Wicked Pleasures (9 page)

Bronte hated lying, but it wasn’t a complete
untruth. “It was spontaneous and it’s like he took me hostage.”
Roark’s clearing of throat made her jump. “A hostage of passion,”
she added.

“What’s his name? Is he a native of the island? Was
it love at first sight?”

“He’s on vacation here also. And love at first
sight? No, I wouldn’t say that. In fact, I didn’t like him at
first. I thought he was a brainless, chauvinistic pig, but you know
how that goes…sometimes ogres can surprise us.” Roark’s jaw
clenched and she bit back a smile. “He’s not the brightest bulb in
the box, but his looks are nice.”

“So, is this a vacation booty call? Ooh-la-la.”

Biting back laughter, Bronte loved the wide-eyed
expression she was getting from Roark. “I’m not sure if he’s
relationship material. I’d definitely say he’s worthy of a
fling.”

“I guess, but anyone is an upgrade from Gage,”
Fallon said. “Oh, I’m sorry. My tongue got away with me.”

Bronte knew Fallon never did like Gage, so this
wasn’t a surprise. “Has he tried contacting you?”

“Yes, but I won’t tell him anything. I promise,”
Fallon said.

“I know you won’t. I’ve got to go. My sugar britches
is eyeing me like a hawk. I swear, I can’t get a minute to myself
because he can’t keep his hands off of me.” She swiveled and Roark
was standing by her. A scream climbed her throat but she managed to
stifle the sound. Giving him the evil eye, she finished saying
goodbye and clicked off. “Do you think it’s necessary for you to
sneak up on me like that?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. However, you’re right. I can’t
keep my hands off you. You know how empty-headed ogres are. We
don’t have anything to think with except our dicks.”

Although he mocked her, that knowledge didn’t detour
the tingly awareness that spread through her body like warm honey.
Before she was a goner, she switched gears. “I held my bargain.
Your turn.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to hang out here and
let me take care of the yearning in the pit of your stomach and the
wetness in your core? The scent is intoxicating.” His rich voice
had the same effect as if he’d licked her from head to toe.

“Some vivid imagination you have.” She attempted a
casual laugh but it came out as a shrill.

Her body was out of control and she could no longer
trust it to behave.

If his verbal foreplay wasn’t enough, he reached out
and smoothed his fingers lightly across her cheek. Sparks ignited
and her heartbeat thumped inside her chest. “Don’t deny the desire
growing between us. The quivering in your loins tells me what I
need to know.”

Her cheeks heated, telling her exactly what she
feared—she was blushing like a schoolgirl. “Are you hoping I’ll
forget the bargain we made?”

He dropped his hand to his side and sighed. “Of
course you wouldn’t.” He turned and walked toward the door. “Are
you coming or not?” he asked.

“At least you can tell me where we’re going, I
hope.”

“And ruin the surprise?” He laughed. “Come now,
let’s get going before you have another hissy fit.”

Shooting him with invisible daggers as he led her
into the hall, she followed him out the back door. A young man
wearing jean overalls greeted them. His gaucho hat was lowered over
his eyes, hiding his expression. He didn’t even acknowledge her. He
handed Roark the reigns to the horse and asked, “Is there anything
else I can help you with?”

“Thank you, Caleb. We’ll return in a few hours.
Before you go, did you take care of the situation?”

“I’m working on it,” Caleb said. With a curt nod,
the boy excused himself.

“You should be ashamed of yourself.” Bronte huffed.
She came around and patted the stallion on the neck. It was a
lovely creature. They’d had horses on their land when she was a kid
and she’d grown up riding.

“What for?” he snapped.

“Does everyone here greet you and do your bidding as
if they are worshipping a master?”

His eyes widened. “I’m not asking them to do
anything more than what is expected from them, handed down
generation after generation.”

Just when she thought she’d heard it all, he went
and blew her mind again with his egotistical notions. “You’re so
full of yourself.” He seemed genuinely shocked. It was a lost
cause. “Where is the other horse?”

“What other horse?” he asked.

“The one I’ll be riding? I’m capable.”

“I’m sure you are.”

If his tone didn’t hint to something more, the
sliding of his gaze down her body most certainly did. Her insides
melted
. Logical reasoning out the door again
. “Are you
suggesting we ride together?” she asked.

