Dancing on the Wind (24 page)

know how it got there.” Ollie hawked up a glob of phlegm and spat it out. “Stupid

dumb fuck.”

“So what’s the gig here? She walking on water down there at the creek?”

Ollie’s congenial grin slipped. “Don’t be smarting off about Mother Bolivar. That is

not a wise thing to do, my friend. Watch your mouth with her. She might offer you a

position, and if you’re smart, you’ll take it.”

“How’s the end?”

“You can pull down a G-note a week as her primary shadow,” Ollie said. “Second

string rakes in half that much.”

Fallon whistled. “She must be scoring it big to shell out that kind of money.”

“This is a legit operation. Mother Bolivar is doing the Lord’s work.”

“Sure she is,” Fallon scoffed. “That’s why those two rubes were here tonight. They

were thanking her for her evangelism.”

“She has her detractors, her enemies,” Ollie admitted. “Even Christ had those who

called him a charlatan.”

“How often does she get attacked like that?”

“Let’s just say you’ll earn your take…” He frowned. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Didn’t pitch it to you,” Fallon said. “It’s Robin Marks.”

Ollie chuckled. “Yeah, and I’m the Prince of Siam.”

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“That’s my name, like it or not. You can blame my mama,” Fallon said with a shrug.

It was a utility name among carnies, used when a man didn’t want to give his real

name.

They had arrived at the most expensive motor home in the backyard—the one he’d

known would belong to Bolivar. Ollie rapped lightly and the white-clad bodyguard

who had accompanied Bolivar to the motor home opened the door. He stepped back to

allow the two men in.

She was sitting barefoot on the sofa with her long, smooth legs stretched out in

front of her. Gone was the gold silk sheath and in its place was a short white terrycloth

robe. Her rich black hair had been plaited into one long braid that rested over her left

shoulder. In her hand was a tall glass of amber-colored liquid. She smiled at him to

show straight, very white teeth.

“Mother Bolivar, this is Robin Marks,” Ollie introduced.

Bolivar’s eyes twinkled at hearing the name. “My knight in shining armor,” she

said, raising the glass to him. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ma’am,” Fallon said.

“Rob’s a fellow showman,” Ollie said then quickly added, “like me.”

“Is that so?” she asked before taking a small sip of her beverage.

Fallon stared into eyes the color of dark, rich coffee, framed by stunningly beautiful

features set in a café au lait face, and could hear the wheels turning in her head. He

used a strong psychic nudge to push past any reservations she might have concerning

him, and when she ran her tongue over her upper lip, he knew he was successful. Her

mind was tight but he found a crack and slipped inside as smoothly and easily as water

through a sieve. She reached out to pat the chair that stood at a ninety-degree angle to

the sofa.

“Come sit by me, Sir Robin,” she said in a throaty voice, “and let’s talk a spell.”

Fallon walked to the chair and took a seat, lifting one long leg to cross it at the knee

of the other. He rested his hands on the chair arms and gave her a steady look.

“Sweet operation you have here,” he said.

She thrust her lips out in a slight pout. “I enjoy doing the Lord’s work,” she said.

“Very lucratively if the surroundings are any indication.”

Her eyes turned glacial. “I’ll have you know I’m…”

“Raking in money hand over fist, but you need a man at your back to shadow you,

baby, and if you work your cards right, you can have him,” Fallon interrupted. “For a

price.” He grinned nastily. “I’m not cheap, but I can be had.”

There was residual suspicion in her mind and he let his psychic fingers do the

walking through that suspicious organ, opening a slight furrow to drop in the seeds of

trust, covered them with a thin layer of belief then gently watered them with a fine

sprinkle of certainty that he was exactly what he appeared to be. While he was roaming

the garden of her subconscious, he looked for any signs that she might have psi powers

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of her own, but he found nothing to indicate she did. Neither did he find any image of

whatever it was she had sent to kill those who went up against her.

“Where were you before you came here?” she asked, and he knew the matter had

been settled in her mind that he was one of them, though he also knew she’d check on

his story, one from the Exchange that was airtight.

“Altoona, Iowa, at a little Podunk amusement park,” he answered.

She frowned. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Got D.Q.’d at my last gig. Needed the money and it was there.”

“What did you do to get disqualified?”

“Fucking the boss’s wife is not the best way to win friends and influence enemies,

and before you ask, I’m not saying who, where or when that happened. You don’t need

to know.”

Her dark eyes roamed over him. “I can see where you might tempt a woman to

cheat on her wedding vows.”

The right side of his mouth quirked up. “I’m very good at what I do.”

She wet her lips again. “I just bet you are.”

He watched her lean over and put her glass on the coffee table in front of the sofa,

and then she scooted down on the sofa, the white terrycloth robe rucking up her firm

thighs.

“Why don’t you come over here and show me how good you really are, Sir Robin,”

she said.

Fallon shook his head. “I’m not looking to be laid,
cannyssagh
. All I want is a job.”

One perfectly sculpted black brown arched. “What if you could have both, but it

took one to get the other?” She raised one knee and the edge of the robe slid down to

the crease of her legs to barely hide the V shadowed there. Idly, she stroked her long,

caramel-colored fingers along the inside of her thigh.

Fallon lowered his leg to the floor, stood and moved over to the couch. “You want

me?”

Bolivar reached out to run a fingernail down the fly of his jeans, her eyes never

leaving his. “What do you think?” She turned her hand so she could slide her fingers

between his legs to cup him.

“I think an evangelical preacher-woman shouldn’t be groping a strange man in her

trailer. What would the faithful say?”

She tugged at his crotch, which had thickened noticeably. “They’d say she was a

horny as hell preacher-woman who had a right to some enjoyment in life.”

