Byrd's Desire Read Online Free PDF Page A

force behind thunderstorms and weather. Warlike tribes sometimes viewed it as an omen of battle but she decided they were the minority.  “It’s sacred,” Celia muttered to herself and stared at an image she brought up from a book about the legendary bird.  She searched for additional details and became so engrossed in research that she failed to notice the storm had arrived until the lights dimmed, then flickered.  She shut down her computer and headed to the kitchen, hungry now.
    The room provided a number of windows, some of which faced west , so Celia had a clear view of the weather.  Jagged streaks of light flared in the deep clouds and thunder boomed overhead with enough force to rattle dishes in the cupboards.  As the wind picked up, the trees swayed and bent in a pagan dance routine.  Celia gathered her ingredients and by the time the rain fell in sheets, she had the onions, celery, garlic, and green peppers chopped.  She managed not to nick her fingers in the process, something which made her proud because she hadn’t cooked like this in a long time.  Celia had no recipe, save the one in her head, her mother and grandmother’s recipe, handed down over generations.   She melted butter in a deep skillet and added flour to make a roux, stirring rapidly until it turned a rich, copper penny brown.  Then she added the chopped vegetables.  When they became tender, she added a bay leaf, the water, Cajun seasoning, some parsley, and the shrimp, which she’d peeled and deveined.  The mixture came to a boil and delicious aromas began to rise from the skillet.   She inhaled with pleasure as the rice cooked to perfection.
    The thunder, the gusts of wind, and the heavy rain made a sort of music she worked with and by the time she sat down with her finished dish to eat, Celia decided the worst of the storm had past.   She grabbed a spoon, tasted her efforts, and smiled.  The étouffé delivered just the right combination of spice, heat, shrimp, and Cajun flavor. It pleasured her tongue. Before she could scoop a serving into a bowl, the doorbell rang with a long melodious chime.  Out in the middle of a ranch in a very rural area, knowing no one, she expected Chuck, the ranch manager.  She doubted that Nina, the housekeeper she had yet to meet, would show up this late or in such weather.  Without fear and with total confidence that she’d open the door to find the grizzled cowboy on the porch, Celia turned the étouffé down to simmer and headed to the front door.   She put on a smile to welcome him but her mouth drooped when she saw the visitor.
    He stood more than six feet tall, with skin as bronzed as the roux she’d just made and straight black hair to his waist.  His dark jeans and midnight black shirt were plastered to his body and so wet they dripped. The garments fit tight but she imagined how he’d look in full powwow regalia.  No doubt about it, he was Native American, although she couldn’t begin to guess the tribe. Celia had always sworn she liked her men the way she took her coffee—dark, strong, and sweet.  Her unexpected visitor was all three, she thought, as she stared at him with something like wonder.  She gazed up into his mysterious dark eyes and her hunger shifted from Cajun cooking to a desire for something erotic.  He met her stare and gave it back, potent as the storm that had just passed.  “Hi, mon cher , what can I do for you?”
    Aware she flirted, hell, even offered, Celia shouldn’t have been surprise d when he stepped forward and without a word swept her into his arms.  He smelled, she thought, of wind and rain and the outdoors. His skin touched hers with delicious warmth.  The stranger locked her into a tight embrace as his mouth descended on hers with heat.  Her brief protest vanished in the fire his lips transferred to Celia.  Desire burned through her body with the power and speed of an out-of-control brush fire and her hands clung to his shoulders.