A Torrid Celebration! Read online

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  Whiskey Creek Press

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright ©2008 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Published by

  Dedication

  GOING FOR EIGHT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  THE TWELFTH KNIGHT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  NOCTURNAL OFFERING

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  MASKED DESIRES

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  KNOCK THREE TIMES

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  SPANISH LULLABY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  For your reading pleasure, we invite you to visit our web bookstore

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  A TORRID CELEBRATION!

  by

  Melissa Schroeder, Cheri Valmont,

  Monica M. Martin, Christy Poff, Honey Jans

  & Emma Wildes

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  Whiskey Creek Press

  PO Box 51052

  Casper, WY 82605-1052

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Going for Eight Copyright © 2008 by Melissa Schroeder

  The Twelfth Knight Copyright © 2008 by Cheri Valmont

  Nocturnal Offerings Copyright © 2008 by Monica M. Martin

  Masked Desires Copyright © 2008 by Christy Poff

  Knock Three Times Copyright © 2008 by Honey Jans

  Spanish Lullaby Copyright © 2008 by Emma Wildes

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-60313-189-6

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston

  Editor: Stephanie Parent & Chere Gruver

  Printed in the United States of America

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Dedication

  From author Melissa Schroeder:

  For all my readers who always have to have a cowboy.

  From author Cheri Valmont:

  To Whiskey Creek Press and all the great people I've had the special privilege of working with during the years since my first publication with them.

  From author Monica M. Martin:

  For Bec

  The greatest sister a girl could have. Love you!

  To the Editors at WCP Torrid:

  Thank you Jan & Stephanie! You ladies are wonderful. :D

  From author Christy Poff:

  My thanks go to Jan for asking me to be a part of this project and to Chere—as always

  From author Honey Jans:

  I'd like to dedicate this story to my husband Glenn.

  From author Emma Wildes:

  To Debi and Steven Womack in celebration of their success with Whiskey Creek Press

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  GOING FOR EIGHT

  by

  Melissa Schroeder

  Chapter 1

  Gerry Dillon glanced around at the people gathered at the VFW and took a swig of his beer. He made a face when he realized the brew wasn't only warm, but flat as well. Dancers crowded the floor, while the band performed a horrendous cover of a Garth Brooks’ song. He winced when the lead singer hit a high, off-key note. But even as he hoped they would stop singing—and soon—Gerry enjoyed the atmosphere, the sense of completeness, he'd been feeling in the month since he'd returned.

  Brander, Texas was celebrating its one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary with an all-school reunion blast off, and Gerry was intent on savoring every last damn minute of it. Six months ago, if someone had told him this, he would have snorted and bet the idiot a thousand dollars that he was wrong. But lots of things change in six months—especially when he found himself up close and personal with death. Gerry had a plan, one he'd spent months perfecting, and now he had one particular person to hunt up. If she ever showed up. She'd been diligently avoiding him—even though he'd been staying at her ranch for much of the month.

  The band finished their set and turned the music over to a DJ while they took a break. Gerry squinted at the amateur DJ and realized it was Chet Mankins, one of his best friends from high school. Gerry downed the last of his warm beer, set it down on the bar, and headed for the stage. It took him longer than he expected, though. Every few steps, someone stopped him, shook his hand, and inevitably asked him when he was getting back up on the bull.

  When he finally reached the stage, he smiled at Chet. Six-four, two-eighty, all muscle. The only signs of his age were his thinning brown hair and the laugh lines around his brown eyes. When he noticed Gerry, he smiled and jumped down off the platform.

  "Hey, Gerry.” He held his hand out for a shake. “I heard you might be back in town for this."

  After releasing Chet's hand, Gerry said, “I've been back about a month. Wasn't in any shape to go out until the last week."

  Chet's expression sobered. “Alison and I were watching when Stampede took you down. For a few seconds, we didn't know if you were dead or alive."

  "That makes two of us."

  Uncomfortable with the direction their conversation was heading, Gerry looked over the crowd again. “So, have you seen Charlie Freemont tonight?"

  When Chet didn't respond, Gerry looked back at him. The knowing smile sent a wave of heated embarrassment to his face. Gerry just thanked the good Lord it was dark inside the VFW.

  "She turned out to be a hot little filly, didn't she?” Chet asked. “Charlie could always ride a horse like a queen. Makes a man wonder exactly what she's like in bed."

