* * *

Now would this be considered stalking? Sam frowned. Seemed awfully close to it.

He’d been on the way to Linda’s house, hoping she’d eased up and they could talk, when he’d spotted her car in a restaurant parking lot.

He shouldn’t have turned in. Shouldn’t have stopped. Being a fool, Davies.

As he followed the hostess across the restaurant, he spotted Linda sitting across from a man wearing a suit and tie. Damn, she was beautiful. She’d done that curling thing with her hair. Wore makeup to make her seal-brown eyes even bigger. Her light pink, silky top showed only a hint of cleavage.

The hostess moved past Linda and her goddamned date.

“Wait, miss,” Sam said.

The waitress stopped.

“I’ll sit there.” He pointed to an empty table near the center of the room, a couple of tables from Linda’s.

“But that’s not—”

“Be appreciated.”

“Uh.” She gave him a flirtatious look. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” He ignored the chair she pulled out for him and chose one where he had a satisfying view of his quarry. Acting like a stalker, Davies. But the location was good. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but she’d eventually catch sight of him. And then she would have a chance to see if she really wanted a normal life. A normal man.

If she was jumping into a relationship to flee from herself, that was just damn stupid. But if she seriously wanted Vanilla Boy, Sam would back off.

After ordering, he leaned back, sipped coffee, and enjoyed the view. Maybe some fools wouldn’t consider her beautiful, but he thought she was stunning. And natural. After the years of Nancy’s fake giggles and shrill hysterics, he appreciated Linda’s open, full-bodied laughter.

Pissed him off that other men noticed as well.

And he resented the hell out of the fact that Vanilla Boy could make her laugh. Sam’s jaw tightened. The man had no trouble keeping a conversation going; his words flowed like a flooding river.

If she wanted a talkative man, then she didn’t want Sam.

Maybe she’d be happy with that bastard. If so…might as well leave. He lifted his hand for the waitress.

But Linda didn’t appear sexually interested in the man. When Vanilla Boy reached across the table and took her hand, she displayed no reaction at all. Like she’d closed herself off.

Sam lowered his hand. She’d definitely reacted to him last night. He’d never felt a connection like that, as if he could smell her emotions as easily as he inhaled her scent. After what she’d been through, the trust she’d shown in him—letting him hold her, spank her, fuck her—had shaken him right to his bones.

Goddammit. He leaned back and settled in for the duration.

Eventually Linda’s attention was diverted from the man by a family walking past. She glanced around the room. When her eyes met Sam’s, her mouth dropped open. She stared at him blankly, then tore her gaze away. As she turned all her attention to her date, her jaw muscles were rigid.

Sam chuckled. She was obviously dying to glare at him but couldn’t because the other guy would ask why.

Despite her desire to ignore him, her gaze kept flicking in his direction. He understood the feeling; he couldn’t look away from her either. He saw that her cheeks and lips had turned a rose color; her eyes had taken on an added shine. Yeah, she definitely reacted sexually to Sam—as he did to her—as if being in the same room cranked the hormone level higher.

He tried not to stare at her as he ate his meal. Wasted money, since he might have been eating hay for all he tasted of the food. As he shoved the potatoes to one side, he frowned.

Was he being a fool? After all, they’d had sex a grand total of once.

Then again, although he’d dated Nancy a few times, the one time they’d screwed had convinced him to back away. His good sense hadn’t been wrong, but by then it was too late. “I’m on the pill” wasn’t the first of her lies but had the biggest impact. One that left him living in hell for over a decade—except for the bright light of his daughter. He could never regret the gift of Nicole.

So when it came to Linda, could his judgment be relied on? Well, he’d seen her at her worst. Seen her terrified. In pain. Angry with him. Even considering her panic attacks, she was one of the strongest people he knew.

No, he wasn’t wrong about her.

After he finished eating, he leaned back, idly smacking his napkin against his palm, remembering the auction and how the dragon’s tongue whip had flicked over her white skin. Her flinches, her groans, her arousal. Did she really want to live a life without that intensity? Feeling half-smothered?


THE RESTAURANT WAS way too hot, Linda thought as she gulped down her ice water. Across the table, Lee elaborated about next week’s hotel conventions with a suggestion she drop off promotional material for the lobby information rack.

