Sandra Hill - [Creole] Read Online Free PDF Page A

paid already?” he asked as he replaced his gun in the holster and reached out a hand to pull her up off the bunk, and presumably shove her out the door. The jerk!
    “The Oprah show doesn’t pay. Well, only expenses.”
    “How much do you charge, sweetheart?” He dropped his extended hand and reached into the pocket of his snug trousers.
    This entire conversation was taking a strange turn that Harriet didn’t grasp. “I get two hundred dollars an hourfor regular sessions when I’m back home, but—”
    “Two hundred dollars! Honey, you’d better have some special talent to charge those rates.” He thought a moment, then added with a wry grin, “Let me see your tongue.” He chuckled when she clamped her lips together. “You’re the one who does the buttermilk trick, aren’t you? That’s what I call expertise.”
    She sniffed huffily. “Of course I’m an expert. I’ve been in practice for more than ten years.” She had no idea what he meant about buttermilk or tongue, but it sounded obscene.
    “Ten years!” He peered at her closer, sweeping her body with a dismissive appraisal, which she found highly insulting. “You’re a little old for this business, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be on the cull pile by now?”
    “I beg your pardon,” she seethed, sitting up. She gave him back an equal head-to-toe appraisal.
    “I can’t believe I’m standing here talking to this dimwitted wench,” Steve muttered under his breath. Using his gun barrel to tip the brim of his hat up higher on his head, he scrutinized her with an unflattering lack of enthusiasm. “Lady, you look like the back end of bad luck to me, and that’s one card game I don’t need.”
    She frowned with puzzlement. Hadn’t he pitched his hat onto her briefcase? No, that had been in her other dream. Whatever. Now she was getting her first good glimpse, more distinct than ever before, of the brute that had plagued her of late.
    His black hair, a tad too long, was brushed off his face and behind his ears. Day-old whiskers stubbled the dark skin of his face, but did not hide the sharp cheekbones, strong nose and jaw, or full—sinfully full—lips. Vivid eyes, blue as pure lapis lazuli, sparkled with a burgeoning interest that he couldn’t suppress, headache or not. But it wasn’t carnal interest.
    She decided to take the offensive. “So when does the forceful seduction begin?” She plopped backward on thebed, arms raised above her head, her legs spread wantonly. “Could we get this over real quick, huh? I’d like to sleep sometime tonight.”
    “Forceful seduction? What in blue blazes is that?” he said, his eyes about popping out as he gazed at her outlandish pose.
    “You know, where the guy forces…well, persuades…the woman against her will to have sex, and like it,” she explained waspishly, squirming her tush a little to get more comfortable. “Really, let’s get this over with. Haul yourself on over here, hon. Come on, jump my bones. Do the deed. Rock my world.”
    “Huh?”
    “Do I have to spell it out? Let the fantasy begin.” She scrunched her eyes closed, bracing herself for his sensual attack.
    Nothing happened.
    She opened her eyelids a bit.
    He was gaping at her, his astounded eyes roving her exposed body. Then he let out a hoot of laughter. “Forceful seduction? Damn, I’m gonna kill those two perverts.”
    He was laughing so hard now, deep belly laughs, that he had to sit down on the opposite seat and hold his sides. He kept mumbling something about the biblical characters Cain and Abel and how he’d found his long-lost sense of humor, after all.
    Harriet’s eyes widened as Steve just laughed and laughed. At her. It was a textbook dream scenario—naked woman, laughing man, or vice versa—that insecure people had all the time.
    Me? Insecure?
    With utter humiliation, Harriet realized the X-rated picture of invitation she made. And for the first time she began to wonder if this was a dream, after all.
    But