  Yeah, it did, and Gerry had been thinking about it more and more during the past few weeks. Not that he hadn't thought about Charlie long before he'd ran out of Brander, hoping to forget everything about his childhood. But he'd always known she was a hometown girl. She didn't want to leave her father, or that damned ranch, so Gerry had avoided her. And that hadn't been hard—after they'd both hit puberty, being in Charlie's
presence made him itch beneath the skin. He'd seen her only three times in the last four weeks, and he was staying on her damned ranch. Tonight, however, she wouldn't get away.

  Noticing that Chet was still grinning at him, Gerry asked, “Does Alison know about this infatuation?"

  His old friend threw back his head and laughed. “Alison knows all about my many fantasies. Besides, she can't say much when she's been eyeing your ass for the past five minutes."

  Mortified, Gerry turned around and spotted Alison sitting on the other side of the dance floor with a group of women who looked vaguely familiar. Seeing how Alison graduated the same year as he and Chet had, there was a good chance he knew all of them. Chet laughed and clapped Gerry on the shoulder with one of his big hands.

  "You look embarrassed. The Gerry Dillon I know would have been strutting over there to give them a better look."

  "Lots of things change."

  "You're telling me."

  Chet nodded to the entrance of the room, and Gerry turned to face it. There, with the light of the hall highlighting her, stood Charlie Freemont. He couldn't make out her face, but he could see her figure. And what a figure it was. Curvy in all the right places, with a world-class ass he knew would be highlighted in those painted-on black jeans. The sleeveless shirt matched the jeans, black and tight—the only hint of color in her outfit was the red ropers he knew she wore on her feet. Her golden locks tumbled over her shoulders, and she paused to take in the scene. He knew, even without being able to see them, that there was a hint of humor in her jade green eyes as she did so.

  "Her daddy probably had a fit when he saw her leaving tonight."

  He glanced at Chet. “That's if he saw her. Besides, she's as old as we are. Why the hell would the old man be saying anything about how she dresses?"

  "Gerry, please. You know what he's like. He's still pissed she didn't marry up."

  "Marry up?"

  "He wanted her to marry Sam Whitehorse ‘cause it would have been beneficial to the ranch."

  Gerry thought of old Sam Whitehorse who lived next to the Freemont Ranch. His roots in the community went back further than anyone's, seeing as his ancestors had inhabited the area before the whites stole the land. “Jesus, he's as old as her father."

  Chet laughed. “No, his son. He's a year or two younger than us, but from what I heard, she refused. Not that she didn't see him for awhile. She has a list of conquests as long as yours, son."

  "Watch it."

  Chet shrugged. “Charlie's a friend of Alison's, so I hear about it. Besides, Charlie has said on more than one occasion that she doesn't give a damn what people say about her. She's perfectly happy with all aspects of her life, and if people have to pay attention to it, they must have nothing better to do. Aw, shit. Sam's not going to let it go."

  Gerry turned to see what had caught Chet's attention. A man had approached Charlie. Judging from the long, straight-black hair that reached the middle of his back, Gerry assumed he was Sam Whitehorse. The man stood in Charlie's path until she reached him.

  "I take it he didn't take the rejection well?"

  "Hell, no. And it has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the damned ranch.” When Charlie tried to walk past him, Whitehorse latched onto her arm. “Aw, damn. And I was having fun. Looks like I'm going—"

  Gerry placed a hand on Chet's arm. “I'll take care of this."

  For a second, Chet didn't say anything, just studied Gerry's face. A satisfied gleam entered his gaze, and he nodded. Gerry released his friend's arm and strode in the direction of Charlie and Whitehorse. Their raised voices were turning the heads of most people in the room. With each step, Gerry's anger rose.

  When he'd finally pushed his way through a few onlookers—who were doing nothing to help—Gerry stepped up behind Whitehorse and said, “I do believe the lady isn't interested in talking to you, Whitehorse."

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  Chapter 2

  Charlie Freemont glanced over Sam's shoulder and fought the string of curses that rose in her throat. Dammit to hell. It figured this would happen. She didn't need any man's help—especially not Gerry Dillon's.

  It was just like the bastard. Show up out of the blue, after ignoring her father and everyone else in Brander for ten years, and act like the prodigal son returning home. And everyone—including her father—was bowing at his feet like he was some kind of damned hero. All because he had the bad fortune to draw a bull named Stampede. Now Gerry thought he could butt into her business. Well, she wasn't having it.

