by constraints was the most freeing thing of all. Maybe Isabelle was one of those people.

  As if I needed another reason to be obsessed with my tiny dancer.

  When I opened the gate to the yard, the dogs rushed over to greet me with a cacophony of barking and tail wagging. I squatted down in the dirt and let them jump all over me, grateful for their uncomplicated companionship. There were six of them, all rescue mutts that I’d trained as working dogs to help with the cows. They circled me, sniffing me all over, looking for clues about where I’d been and what I’d been doing.

  Things had changed a lot here since Isabelle’s family had driven out of the lot in a cloud of rage and disgust. For one thing, we didn’t take guests anymore. Three years ago, my mom had met a new guy, and she’d moved to his farm a half hour from here. I was happy for her. It was the right time for her to retire and enjoy life. She’d raised all four of us alone after my dad died. And when she’d signed over the running of the ranch to me, I’d been excited, thinking it’d give me the space I needed to explore my darker desires.

  But in reality, I’d been lonely more often than not. The ranch was a capricious mistress, demanding long days from dawn until dusk, threatening snow and bitter heat, storms and drought in whiplash succession. Only a lifetime of experience allowed me to keep up with her changing moods. The beauty of living on the land was worth it, but lately, the empty nights and my empty bed had sent me searching for human companionship. I’d tried clubs, online dating, but I was starting to think I’d never find the right girl for me.

  Maybe all this time, I’d been waiting for my tiny dancer, turning pirouettes on the scarred pine floor. She was too lovely and perfect for the likes of me. But fate had given me a second chance to save her. I wouldn’t rest until Isabelle was truly free.

  On Tuesday afternoon, I finished up early at the ranch and drove back to the club. It was a good couple of hours from Ashcroft, and it might as well have been another universe. What was Isabelle doing here, of all places? I couldn’t recall where she and her family had lived, but I didn’t think it was anywhere around this run-down town.

  This time, I stayed in my cowboy gear, hoping the thugs at the club wouldn’t recognize me. Keeping my Stetson low over my face, I paid my twenty-five bucks, and the goon in the cash booth waved me to the entrance. Just another sex-starved cowboy blowing through.

  I paused at the heavy velvet curtain, conflicting thoughts warring in my head. Desperate though I was to see Isabelle, I hated the thought of seeing her strip on stage.

  But at the same time, I hadn’t forgotten the sight of her body in the seconds before I recognized her. She’d grown into a stunning woman, all slender limbs and lush curves. She was any man’s dream.

  I swallowed hard. I wasn’t here to get turned on. I had a mission: to get her the hell out of here.

  When I passed through the curtain, day turned to night. Black walls, black furnishings. Designed to make you forget time. To forget anything except for the girl on stage and the wad of tipping dollars in your hand.

  I dragged out a chair and sat down by the stage. There were a bunch of other guys in the room—a few at individual tables, fidgeting, looking uncomfortable, and a couple of small groups, chatting and egging each other on. All tragic. Losers who had no idea what real pleasure was.

  The crappy, auto-tuned music was turned down low, but in another moment, it was jacked way up. My gut tightened a notch. I knew from Saturday that meant a stripper was coming on stage. There was a flash of silver, and a girl emerged from the shadows and danced onto the stage. My heart beat fast.

  Isabelle. Every nerve in me sang her name.

  A spotlight shone onto her face.

  It wasn’t her.

  I slumped down in my seat again. This girl was brunette and olive-skinned. Pretty, but she had none of Isabelle’s poise and natural beauty.

  A hand landed on my shoulder, long fingernails chafing at my bare skin. I fought the urge to knock it off.

  “How’re you doing, cowboy?” a loud, brassy voice wanted to know. A waitress, with a big, fake smile and too much eye make-up. I ordered a scotch, and agreed to buy a bunch of tipping dollars. I didn’t want to stand out in a way that might get me kicked out again.

  When she brought the drink over, I handed her a big tip and beckoned her close.

  “Tell me something—the ballerina’s dancing tonight, right?”

  Her forehead furrowed. “Tinkerbell? Yeah, I think so.”

  Tinkerbell. I curled my lip in disgust. “Is she available for private dances?”

  “She doesn’t do VIP shows.” She got a greedy glitter in her eye. “Usually.”

  I opened up my pocketbook, flashed the wad of cash in there.

  She straightened up. “Lemme check. I’ll be right back.”

  She was back before the girl on stage had even taken off her bra. “Eight hundred dollars for twenty minutes.”