He was such a nice man. He always asked her opinion before deciding anything. He didn’t try to boss her around. Shouldn’t she be pleased that he treated her as an equal?

Her gaze flicked back to Sam. He’d dressed up—for him—in black jeans, black boots, a silver-buckled belt, and a burgundy western shirt with black snap pockets and piping. With his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, he looked like a man enjoying his coffee after a good meal. His muscled frame, hard face, and dangerous presence won interested looks from every woman in the place. Including her.

She wrenched her gaze away, managing to focus on Lee until she heard an odd rhythmic sound. What was that?

Idly watching a waiter clearing a nearby table, Sam was smacking the end of his linen napkin across his palm. Slap, slap, slap. It seemed an innocuous habit, as another man might tap his foot or play with his mustache; only this sounded and looked far too much like what he’d done to her in the dungeon. Or the bedroom.

Shifting, Linda licked lips that had gone dry, and the movement drew his attention. When his steady blue eyes met hers, she was suddenly, completely aroused.

A crease appeared in his cheek, and then he rose and walked out of the restaurant with the powerful saunter that was his alone.

“Linda?” Lee turned to follow her gaze. “What are you looking at?”

Chapter Eight

In the center of an empty corral, Sam helicoptered the bullwhip over his head and reversed. A crack split the air. Not bad. Never letting the whip settle, he threw again and again, working into a good rhythm.

After warming up, he moved to the target area. He’d needed something to take his mind off the redhead, and nothing required concentration like whip cracking. He had the scars to prove it.

Today he had spaghetti noodles to destroy. Poles to wrap and pull.

Eventually, as a treat to himself, he targeted cans of soda. The trick was to strike evenly enough to split the can in half. He hit the first can, and the spray fountained up. The bottom half of the can remained on the table, still filled with liquid.

“Show-off.” The voice broke into his concentration.

With an amused snort, Sam stopped. Coiling the whip, he walked to where Nolan stood with his forearms resting on the top of the fence. “What’s up?”

“Came to tell you we’re done for the day.”

Sam studied the beginnings of his new stable. The construction crew had accomplished a fair amount over the past week. “Getting there.”

“Should have been built a decade ago. That old one’s a fire trap.”

“Wasn’t needed before.” Couldn’t do it until his divorce. He could hardly subject construction workers to his wife’s hysterics or the way she’d have hit them up for drug money.

Like she’d tried to shake him down for money yesterday. His mouth twisted with the foul taste that speaking to her left behind. He needed to warn Nicole that her mother was back in Tampa. “But breeding mares expect some amenities.”

“Right.” Nolan looked around. “Place looks good.”

“Better.” After the farm was safe from Nancy’s destructive tantrums, he’d made much-needed improvements.

“Heard you did a scene with your buddy from the auction. You seeing her?”

Damn gossipy submissives. “No. She wants to be normal. Normal women don’t hang out with sadists.”

“From what Cullen said, she’s as much a masochist as you are a sadist.”

“Not if she can help it.”

Nolan gave him a glance. “But she can’t. Any more than Beth could help being submissive, and she sure as hell tried.”

Sam nodded agreement. But people weren’t logical.

At least Linda had forgiven him. And she had his phone number. Pushing her further would definitely be stalking. But, goddammit, not seeing her was like losing a wisdom tooth and constantly checking the empty socket. “Ball’s in her corner.” For now.

* * *

“I see I’ve got some practicing to do,” Linda said. Standing on the front lawn of the church in the early evening sunlight, she smiled at the gray-haired director of the choir.

“You’ll catch up quickly.” Mrs. Ritter riffled through a sheaf of sheet music. “It’s good to have you back.”

“I missed singing.” And practice had been wonderful. But now, as the choir members mingled outside the church, her anxiety was creeping back.

“I saw the paper with the picture of your house,” Mrs. Ritter said. “Has the creep been back?”

“No, thank goodness.” Not for two weeks now—since the first night Sam had spent in her house, leaving his big truck parked at the curb. Perhaps the spray painter had seen Sam and decided to pursue less perilous canvases.