Sweeter Savage Love

  “Am I still dreaming?” she said with a yawn as she crawled to her feet. With her arms stretched over her head, her little leopard-print chemise left nothing to the imagination.

  “No, you are not dreaming,” he said icily, advancing on the witless woman who was finger-combing her hair with disregard for the danger she had placed them all in. “But I assure you, my dear, you are going to wish this were a dream. Very soon.”

  Harriet’s first attempt at forceful seduction had apparently fizzled. Not only was her lover no longer lying flat on his back, at her command, but his fists were clenched and his teeth gritted.

  Harriet didn’t have to be a psychologist to discern the signs of repressed hostility. The man would like to break her bones, not jump them. She backed away a bit. “Now, Steve, don’t get your jockey shorts in a twist. I just switched roles on you, tried to show you how forceful seduction feels. It’s called mirroring.”

  “Sacrebleu!” He inched closer. “My name is not Steve, and I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who the hell are you?”

  “Harriet Ginoza.”

  “Harry-Hat? What kind of name is that?”

  “Not Harry-Hat, Harriet. Dr. Harriet Ginoza.”

  “A doctor? Not bloody likely!”

  Harriet was beginning to notice an interesting thing about Steve’s…rather, Etienne’s speech. It changed. All the time. Thus far, she could identify a lazy, Louisiana drawl. An educated, almost British accent. Then a Southern cracker regionalism. Even an occasional French word.

  Was it deliberate? The way he eased in and out of speech patterns might not be noticed by most people, but Harriet’s job was to observe people’s behavior, no matter how subtle. And this man was a consummate actor. The enigma puzzled her.

  “Lady, you’d better explain what you’re doing here, pronto. Because, frankly, I’m in a killing mood.” He loomed closer.

  “You know, Etienne, you emote entirely too much violence.”

  Taken aback, he snarled, “Emote? What kind of word is that?”

  At least that stopped his progress for a moment. She’d have to talk down his anger, draw on her clinical skills. “I thought, at one time, that you suffered from the Don Juan syndrome,” she went on blithely, “but now I’m beginning to see characteristics of the Genghis Khan syndrome. Genetic male aggression channeled into patterns of sporadic violence.”

  “Genghis Khan! Genghis Khan! First, you think I’m some man named Steve Morgan. Now, Genghis Khan. You must be sick. A fever perhaps?” He narrowed his eyes at her speculatively. “Dr. Ginoza, huh? Well, Ginny,” he said, honing in on her last name, “perhaps you need to heal yourself.”

  “I’m a PhD doctor, not a medical doctor.”

  “Well, that explains it,” he said, throwing up his hands as he moved another step closer.

  She gulped as her back hit the door. “See. You must be Steve because you called me Ginny, even though my name is Harriet. And everyone knows that Steve and Ginny were legendary lovers in that book—”

  He spit out an extremely foul word, grabbed her by the shoulders, and flung her down on one of the bench seats. The fingers of both hands circled her neck, pressing hard. “The truth,” he demanded, relaxing his fingers only when he realized she couldn’t speak.

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she raised her chin with defiance. “You brute! I should have known that Steve Morgan would revert to savagery.”

  “I am not Steve Morgan,” he said evenly. “Who sent you?”

  His body lay heavily on top of hers, pinning her to the seat. And Steve, or whatever alias he used now, was back to strangling her again. Plus, a sharp object prodded her left thigh. Feeling blindly, she recognized the shape of one of the guns she’d placed there earlier. Grabbing it, she pressed the tip of the barrel between them, against his genitals. “Move it, buster,” she ordered in a squeaky, choked voice, “or I’m gonna fill your crown jewels with lead.”

  Steve’s blue eyes went wide and his fingers lessened their grasp on her throat. “Take it easy,” he warned, easing himself off her and standing, then backing up slightly toward the window. “Don’t do anything hasty.” His eyes were cautious but admiring of her expertise in having outwitted him.

  Harriet licked her dry lips, taking huge drafts of air into her burning lungs.

