Daring Time (3 page)

For some reason instead of springing up out his warm cocoon and lunging for his gun, like he logically should have, he remained still, his breath frozen in his lungs.

"You're such a hog with the covers. Let me in there with you. I'm freezing out here."

Ryan's eyelids popped open; surely he must have imagined the low, sultry voice laced with laughter.

Slowly, almost as though he believed he moved right at the precipice of a cliff, the ground beneath him fragile and crumbling, he turned around.

She sat next to him. The morning sunlight cast her pale, naked body into a luminous landscape of feminine curves and planes. The brilliant, breathtaking vision of her blinded him for a second. He blinked .. . but no, she didn't disappear in a sweet, gardenia-scented mist. Instead she continued to stare down at him, puzzlement mixing with the amusement in her large, midnight eyes.

Ryan whipped back the covers and spread his hands over her ribs, desperate to know if she was real. Her skin flowed like silk beneath his fingers. She hadn't been lying; she
was
chilled. But beneath the surface he felt her heat.

He groaned and pulled her down beside him, yanking the blanket over both of them before he came down over her, belly to belly.

"Who are you?" he grated out as he brushed aside a cloud of fragrant dark hair and kissed her neck with feverish intensity. But it was a stupid, superfluous question and he knew it.

His cock had hardened into a lead pike and the only thing that mattered in that moment was burying himself in her heat. His brain might be clueless, but his body seemed to know
precisely
who she was. The degree of distilled lust he experienced at the sensation of her soft, firm body beneath him, her erect nipples pressing into his ribs was like a blade lancing into his flesh—in truth, like nothing he'd ever experienced or imagined in his life.

He moaned when he felt her hands in his hair and then running hungrily over his shoulders.

"You've accused me of being a witch often enough. Is that the answer you want?" she teased in that smoky voice that had the effect of a low-level current of electricity running just beneath his skin. His cock lurched against her smooth belly.

"It's the only answer I'm going to get for now. The only conversing I like doing while I'm fucking is dirty talk."

He saw her black velvet eyes surrounded by a lush thicket of lashes widen. She pressed two fingers to her smiling lips as though to seal them.

"
Witch"
Ryan muttered before he fell on the luscious pink bow of her mouth. When he registered her taste he growled deep in his throat, his body transforming into pure flame.

He stroked the sweet cavern deeply, sweeping his tongue everywhere, eager to discover more of her flavor. She kissed him back with equal hunger, sliding her tongue against his teasingly and then engaging in a sinuous, hot duel with him. His fingers sought out the heat between her thighs, glorying at what he found as he glided over creamy, plump labia and a slick, erect clit.

He penetrated her snug slit with his forefinger.

Ah, God.
Fantasy eyes, fantasy mouth, fantasy pussy. She'd be the dream fuck of a lifetime.

"You're so wet. I'm sorry, I can't wait." He rolled to the side, putting his upper body weight on one elbow and fisted his cock, positioning the tip at her juicy slit. He flexed his hips.

She gasped as he came down over her. He bent to take a tender bite from her fragrant neck and pushed his cock into her to mid-staff. It felt so good the sensation nearly ripped at the limits of his consciousness. Heat emanated from the muscular walls of her pussy, taunting him. She squirmed beneath him and moaned, trying to seat him further in her tight channel. Her writhing movements almost made him come then and there. He grasped her hip with one hand.

"Keep still," he grated out as he fought for control amid a cyclone of desire that pummeled him from all directions. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them down above her head with one hand while his other continued to immobilize her hip. "Quit twisting around or I swear I'll turn you over my knee when I'm done with you."

The little witch had the nerve to smile at his threat. His cock jerked in her clasping sheath. He bent down and nipped at her plump lower lip with his teeth. "After I fuck you I'm gonna—"

"Daire!" a man called somewhere far outside the confines of the battering, relentless storm that held him and this amazing woman as its hostages. She squirmed beneath him and he instinctively accepted her challenge, seating himself in her to the balls. His shout of triumph blended with her cry of excitement and Ramiro's call ... louder this time.

