Dancing on the Wind (25 page)

he moved back from her, took her arms and pulled them from his neck, he gave her a

brutal grin.

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“Now scat so I can shower and shave. You want me to look presentable to your

followers, don’t you?”

Heavy-lidded, she rubbed her palms over his chest. “I could join you in that

shower,” she suggested.

“Yeah, and we both know what else will get joined,” he said. He shook his head.

“Not now.” He turned her around and swatted her shapely ass. “Now get.”

She reluctantly went to the door, stopping to look around at him with such blatant

lust glittering in her eyes it shocked him.

“You’re mine after the show,” she said. “All night long. I’m going to wear your

tight little ass out, boy.”

Fallon let nothing show on his face as she blew him a kiss and left, but the moment

the door closed, he put a hand to his mouth to wipe away her kiss.

* * * * *

The faithful were standing twenty deep on the banks of the creek as the sun

lowered in the western sky. Fans were being plied vigorously for the heat was stifling,

the air so thick and clammy it scorched the lungs. Torches were being lit by the workers

and the pathway that led from the creek to the backyard where Bolivar’s motor home

was being zealously guarded by a quartet of brawny men in white suits was also lined

with flickering torches, the smoke from which barely moved in the still night.

Fallon straightened his tie, turned his head sideways to look at the earring dangling

in his left ear and nodded approvingly. He was dressed in an outfit he knew she’d

never have approved had he told her of it, but he also knew once she saw him in it, she

would melt just as every other woman who saw did. Sensing her growing anger that he

had yet to appear at her doorstep, he closed his eyes and cloaked himself in the

invisibility that was second nature to his kind. He could pass by hundreds of people

and not a single one would notice him. Easing the door open, he slipped out, his boot

heels making no sound at all on the compacted earth as he made his way to her trailer.

“Where the hell is he?” Bolivar snarled, shooting her furious glower on a hapless

Ollie.

Ollie opened the door and nearly fainted when he found the man he’d been waiting

for standing on the top step. He jumped back, eyes wide as he took in what Marks was

wearing. Guiltily, he looked behind him. “Ah, Mother Bolivar? He’s here.”

Bolivar opened her mouth to shout again, but the object of her ire strolled into the

trailer and the words died in her throat. She gaped at the ruggedly handsome,

supremely virile and overpoweringly male vision who came to stand before her.

“My God,” she whispered.

From the toes of his brightly polished black leather boots, up the matte finish of the

tight black leather pants, past the black belt with the pewter rectangular Celtic hound

knotwork buckle, over the long-sleeved black silk shirt buttoned at the neck and

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accentuated with a thin black leather tie, to the silver grim reaper with crossed scythes

earring dangling in his ear and the black felt western hat with its silver braided band,

the brim cocked low over his forehead, the man was breathtaking. He exuded

sensuality and power, and the unrelieved vista of black clothing made the amber of his

eyes glow like lanterns in his chiseled face. He looked tough and he looked perfectly

capable of breaking a man in half if the need arose.

“Do you approve?” he asked in a low, silky voice.

Bolivar had to swallow before she could answer. Her eyes were devouring him,

roaming over him like newly hatched vipers. Her breathing was so loud he could hear

it, and the scent her body was giving off made his nostrils flare.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh yes.”

He went to her and crooked his arm. “Ready?”

She slid her hand over his silk sleeve to link her arm with his. Staring into his

mesmerizing gaze, she felt her womb clench. “Yes.”

“There won’t be any trouble tonight,” he said. “I guarantee it.”

“Who would dare mess with you?” she asked.

“Only a fool,” he replied, “or someone with a death wish.”

She drew in a breath. “You would kill for me, Robin?”

He didn’t hesitate. “In a heartbeat.”

One look at the hard glint in his eyes and it was easy to see a man such as this could

take—and most likely had—someone’s life. There was a brutal set to his jawline, and

the way his full bottom lip stretched taut suggested he could be as savage as necessary

when violence was required. His eyes moved constantly as he surveyed the crowd—

lingering now and then on an individual before moving on. There was an aggressive

sense about him that he was on guard, primed, and only a hair trigger away from

erupting.

“I feel safe with you,” she whispered.

Two hours later, naked before him, the evangelical leader of tens of thousands of

devout followers sank to the floor at his feet and put her hands to the buttons of his

pants, staring up at him with a rapt expression that echoed those of the faithful she had

only moments before baptized in the creek.

Fallon stared down at her for a moment, but when she freed him from his pants, he

raised his head and stared across the living room of the motor home. His eyelids

flickered as her mouth encircled him and he put his hands to either side of her head as

she plied her lips upon his hardening shaft. The only thought going through his mind

was a single word—unfaithful—and it ate away at his soul as her mouth nibbled on his

flesh.

* * * * *

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Keenan turned over to turn out the light and her gaze went to the bedside clock. It

was well past midnight and she had not heard from Fallon since the evening before. She

had thought he would at least touch her with his mind to let her know he was all right,

that he loved her. With the light out, she lay there in the darkness and stared up at the

ceiling, sending her thoughts to him.

“Fallon?” she whispered.

There was no answer, but there came back to her a heavy sense of shame and guilt

and overpowering remorse.

“I know, lineman,” she said, sensing his hurt. “I know.”

She could feel his wounded pride and understood that it cut deep into his very

soul. He was like a lost, confused child, but he refused to cry out for help. She had the

sensation that he was striving to hold it together so she slowly slipped out of his

subconscious and turned over to her side.

There would be no sleep for her that night.

