Purely Sexual. Delta Dupree
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she found the bloodied blonde in the same guest room.
She’d screamed. Hattie had flown up the stairs, guided her from the room and then called an ambulance. Shaken badly, Challie’d had difficulty breathing. Mrs. Tedesco had flitted around her like a worried hen.
On the other hand, Mr. Tedesco was more than worried or he wouldn’t have asked all those questions. She’d played it smart and kept her answers short and sweet, knowing how close Tedesco was with his guests, especially Fontana. Saying the wrong thing might have put her at a disadvantage. Hattie would be angry if she lost the job.
“Are you afraid of flying?” Fontana asked.
She shook her head because the deafening roar inside the airplane stole her breath away. Everything shimmied. She was suddenly pressed back against the seat.
“Then why do you have a death grip on the armrests?”
Ignoring him, she risked a glance outside the small window. Buildings, trees and automobiles were moving farther and farther out of sight. The airplane pushed through low clouds. Were they leaving the galaxy? Challie swallowed several times. Of course not, but relaxing wasn’t easy when her stomach cart-wheeled. Without warning, the airplane leaned far right. She almost lost her cookies and she gripped the armrests tighter.
“Sipping soda will help,” Donnie said, looking outside the window, checking the flight’s ascent. “Once we reach cruising altitude, you’ll be fine.”
When the pilot announced a turbulence-free flight, Donnie ordered two glasses of ginger ale from the only flight attendant working the jet today.
He couldn’t believe it. Of all the beautiful women whom he’d laid and left, he was on his way to Big Sky Country with a broad he hardly knew. A maid, no less. A woman who was too short, too quiet and too damned reserved. Dark-headed, with a body most men would call thick. With those penetrating storm gray eyes, though, she could wear a young buck down, bring a proud man to his knees if he didn’t watch out.
She wasn’t gorgeous in any sense of the word. Average. Okay, maybe better than average, but she had tits like a damn sparrow when he loved immersing his face into good wallowing material. And where the hell was she born? Bronzed complexion, steel gray eyes…she was biracial. He had no clue about her background.
Definitely not his type at all.
Once again his body gave rise to another hard-on. Staring at her unpainted lips, penetrating eyes, polished skin that had to feel like satin and even bird-sized breasts, all made him well aware of her, uncomfortably aware. He shifted in the seat, wondering why his cock sprung bone-hard every time he thought about this woman and every time he caught sight of her.
As Paul had climbed into his limousine, he’d said they had to consummate the union once they took the vows.
Fake wedded bliss until the courts cleared him. Shit.
An annulment was out of the question. Donnie was Catholic, although not a practicing churchgoer. Should have been in the church pews every Sunday and maybe he wouldn’t be here, flying to a frigging Montana utopia with a woman he didn’t want as a damn wife.
Okay, so he’d marry her, fuck her and move into a Chandler three-bedroom condo far away from friends until the courts exonerated him. Then boom, divorce Molly Maid. He’d go on with his unencumbered sex life as usual. Best-laid plans ever.
Yeah, right. So much for bachelorhood for a while. Hell, so much for enjoying a prime piece of ass for the duration. Except his cock lurched, pulsed against his thigh when he looked at Challie again. She played with her fingers, didn’t see the swelling entity throbbing between his legs.
Well, she woman. Me, jailbait.
“What’s your real name, Challie?”
She looked up, huge eyes unblinking. “Like you said. Challie.”
“No, I mean, you’re talking shortened version. What’s your birth name? Charlotte? Charlene?”
“Challie.”
She sounded incensed. Tough. He’d need a variety of information for the marriage license. He had to ask a few surface questions about her background before they tied the knot and lived in Arizona, whether he wanted to know or not. “Oh. What’s your last name?”
She hesitated, looked away. “Smith.”
Smith. As in Jane Doe. Oh, this is just super. Just frigging dandy.
Did Paul know her full name? Did he even care? Why was he willing to see this union anyway?
Sure, Donnie’s father had been friends with Paul for years. When Donnie’s life shifted toward disgusting—running numbers and scamming were his best games—Pops contacted Tedesco. Paul started him out as the gofer of the year, but Donnie quickly worked his way up the corporate ladder. Paul treated him like a younger brother, giving praise for good work, berating the best of businessmen for substandard activity.
Donnie could sell himself to anybody. Anybody. Eventually, Paul promoted him to sales vice president in PT Industries. Donnie proved he could do the job. He showed loyalty to the company, would do almost anything for his boss. Except commit a felony. Unless the situation meant his life or one of his loved one’s life was in danger, or even if Paul and his family were in jeopardy.
This request was completely out of the ordinary. Italian men never vaulted race lines. Well, some had. His best bud in high school had sniffed after the school’s Jamaican prom queen. She was hot, her accent seductive. They’d later married and propagated a big litter of rug rats. More power to him. He was happy. Broke, but happy.
“Smith,” Donnie said. Fat chance. She had an accent he didn’t recognize for a Smith. “Where’re you from?”
She looked away again. “Arizona.”
Uh-huh. The Great Pretender. “Where were you born in Arizona?”
“Hospital.”
Maybe he was too nosy for her taste. Tough. Given time, he’d find out all the particulars. Dames always spilled their guts. A little persuasion, she’d tell him everything he needed to know. He knew women like the back of his hand, or his cock did.
For the time being, he might as well get some sleep, dream about one of the wild, hot snatches he’d tamed. Donnie Junior, Duke, would be used, but totally unsatisfied for a while.
Like most men, his cock needed exercise to stay in shape.
2
The forty-five minute drive to the ranch cabin was far from silent at first. Fontana had tried without success to learn about her past. Challie figured he’d gotten tired of her one-word answers. The majority of those were fibs, as long as she hadn’t stared into his eyes. He’d finally turned on the radio. She didn’t like him or his loud, clanging music. By the time the oversized blue tank stopped, the blaring noise had intensified her headache. Compounding the beating, she’d needed a ladder to climb into the seat. Climbing out wouldn’t be any easier. Fontana had said to use the “running” board. Not knowing what he meant, Challie said she hadn’t packed one because she had no reason to run anywhere. The man’s burst of raucous laughter had gotten on her nerves, the beginning of her headache.
“Do you like animals? Dogs?” Fontana asked. Several trotted across the gravel, barking incessantly.
“Yes.” She feared few creatures. The bigger, the better. They were easier to see and hear.
“There’s only one you’ll have to watch out for. Hank, leader of the pack,” he said, pointing to a big black hound. “He’s mostly bark, but he lies in wait under the porches, growling to intimidate the fearful. Dogs smell fear.”
Suddenly, five black-and-white balls of fur tottered toward the vehicle. Challie opened the door and slid from the tall seat, crooning. Every adult hound and cute puppy nuzzled her hand for pets. Even Hank, wagging his long tail, growled his way into the