He batted her hand away and leaned over to untie the belt of her robe, flicking the

two sides apart. His gaze slithered over her nakedness and he had to admit she was a

gorgeous woman with a killer body. Firm and taut, her café au lait skin was as smooth

as silk. Her breasts were small—almost conical—but the nipples were large, a dark

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chocolate color. With a small, neatly tucked waist and gently flaring hips to go with the

long legs, she was a prime specimen of dusky womanhood.

“Well?” she asked, resting her hands to either side of her head on the sofa pillow.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re a beautiful woman and you damned well know it,” he replied.

She raised her other knee and then let them fall wide apart in invitation. “Then

what are you waiting for?”

He looked away from the manicured curls at the apex of her thighs. “Like I said,

I’m not cheap, but I can be had. It’ll take fifteen hundred a week and my own trailer. I

don’t bunk with anyone.”

“Not even the boss lady?” she asked, flicking her tongue along her top lip.

“After the shit I stepped in?” He shook his head. “No thanks.”

“Show me what you got, stud, and we’ll see about the amenities,” she said,

writhing seductively to tempt him.

“Business up front,” he said then placed his hand over her crotch, his middle finger

grazing the opening he wasn’t surprised to find oozing juices. He slid his hand farther

under her so the tip of his finger touched her anus. “Pleasure later.”

“Twelve hundred and…”

“Fifteen,” he corrected, “and my own trailer.” He rubbed his finger around her

opening. “And the ride of your life.”

She held her arms up to him. “Show me and it’s a deal.”

“Uh-uh. Deal first.”

Bolivar lowered her arms and stared at him for a long moment. “You’d better be

worth every goddamned cent, stud,” she warned. “Fifteen and your own place.”

Fallon’s face didn’t change by even a flicker of an eyelash as he withdrew his hand

from between her legs and reached up to unbutton his shirt halfway down before

tugging it free of his jeans. He shrugged it from his shoulders and watched her eyes

widened as she took in the heavily muscled and furred chest. Working his belt open, he

unhooked the waistband of his jeans, unzipped them then sat down on the sofa beside

her.

“Move over, babe,” he said, wriggling back so he’d have room to take off his boots.

When he stood, he watched her avid gaze lower to his crotch. As he pushed his jeans

down his hips and his cock sprang free, she groaned.

“Now that is a helluva bargaining tool,” she said, licking her lips.

He kicked his jeans aside, said nothing to her remark and simply covered her body

with his, slamming his mouth over hers in a kiss that made her tremble beneath him.

While she was wrapping her arms around him, he slipped once more into her mind—

the part where the libido held sway—and sought out the best way to proceed with her.

He wasn’t at all surprised to find her interest, what turned her on, was rough sex and

that was what he intended to give her.

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* * * * *

Keenan read the paragraph again—just as she had read it the five other times—but

it made no sense to her and she pitched the book aside, releasing a long, irritated sigh as

she unfolded her legs and propelled herself from the sofa. She was antsy, uneasy and

her chest felt as though a ton of bricks were crushing her. Going into the kitchen, she

snatched open the fridge door and stood there looking at the shelves.

“Shit,” she said, and slammed the door, but after opening the pantry, she realized

there was nothing in it she really felt like eating either.

Glancing at her wristwatch, she saw that it was after 9 p.m. A trip into town might

clear her head and shopping always perked her up. So after slipping on her loafers and

grabbing her purse, she started out the door.

“Keenan.”

His voice was soft but as clear as though he were standing right beside her,

whispering into her ear.

“Yeah, lineman,” she answered.

“I love you.”

In those three words she heard a world of guilt and grief and knew. She put her

forehead to the door panel, squeezed her eyelids closed.

“I love you too,” she said, her heart breaking, a sob catching in her throat.

There was a soft touch against her mind as though he had reached out to stroke her

head and then he was gone.

A single tear fell from Keenan’s eye.

It mirrored a tear that at that very moment was sliding down another cheek in

Georgia.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Hell no,” Fallon stated when Bolivar laid the white linen suit over the chair. “I’m

not wearing that piece of shit.”

“All my security men wear…”

“I said no,” he snapped, eyes flashing and jaw clenched.

Bolivar lifted her chin. “And if I insist?”

“If you do, I’m outta here, baby,” he told her.

He was standing in the living room of his new accommodations that had belonged

to her ex-head of security wearing nothing but a pair of tight black boxer shorts that

hugged him like a second skin.

“Just what do you expect to wear? I have an image to maintain and I’ll not have you

walking ahead of me…”

“I walk beside you, not ahead of you,” he said, cutting her off. “I want to be where I

can protect you. If I’m ahead of you, someone could grab you from the back or the

side.”

Her lips peeled back from her teeth. “All right, but you are
not
going to wear those

dirty, torn jeans I saw you in yesterday!”

“I clean up nicely, baby,” he drawled. “And I’ll be on your doorstep just before the

sun goes down.”

He had learned that she usually slept until noon but rarely came out of her motor

home before two or three in the afternoon. Today she’d made an exception by

personally bringing over the hideous suit for him to wear as he escorted her to the creek

at sunset for the mass baptisms of her newly professed faithful. He knew she had

another reason for coming to his trailer, but he had no intention of allowing her to paw

him as he knew she had planned.

“Don’t forget who’s the man here,
Robin
,” she said, underscoring the name.

“I won’t, Mother Bolivar,” he said, and reached out to grab her, jerk her to him. “
I

am the man, baby.”

Before she could protest, he kissed her long and hard, rubbing his lower body

against hers lewdly, thrusting his thigh between her legs to slide it along her crotch as

he swept his tongue deep into her mouth. She clung to him as though he were a

lifesaver, seemingly greedy for his kiss and anything he was willing to give her. When