  Meanwhile, Steve’s eyes darted about the room, probably seeking an escape for himself, and halted at the pile of clothing she’d laid out on one seat. Picking up one of her Ferragamo pumps, he eyed it curiously. At first, she thought he was contemplating its possibilities as a weapon, but instead, he tossed it out the open window.

  “Hey!” she screeched. “Those shoes cost me a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Oh, really?” He didn’t look at all apologetic. In fact, his flushed face and tight jaw bespoke a boiling rage. “Well, here goes another seventy-five dollars, darlin’.” And he lobbed the other shoe over his shoulder and out the window. Michael Jordan couldn’t have done it better.

  “You jerk!” she said, seething, and aimed the gun straighter, this time at his heart.

  “What’s this?” he asked with seeming unconcern, holding up her short red Dior skirt and jacket.

  “A business suit. And it cost me eight hundred dollars; so don’t you dare—”

  Her favorite power suit joined her shoes on a stretch of countryside somewhere outside Memphis, Tennessee.

  Now he’d gone too far. Forceful seduction. Violence. Harassment. Lack of proper respect for designer clothing. It wouldn’t really be murder if she killed a creep in her sleep, would it?

  Steve was handling her black lace demibra now, inspecting it with infuriating detail. He glanced at the wispy half cups, then at her breasts, arching a brow with sudden understanding. Then he laughed mirthlessly as he discarded it, too, along with her second-best silk blouse.

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried.

  “Because you’re holding a gun on me. Because you broke into my compartment and knocked me out cold. Because you expect me to surrender to you willingly. Because I am not ever going back to prison.” He picked up her silk panty hose, held them out in front of his face, and shook his head in amazement.

  But Harriet focused on one word. “Prison? Are you a murderer or something?”

  “No, but I’m gonna be.”

  “Hold it. Now I remember about the prison. Steve Morgan concocted a scheme in Sweet Savage Love where he pretended—Ooomph!”

  Steve had lurched forward, knocking the gun from her hand and slamming her back against the door once again. Now the gun barrel was pressed against her heart.

  “Steve,” she pleaded softly.

  “Don’t call me that name again,” he sliced out.

  “Etienne, then,” she corrected. “Don’t do this. You’re not really a bad man. You’re just—”

  “Shut the hell up,” he snapped, and turned her against the hard wooden door. Before she had a chance to realize what he was doing, he’d yanked her hands behind her back and tied them with her panty hose. Then he shoved her into a sitting position on one of upholstered bench seats. Grabbing her stretchy bikini briefs, which he regarded for only a moment with a flicker of interest, he used them to bind her ankles together. Finally he sank into the seat opposite her, knee to knee.

  The whole time she was whimpering with disbelief. Good thing it was a dream; otherwise she’d be screaming.

  “Now, talk, or I swear I’m going to give new meaning to the expression ‘skinning the cat.’”

  “I already told you. I’m Dr. Harriet Ginoza, a psychologist. I boarded the Amtrak train in Chicago. I’m giving a speech in New Orleans tonight, and—”

  “A sick-what?”

  “A psychologist…you know, a scientist who studies the mind and human behavior.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And a ham track?”

  She creased her brow over that question, then laughed. “I said Amtrak. It’s the name of a railroad line.”

  He put one pist
ol back in its holster and the other remained in his right hand, which rested casually over his knee, but Harriet couldn’t relax. She suspected the gun would be aimed at her heart again, in a nanosecond, if she made one wrong move.

  “So tell me, Dr. Ginny, whose mind were you studying when you broke into my compartment? And why me?”

  Okay, so Steve wasn’t buying her story. She took a deep breath. “Listen, Steve…I mean, Etienne, the bottom line here is: This is just a dream.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said cynically and pinched his arm. “Ouch! Oui, I’m awake.”

  “It’s the truth. Do you think I’d be prancing around in my nightie like this?” she pointed out, peeking down at her breasts that strained against the thin leopard-print silk because of her hands being pulled behind her back.

  He looked, too, and despite his efforts to appear unimpressed, she recognized a faint glimmer in his eye.