"God damn it, Daire. I'm going to make you tie your left hand behind your back tonight so I can kick your ass in the ring for making me wander around this freaky fucking house alone!"

"Shhhh, don't move. I'll get rid of him," Ryan soothed when he looked into the woman's eyes and knew from her shocked expression that Ramiro's voice had penetrated her thick arousal. Their bellies expanded and contracted wildly against each other's as they panted. ,

What'd Ramiro done, picked the damn lock on the front door?

He held her stare, the uncertainty in her velvety eyes the only thing keeping him from fucking her like a crazed degenerate. She

started beneath him when Ramiro banged loudly on the door. Ryan opened his mouth to shoo him off but the door swung inward before he got out a word.

"Shut it,
Menendez," Ryan roared over his shoulder. "I'm not alone."

He caught a glimpse of Ramiro's startled face before his partner grabbed the handle and slammed the door shut. "Just meet me at the station," Ramiro yelled irritably.

Ryan bowed his head and sighed in relief as he listened to Ramiro's retreating footsteps.

He cursed viciously when the annoying buzz of his alarm clock struck his consciousness.

"Sorry about that—" He paused, realizing he'd never allowed the amazing woman to tell him her name. The cruel, crashing waves of his arousal had abated somewhat, suddenly making it imperative that he find out who she was that instant. He lifted his head and opened his mouth but his query dissolved on his tongue.

He found himself leaning up on his elbows in a sleeping bag that looked like he'd staged a wrestling match in it. His cock was still rock-hard, despite the fact that instead of being sheathed in the stunning woman's pussy it merely throbbed against the pressure of a wood floor.

A half hour later Ryan reentered the bedroom, feeling miserable and grouchy after folding his large frame into a bathtub. Christ, he couldn't remember how old he'd been the last time he took a bath—three? At least there'd been plenty of hot water, although it ran through a separate tap from the cold, making it necessary for him to constantly check the water and attenuate the outflow of the two nozzles.

He got a strange, masochistic satisfaction from the fact that he didn't feel comfortable jerking off in the bathtub like he would in the shower. He deserved to suffer for getting more turned on than he'd ever been in his entire life over a dream woman.

But it
hadn't
been a dream, at least not like any dream Ryan had ever had.

Ramiro had called her a ghost.

"She's
not
dead," he said abruptly out loud.

Great. Now he wasn't only having hallucinatory sex that was so hot it'd probably put him off fucking forever for fear of the bitter disappointment of comparison, he also was talking to himself out loud.

And his cock still throbbed next to his thigh, indignant at being left unattended.

One brief recollection of what it'd been like to be buried fast in the woman's heat while she looked up at him with those big, velvety eyes stiffened him to full readiness once again.

It was going to be a day planned gleefully for Ryan by the devil himself.

He grabbed his jacket and shoved his hand in the pocket, poking around for his car keys.

His gaze landed on the red book of poetry. It still lay on the floor where he'd left it after becoming bizarrely obsessed over those damned old photographs.

He bent slowly and picked up the book, hesitating for several seconds before he opened it. He impatiently flipped through the first few pages. The inscription was written in a long, spidery scrawl in ink that had faded to near invisibility.

September 14, 1904 Dearest Hope:

Happy twenty-third birthday. If the love you so generously show to your fellow man
comes back to you even in partial measure, you will be a wealthy woman indeed. God
loves and cherishes you.

As I do, Father

Ryan remained immobile, reading the inscription repeatedly as if he thought he'd discover something new and crucial amongst the relatively innocuous words.

A strange feeling of helplessness overcame him. He raised the book to his nose and inhaled, searching for the elusive fragrance of gardenias amongst a host of other scents like a miner panning for a bright flash of gold in a pile of rocks.

Before he could question his sanity, he reached into his breast pocket for a pen. He allowed the book to fall open to the well-thumbed page and wrote rapidly in the margin.

He tossed the book on his sleeping bag.

"Hope?"

His gaze swept over every corner of the room before he walked out, feeling every bit the fool that he undoubtedly was.

Chicago. 1906

Hope Stillwater lay in her brass bed and sweated.