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Fallon was restless and in a foul mood as he leaned with his ankles crossed against

his bike in the parking lot of the I-75 rest area near Gainesville, Florida. He’d been with

Bolivar for over a week and the subtle psychic pushes he kept pressing on her had

made him indispensable in her eyes. Wherever she went, she insisted he be right beside

her, dressed in unrelieved black outfits she told him made him look meaner than a junk

yard dog.

“I am meaner than a junk yard dog,” he’d growled.

“No one would dare accost me with you at my side,” she said, and that proved to

be true. Despite the faithful venturing forward to bestow love and adoration on her,

they kept their distance, the tall, muscular man beside her a strong deterrent not to

come too close.

The ministry—as Bolivar referred to it—had stayed in Macon for three more days

after Robin Marks had joined it. Now the cavalcade of motor homes and semis and

deuce-and-a-half trucks were on the highway, making the next jump—carnie talk for

the move to the next engagement—to Ocala, Florida, where they would spend a week

before heading to Dothan, Alabama.

“I’m going to buy a trailer for your bike when we get to Kissimmee,” Bolivar said as

she walked up and handed him a cold bottle of spring water. “I want you in the trailer

with me.”

He unscrewed the top of the bottle, tipped it up and took a long swallow, keenly

aware of her avid gaze locked on his neck. When he lowered the bottle, he wiped the

back of his hand across his mouth.

“Why?” he asked in a hard tone, looking over the top of his dark Ray-Bans. “So you

can fuck me at every twenty-mile marker?”

Bolivar frowned. “Don’t use language like that out in public, Robin,” she ordered.

Fallon glanced around. The only people near enough to hear were all part of their

group. He snorted, showing his contempt of her demand.

“I mean it,” she snapped. “Show me the respect I’m due.”

One of the things he’d learned about Mignon Bolivar was that she liked him to talk

dirty to her while they were screwing, but only then. She also liked the sex rough and

thought nothing of handcuffing him to her bed and riding him for hours on end. The

woman was an expert at getting a man hard and keeping him there until he was

begging for release. So far, he’d been able to refrain from doing so after the one and

only time at the beginning of their relationship that he’d shamed himself by pleading.

Now he stoically endured her prolonged bouts of what she considered love play,

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refusing to beg for her to end the sexual abuse. Sooner or later she lost interest and

would allow him to come.

“Did you hear me, Robin? And take those sunglasses off so I can see your eyes!”

Pushing the shades to the top of his head, he sighed. “Yeah, baby, I heard you,” he

said, screwing the top back on the bottle. He uncrossed his legs, straightened then

turned to stow the bottle in the tank bag.

Bolivar ran a hand over the black T-shirt that was molded to his broad back. “Why

don’t I ride with you for a while?” she asked.

“I don’t have another helmet,” he said, not wanting her with him.

“Florida doesn’t have a helmet law for anyone over twenty-one,” she said. “I

checked.”

“You would,” he mumbled, knowing the choice had been taken from him.

“What?”

“I said you could if you want to.”

She slipped an arm around his waist and leaned against him. “I could do you right

here, right now, you look so hot,” she whispered.

“I am hot,” he said, shrugging her away. “It’s over ninety out here.”

She looked hurt that he could dismiss her so easily, but he just stared at her, not

giving an inch.

“I just heard on the radio that hurricane made landfall in Miami,” Ollie said as he

came strolling up. “Best we get on down the road before the weather starts getting

persnickety.”

“I’m gonna ride with Robbie for a bit,” Bolivar stated.

“Suit yourself, ma’am,” Ollie agreed. He gave Fallon a commiserating look since

every man and woman in the ministry knew what was going on. “But we could run

into some rain.”

“I won’t melt,” she stated.

“No, ma’am, but what about your hair?”

Fallon’s lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement. He hadn’t thought about

that. Bolivar’s pride and joy were the expensive human hair wigs she wore over her

own short-cropped tight curls. He’d only seen her once without a wig, and after

running his palm over the soft curls had made the mistake of telling her he liked the

nappy texture. She’d slapped him so hard she’d split his bottom lip then slapped him

even harder a second time, screaming that he was never to use that word again.

“My hair?” she repeated, putting a hand to the waist-length weave of crocheted

curls. She glanced at Fallon, registered the mocking look on his face. “What’s so funny,

Robin?”

“I didn’t think about your wig-hat, baby,” he said in a smooth voice. “The wind will

take that thing off before we’re five miles down the interstate.”

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“So I can’t ride with you,” she said.

“Guess not,” he said with a nonchalant shrug then threw a long leg over his bike

and heeled up the kickstand.

“That’s what you think, you bastard,” she snarled, and whipped off the wig, tossing

it savagely to Ollie.

Those among the caravan who were watching tried to hide their shock at seeing

Mother Bolivar as she really was. They were gawking with mouths dropped open, but

when she climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, there was stunned silence.

Fallon felt her fingernails digging into his sides and twisted around to give her a

brutal look. “Stop it. Right now.”

She drove her nails deeper into his flesh. “Make me.”

His eyes turned glacial. “I don’t think you want me to snatch you off this bike and

beat the shit out of you right here in front of everyone, but if you don’t take your

fucking claws out of me, bitch, I fucking will, even if I go to jail for it!” he hissed.

She raised her chin. “And you think the men here would let you do something like

that?” she challenged.

“They might take me down, but not before I break your nose, your jaw and knock

out a few teeth,” he stated. His eyes narrowed into lethal slits. “You wanna see just how

fast I can move after you let loose a single scream for help? See how much damage I can

do before they stop me? I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but for you, I’d make an