  “Not that you haven’t seen everything I own, and then some,” she said with a blush, “but I would have been mortified to have the conductor and your two friends see me like this…if it weren’t a dream.”

  “Let me understand. You’re saying I’ve seen you naked?”

  “Sure. Lots of times. Every night for the past two weeks. Since my latest book went on sale.”

  He made a slight groaning sound of frustration. “And what book, pray tell, might that be?”

  “Female Fantasies Never Die,” she responded proudly.

  His jaw dropped and his eyes about bugged out. When he realized he was gaping, he clicked his mouth shut. “Are you demented?”

  She shrugged. “Probably.”

  With a snort of disgust, he put a booted foot on each side of her hips, slipped the toes behind her butt, and with an abrupt motion, drew her forward so that she fell to the floor on her knees. With her hands locked behind her, Harriet landed with her breastbone against the hard metal of the pistol on his lap and her face buried, for one split second, in his crotch.

  His gasp and the flash of utter incredulity on his face told her that oral sex hadn’t been his intention. But a movement under her cheek told her that another part of his body, far removed from his brain, had other ideas.

  She righted herself briskly, kneeling between his thighs, which he promptly closed like a vise, rendering her immobile.

  “You just crossed the line, mister,” she seethed. “I’ve put up with enough of your crap these past two weeks. First it was crude sexual assaults, now violence…oooh!”

  He’d just used the tip of his pistol to flick the nipple of first one, then the other breast. To her humiliation, they came instantly to life, hard and aching for further touch.

  His full lips curved with satisfaction, but the somber grin never reached his eyes. He was touching her intimately as intimidation, not foreplay. Despite her squirming, he refused to let her rise from her knees.

  He put the gun in his empty holster and, as if transfixed, he lifted her chin with a forefinger, then ran his thumb over her parted lips.

  The feathery touch ignited a seismic shock that ran through her body like a bolt of erotic lightning. Harriet was beginning to hate herself and her lack of self-control.

  “Exactly how many times did we make love during these past two weeks?” he asked in a raspy drawl. Harriet couldn’t tell whether his whisper was a sign of restrained fury, or arousal.

  “Dozens.”

  “And I have no memory of the events? How extraordinary!” He let out a short laugh of disbelief. Then, “Was I good?”

  “You were lousy,” she lied.

  He broke into a wide, lazy smile, and Harriet reeled under the impact. “God, you have a dangerous smile,” she blurted out.

  “So I’ve been told…a long time ago,” he said in an oddly sad voice.

  Harriet sensed pain and regret in Etienne’s voice, and something deep inside her began to melt. She couldn’t explain, but she wanted to hit the brute, and kiss away his hurts. She wanted to shake some sense into his male chauvinist head, and, at the same time, in some deep-seated, prehistoric part of her brain, she relished the fact that he was dominant and all man.

  Was there a purpose to her dreams? Perhaps their erotic nature was a camouflage. What if she’d been given a mission by God to help this obviously troubled man? Harriet smiled inwardly at the prospect of any heavenly being designating her for such a celestial “Mission Impossible.” She hadn’t been in a church since high school.

  Still, some part of her subconscious sensed the inevitability of her contact with this man. Fate, or the gods, had ordained her dreams for a reason, of that she was certain.

  I could love him, she realized suddenly.

  Oh, God!

  “You have the strangest green eyes. Beautiful cat eyes,” he remarked huskily as he brushed a strand of hair off her face. She could see by his hooded eyes and heightened breathing that he was equally affected by the curious chemistry between them. “Are you a gypsy? Have you cast a spell over me?”

  She shook her head mutely. No longer struggling to rise, she was the one ensorcelled.

  “Are you here to betray me?” His words were deliberately soft and casual, but she could tell the question was immensely serious. And that, somehow, she could hurt him with her answer.

  She took her time before speaking. As awareness sizzled between them like an electric current, she studied the firm line of his jaw; his sad, blue eyes and gaunt cheekbones; the arrogant tilt of his chin; his full, passionate lips that she knew so well.