The gas radiator rattled loudly in an ineffective attempt to heat her chilly room, so she couldn't blame her overheated state on anything but herself and her scandalous thoughts.

Much to her chagrin, her eyes kept returning to her wardrobe despite the fact that she tried her mightiest to keep them trained on the dull essay she attempted to read. Her father was a leading member of the Purity Foundation and had given her the tract earlier this evening to peruse.

Yes,
yes,
we know that white slavery is wrong, she thought impatiently as she set aside the essay and picked up her favorite book of Shakespearean sonnets instead. What creature in their right mind would condone such abhorrent practices? Hope herself engaged in an almost daily personal campaign to stop the kidnapping, and rape of innocent young women with the eventual purpose of selling them to brothels in the infamous Levee District.

But why must organizations like the Purity Foundation con-, tinually couch the issue in the black-and-white terms of keeping "decent" women safe from the slavering, bestial nature of men? It seemed to Hope sometimes that the strict sexual prohibitions placed upon women made the ideal environment for white slavers like the notorious Diamond Jack Fletcher to flourish at his trade.

Once again, her eyes went to the wardrobe. The negligee was in there—the shockingly sheer, nearly nonexistent garment that the madam of the Marlborough Club, Addie Sampson, had given to Hope with a gamine grin just yesterday afternoon.

Despite their vastly different backgrounds and the fact that Hope's father championed the cause to shut down the brothels in the Levee District, Addie and Hope had formed an unlikely friendship. The bold, brassy madam and Hope shared one common goal—to put a stop to the rampant practice of white slavery. Their opinions differed on many topics, but unlike most Levee District madams or the vicious brothel owner Diamond Jack Fletcher, Addie seemed to truly care about the well-being of the young women who worked for her.

"Go on, take it, Hope. With your figure you'll do a Marlborough gown far more justice than even my most tempting girl. Oh, come on now," Addie had teased when she'd seen Hope's scandalized expression as she held out the negligee. "I'm not trying to tempt you to the devil. You yourself have admitted that if 'decent' wives weren't so uppity and tense in the bedroom, men might not find the Levee District so appealing."

"But I'm not a
wife"
Hope had whispered as she glanced around nervously for Dr.

"Walkerton. Hope had spearheaded a program under the auspices of the Women's Social Reform and Welfare League to provide medical services to women in need, including the Levee District brothels.

Although
in truth,
only the Marlborough Club and the Golden Parrot had agreed to participate thus far. And
in fact,
Hope had not yet successfully coaxed other women from the Welfare League to join her cause. She had high hopes for further Levee District reform, however, despite Addie's patient head-nodding and occasional exasperated rolls of her eyes when Hope launched into the topic with her typical militant zeal.

Addie had merely laughed at Hope's display of nervousness about the nightgown and shoved the frothy confection into Hope's hand.

"You'll be a wife someday, honey. Might as well get some practice. Wouldn't want your future husband lining up at the Marlborough Club's front doors, would you?"

Hope had opened her mouth to argue but heard Dr. Walkerton descending the stairs. By the time the elderly doctor had put out his arm for her in preparation to leave, Hope had secreted one of the negligees that the Marlborough Club prostitutes were famous for wearing into her reticule. She'd glowered at Addie's saucy grin before lowering the thick black veil she'd promised both her father and Dr. Walkerton to wear in the Levee District to protect her identity.

She'd quickly discovered that the Marlborough gown she'd shoved into the furthest, darkest corner of her wardrobe had some kind of strange, powerful hold on her imagination. The idea of allowing a man to actually
see
her wearing the transparent garment scandalized her.

Thrilled her.

It was the latter reaction that had her sweating as she lay on her bed in the frigid bedroom.

She slowly set down her well-thumbed book of sonnets and .approached the wardrobe, a tickle of excitement spreading from her lower belly to her sex. After she'd withdrawn the negligee she cast a guilty glance at her bedroom door before locking it. Her father would never bother her this late in the evening after she'd retired, but her maid Mary sometimes knocked to see if she'd like some logs added to the^fire.