“I’m not suggesting anything. You can walk if you’d
like, but that wouldn’t be timely for either of us. Otherwise, Seed
Demon here will oblige us both.” He patted the horse’s
backside.

Did he actually smirk as he said the words? “That’s
not his name, is it?”

“Yes.” He lifted himself onto the horse then lowered
his hand to help her.

“I thought you said you haven’t been out of the
house in months? I’d hate to be the reason you change being a
homebody.” She’d rather be in the house than in the saddle with
him.

“Thank you for your consideration, but no worries.
We won’t be going far.”

Bronte snorted. She should have figured he’d have an
excuse, but without further argument, she placed her hand into his
and allowed him to help her into the saddle, nestled behind him.
This was a position that quickly reminded her of the kiss they’d
shared in her bedroom and their bodies pressed against each other
made her fully aware of how muscular he was. She attempted to slide
away from his steely frame, but it was impossible in the soft
leather.

“Hold on tight, Bronte,” Roark said over his
shoulder.

Barely having enough time to adjust her weight, she
snaked her arms around his waist as he shooed the horse. They took
off at a running pace as the hooves beat like drums against the
ground. The horse was stealthy and strong under her legs, while the
wind combed through her hair and a sense of freedom floated over
her. Two in a saddle was surprisingly intimate. And it didn’t go
unnoticed that he was skilled at the reigns—riding smoothly. His
ripped abs tightened under her hands and her inner thighs rubbed
his tight buttocks. Brushing her nose against his shirt, she
breathed in his masculine scent.

The ride was thrilling, even if it shared with
Roark. The rhythmic thumping of the horses gallops, the power
underneath her bottom and the feel of Roark’s back pushed against
her chest was indescribable. She didn’t understand, but something
about the closeness, the smells and the scenery seemed familiar,
like she’d lived all of this before.

Plagued with strange dreams over the last year, she
couldn’t deny Roark fit the image of the tall, dark, handsome
stranger she’d imagined. Was it coincidental that she and Fallon
had talked about the dreams right before Roark’s men had taken
her?

Other thoughts bothered her. If Roark was a man who
only wanted to plant his seed inside her, then why did he bother
with all of the niceties? He’d had his chance to seduce her into
making love, but instead he’d pulled away, as if he wasn’t
ready.

The biggest piece of the puzzle was his offer…she
would call Fallon for information. What particulars was she missing
that he needed her to understand? And where was he taking her?

Trusting him was risky. Each time she started to
believe he wasn’t fraudulent, she reminded herself that no man
worthy of his word would keep her against her will.

Moving her attention to their surroundings, they
passed a field of wildflowers and rode through the tall grass. The
smell of the weeds mixed with country reminded her of when she was
a child and her mother would ride with her. Bronte hadn’t ridden
since her mom had passed away.

Roark led the horse into the shadowed woods as he
slowed the pace to a stroll. The sudden cool breeze made her lean
into him for warmth. She laid her cheek against his back, hearing
the strong beating of his heart. Bronte didn’t mind and because she
felt awareness with him, she knew her being with him wasn’t a
fluke. She didn’t know why or how, but there was a linking between
them, and the longer they were together it seemed to grow, even she
could no longer deny the facts. The emotions fluttering inside of
her were terrifying. Her trembling stomach and fast ticking heart
reminded her of what it’d be like to fall in love.

She sat up straight.
What the hell?

What was happening to her? She not only disliked
Roark, but he was holding her captive. This was not a love
story.

The horse stopped and she dragged her concentration
away from her silly thoughts. Bronte looked around the small
clearing and further ahead sat a small shack, which appeared held
upright by a few rusty nails and a warped board. It belonged in a
horror film, not a backdrop for the beautiful scenery. Roark hopped
down and then helped her slide off. “Where are we? It’s creepy,”
she said.

“That’s a compliment to the owner.” He winked.

“I’d take you seriously, but then I may become a
lunatic as well.” He laughed and goose bumps rose on her body.
“Being creepy isn’t a compliment, and crazy isn’t either.”

A screeching noise echoed through the woods and
someone appeared through the open screen door of the house. Fear
mixed with curiosity made Bronte’s stomach twist.