  “Done.” I stood up.

  The girl blinked. She’d been ready to negotiate. I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting Isabelle alone.

  She led me through the rear of the club to a black door with VIP written on it in silver script. To the right of it was another shaven-headed goon, with the bulk and features of a Kodiak bear.

  “In there, sir,” he said in a thick accent. “The girl will arrive in a minute. She dance on your lap, you keep your hands to yourself. Do you feel me?”

  I stifled a snort. “Yeah, I feel you.”

  He threw open the door theatrically, and I went in. The room was small, all black again; with spotlighting and velvet benches surrounding a pole. I took a seat opposite the door and waited. My palms were sweating, and a pulse pounded in my throat.

  The first step was to convince her not to freak out at the sight of me.

  And the second—

  Am I ready to see my tiny dancer again?

  Chapter 5

  Isabelle

  Lap dance?

  My stomach convulsed again and I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from puking. The reflection staring at me in the mirror was a big-eyed, pale-faced picture of horror.

  “I don’t know how to do a lap dance,” had been my first, pathetic reaction when Anton gave me the news five minutes ago.

  “Sometimes inexperience is part of the charm,” he’d said with a leer, stroking at his horrible beard. “You dance on his lap a little. But none of that ballerina shit. Sexy grinding…” He gyrated his hips. “You take your clothes off, show him what you’ve got.”

  I gulped. “Everything?”

  “Everything. That’s what he’s paying for. Remember that.” His hand shot out and cupped my crotch for a horrible, sickening second.

  Tears sprang to my eyes, but I blinked them away before they ruined my make-up. This was somehow even worse than stripping on stage. Sitting on the lap of some horrible, pervy guy? What if he touched me, or worse?

  I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. I was going to refuse, and just face the consequences, whatever they were.

  The door burst open.

  “Come on.” One of the nameless thugs inclined his head.

  Of course I wasn’t going to refuse. I wasn’t that dumb. My heart pounding, I turned and followed him out of the door and down a dark corridor to the club’s VIP area.

  He opened the door to one of the private dance rooms, and propelled me through with hand on my ass.

  My heart was beating so fast, it made me dizzy. The room swam around me, my vision blurred and… my stripper heel caught on the edge of the carpet, and I tumbled …

  …right into the arms of my customer.

  Two strong hands grasped my hips, while my own landed smack onto a firm, broad chest. A pair of deep-set amber eyes peered into mine, the irises stormy.

  For a long moment, we were both too shocked to speak.

  “Joel,” I croaked at las
t. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Keep your voice down,” he said, low and husky, his gaze flicking to the door. I knew the thug was out there, supposedly guarding me.

  I nodded, and he set me back on my feet. He removed his cowboy hat and set it on the bench beside him, and I couldn’t help drinking him in. He was wearing a tan leather vest over a blue plaid shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, and I could just make out his massive biceps and the edge of a tattoo. A phoenix surrounded by flames.

  He looked so much like the Joel I’d known all those years ago. Stupidly handsome and as sexy as hell, without seeming to realize it. All dark hair, sharp cheekbones and jaw, lush eyes and lips. Emotion rolled through me, and I blinked back tears once more.

  “Why did you come here again?” I choked out. “I told you, I can’t leave.”

  “I had to see you again.”

  “You should just leave.” I whirled to the door, not sure what I was going to do. I couldn’t escape, not with the guard outside.

  Joel’s heat hit my back. He stood close enough that his breath warmed the back of my neck, but he didn’t touch me. “Isabelle, please. I paid eight hundred dollars to be here. I'm not going until I know you're okay.”

  “Do I look okay?” I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my voice, and I didn't want to meet his gaze and see pity there. I hated the pity. Joel always had cause to feel sorry for me. Just like our first and last real conversation, in his truck.

  Does it hurt? he’d asked. He’d pushed his Stetson back. A wrinkle formed in between his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” I’d told him. “It hurts.”

  Now, dancing didn't hurt. Not my feet, not my overstrained muscles. Just my pride, my heart.

  “Come here,” Joel ordered softly.

  My body moved without my permission to where he’d settled into the customer’s chair. I stood before him as if I really was about to give him a lap dance, my traitorous heart stuttering. Not with nerves, but anticipation. This was Joel, and he'd always made me feel safe. Even when he'd watched me dance those years ago. He'd hung around in the corner of the barn behind some hay bales, thinking I couldn't see him. Did he ever realize that I was dancing for him?