  “I would never, ever betray you,” she vowed as tears scalded her eyes. And she meant every word. “As much as I’ve tried to fight it, I think you’re my soul mate.”

  Chapter Four

  “Damn! Did you have to bring cold water?” Etienne griped at Cain as he attempted to shave. Not an easy task, Harriet observed, as the train chugged along at a relatively fast pace, swaying occasionally.

  Cain sliced Etienne a glare, refusing to speak since their angry exchange of words a short time before. Cain blamed Etienne for some botched-up plan to leave the train in Memphis, and, of course, Etienne blamed her. The blame game…how juvenile!

  Etienne was using a small basin and a square mirror from a portable shaving kit—a flat, wooden box-type affair like officers had used during the Civil War. Harriet had seen one at a Christie’s estate sale for the descendants of Gen. Benjamin Butler.

  Harriet was curled up in one corner of the seat near the window, still bound hand and foot. She watched with fascination as Etienne, bare to the waist—Be still, my heart!—lathered up with a brush and soap and wielded a straight razor with expertise. She forced herself to think of him as Etienne, since that was the name Steve insisted on using now.

  “And this razor is dull as a bayou soiree,” Etienne continued to berate Cain. “I’ll have more nicks than a butchered hog. How can I take on any believable persona without a decent shave?”

  “Shut up and hurry, you dumb son of a bitch, or the only persona you’ll be able to take on is that of a dead man,” Cain seethed as he finished dressing.

  “Who are you calling a dumb son of a bitch, you dumb son of a bitch?” Etienne spat out the indignant retort, along with some shaving soap. A thin line of blood trickled through the white foam from a cut on his right cheekbone.

  “Speaking of dumb, do you know why Adam was the first dumb man?” Hey, if they were going to behave like idiots, she might as well honor them with a sampling of dumb-men jokes from her personal collection.

  Etienne and Cain ignored her, as they had been doing for the past half hour. As if that would stop her.

  “Because he thought Eve was cheating on him.”

  Cain grunted and Etienne gritted his teeth. Well, that was enough encouragement for her.

  “And do you know what God said after he created Eve?”

  Stone silence, except for the sound of razor scraping over whiskery flesh.

  “Practice makes perfect.” She beamed at Etienne and Cain.


  “Are those riddles supposed to be humorous?” Etienne snarled.

  “Are you saying that all men are dumb?” Cain asked at the same time.

  “Bingo! On both counts. Try this one. What did Adam say to Eve during their first intimate moment?”

  Etienne’s face was turning purple with incredulity.

  “Whoa! Stand back, Eve. Who knows how big this thing is gonna get!”

  “You’re pathetic,” Etienne said and resumed shaving. But she thought there might be a little smile tugging at his lips.

  “You’re both pathetic,” Cain snorted as he donned a nineteenth century—style suit—a nut brown, broadcloth outfit with a short jacket over a much-washed, off-white shirt. He was a devastatingly handsome man, right down to his well-toned flesh, which she’d seen a whole lot of since he’d shucked to his skivvies right in front of her. The immodest guy—probably an exhibitionist—could pose for Playgirl any day. “I’m surrounded by pathetic, sexually crazed, insane people. Good thing Abel isn’t here. He’d no doubt be jotting the words to those dumb riddles down and setting them to song.”

  Etienne raised an eyebrow. “What flew up your chimney, Cain? Come on. Spit it out.”

  Cain complained mulishly, “Of all days you pick to dally with a wench! Dammit, Etienne, couldn’t you keep your pizzle in your pants till we got in safe territory?”

  “Pizzle? I haven’t heard that word since we were boys,” Etienne replied, wiping away the remainder of shaving foam with his shirt. “And I told you, she wasn’t kneeling between my legs to…oh, damn, why am I even trying to explain to you?”

  Harriet listened with amazement to the odd interchange. She had to admit that her position, kneeling between Etienne’s legs, had looked suggestive when Cain had burst into the compartment an hour ago. He’d called Etienne names that made even her blush.