“Come, Bronte.” Roark motioned for her to follow
him.

She didn’t want to go. Unease crawled its way
through her, warning her that she wouldn’t like what he’d planned.
Shaking her head in refusal, she remained while he continued
walking. A shrill cry of a coyote from the woods made her jump.
“Roark?”

He stopped and looked at her. “What?”

“I don’t want to,” she said.

“Do you want your answers?” he asked. She nodded.
“Then come on.”

With trembling knees, she caught up to him through
the overgrown weeds. Side by side, they walked toward the
shack.

As they reached the porch, Bronte saw the shadow of
a person still standing in the doorway. “Is that a woman?” she
asked Roark.

“I guess you can call her a female,” he snarled.

The silhouette moved across the porch, each board
popping under her weight. The long, black cape she wore trailed
behind her and the hood remained over her head. She walked bent
over and her cane thumped the wood, like the booming of
thunder.

“Good day, Azelda.” Roark greeted her, but his sour
tone made Bronte believe there was animosity between the two. The
woman named Azelda sniffed loudly. Roark climbed the stairs and
Bronte followed. She wasn’t sure the rickety wood would hold his
weight, let alone their entire capacity at one time.

The peculiar stranger wobbled across the planks and
came to stand before Bronte. The woman’s shaky, twisted hand slid
from the arm of the cape as she slowly pulled away her hood. Bronte
gasped but quickly bit her bottom lip. The sinister sight shocked
her. The aged woman staring back with beady black eyes made
Bronte’s skin crawl. The woman’s pale, crinkled skin streaked with
deep veins, reminded Bronte of blue cheese. A large, red, hairy
mole overshadowed the pointy set of her jaw. Strands of oily hair
framed her unpleasant features and she smelled strong of burnt wood
and eucalyptus, making Bronte’s nostrils burn and her belly
rumble.

Although she wanted to run, Bronte didn’t move a
muscle—too afraid of what would happen. She waited for what seemed
an eternity before the other woman said, “Name?”

“My name is Bronte.”

“Ahhh…I’ve been expecting you.” The old woman’s
voice crackled. “It’s taken a while.”

Bronte snapped a look in Roark’s direction. His eyes
slanted as he continued to stare at the older woman. “Expecting
me?” Bronte asked.

“So you’re not deaf. That’s what I said,” Azelda
said with a snort. She looked at Roark and shook her head. “She’s
too skinny. If she stands in a high wind she’ll float away.”

One corner of Roark’s mouth lifted as if he found
the situation humorous. Bronte wondered why they would judge her
weight when he had issues with his personality and the woman
definitely had a few problems of her own. Azelda moved toward the
door, pausing while frowning at Bronte. “Come along, girly. I don’t
have all day.”

Bronte stayed. The last thing she wanted was to walk
into the ramshackle house.

Roark took her elbow and gently squeezed as if in
support. “She wants you to follow.”

Bronte tugged her arm away from his touch. “I get
that, but I’m not going to,” she whispered.

“Yes you are,” he countered.

“No, I’m not.”

“Bronte, it’s okay. You said you wanted to know why
you’re here, right?”

She nodded, knowing this may be her only opportunity
for escape. But the woman scared her and she’d already disappeared
into the house. Bronte hesitated. She was in the middle of nowhere,
in a dilapidated house, her captor telling her to follow a woman
who resembled a witch—how could things get any worse?

They most certainly could, Bronte realized as she
opened the screen door. A strong odor accosted her before she even
stepped foot in. The pungent smell made her nauseas. Feeling
Roark’s nudge on her shoulder, she turned and huffed. “Don’t push
me.”

“Go on,” he urged. Irritation made crow’s feet at
the corners of his eyes.

“Why don’t you go first?” she asked.

“Do you really want to be in the back?” One brow
lifted.

Thinking over his words, she shook her head. She’d
watched too many horror flicks to know the last person is always
the first to meet death.

Stepping across the doorstep sent chills over
Bronte’s skin. She couldn’t believe she was going along with this
crazy scheme. She didn’t get far in the dim room before disgust
paralyzed her. “Oh my god. Are those doll heads hanging from the
ceiling? Is that blood dripping from their eyes?”