  Sam, who wasn't always the brightest star in the heavens, turned around and scowled at Gerry. He still held Charlie's arm in a death grip, and she swung around as he did, stumbling and almost falling over her feet. Gerry looked at her, as if checking to see if she was all right, and then turned his attention back to Sam.

  "What the hell do you want, Dillon?” Sam's belligerent tone had Gerry's eyes narrowing as he studied the younger man. Charlie would've just laughed and enjoyed the show—if Gerry wasn't involved.

  "What I want is for you to take your hand off of Ms. Freemont and go take some time to cool off."

  Sam snorted. “Ms. Freemont? Ain't that a fancy name? I guess you've been gone so long, you don't know her nickname."

  Deceptively calm, Gerry slipped his hands into his back pockets. She knew him better. There was a good chance he was doing that to resist the urge punch Sam.

  "What name is that?” She could barely hear Gerry's voice, but she recognized the steel beneath the tone.

  Sam opened his mouth, but Charlie stopped him. “Gerry.” She waited until he turned his attention from Sam to her. The full weight of his scrutiny sent a rush of heat over her flesh. It had been like this for years. She couldn't be in the same room with Gerry without her legs going wobbly as a newborn colt's. There was something behind those clear, dark-blue eyes that had her heart thumping, her body warming. But that was her tough luck. He thought of her as a little sister, and he always would.

  "I can take care of this myself."

  Gerry cocked his head to one side. “I know you think you can. What I want to know is what Whitehorse calls you?"

  Her face flushed with anger and embarrassment. Her nickname of “Good-time Charlie” hadn't really bothered her at all. In fact, she enjoyed it. No man expected her to tie him down, and they all understood they'd never get their hands on her daddy's ranch. There'd been a few, just after she'd graduated from high school, who'd tried that route. When she'd made it clear that, just because they got her in bed didn't mean they were going to get a piece of her heart—or a piece of her land—they'd all disappeared fast enough.

  But now, for the first time ever, she was mortified. It was different for this man, the one she'd always wanted and could never get, to know that Brander's residents saw her as the town skank. True, none of them said so to her face. They feared what she could do to them, since her father owned much of the town, and many found seasonal work on Freemont Ranch.

  "Let it go, Gerry."

  "I don't think I want to."

  She snorted to hide the pain that stabbed at her heart. “You don't always get what you want."

  Gerry's gaze traveled down the length of her body, then all the way back up to her face. Her flesh burned as if he'd physically touched her. Her nipples hardened, her blood hummed with pleasure.

  One side of Gerry's mouth kicked up seductively as he said, “I'm working on that problem."

  Before she could figure out what that comment meant, he turned back to Sam. She knew Gerry was itching for a fight. Six months had passed since he'd been stomped by that bull, and he had to be ready to scream. He'd never been a man who could sit still for long, and he had a habit of lashing out. The situation with Sam provided the opportunity to vent some of his frustration—but she wouldn't allow him to use her personal life that way.

  She wrenched her arm free of Sam's bruising hold and faced both men. “Both of you can go to hell."

 
; A few of the women whistled and clapped as she walked away. Charlie smiled at a few people, but she didn't stop to talk as she made her way to the bar. She stepped up to order a beer when strong fingers wrapped around her hand. She turned and found an irritated—and oh-my-God beautiful—Gerry Dillon glowering at her. Since she was close to six feet tall, they stood almost eye to eye, and she glared right back.

  "Oh, don't give me that mutinous look.” With a jerk, he started back to the dance floor, dragging her in his path. “You and I have a few things to discuss."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 3

  Gerry stomped to the dance floor, trying to ignore the curious stares. He hadn't wanted to approach Charlie so publicly, but she was putting a crimp into his plans. She was the most difficult, pain-in-the-ass woman. He had no idea just why the hell he wanted her—needed her, like he needed air to breathe—but he did. It probably had something to do with his hard head.

  The moment they hit the wood, he pulled her into his arms.

  "Gerry."

  He ignored the irritation and anger in her voice and swiftly guided her around the high school principal and his wife. Trying to distract himself from the fact that Charlie was finally—finally—in his arms, he concentrated on the old George Strait song playing.

  "I don't like macho he-man displays."

  Now she sounded like a disgruntled three-year-old. Even knowing it was a mistake, he couldn't resist looking down at her. Well, as far down as he could, because they were almost the same height. Her skin was flushed, her eyes snapped with green fire.

  Damn, she was something. Heat stirred then brushed along his nerve endings as she shifted and her nipples grazed his chest. He was painfully aware that just about every wonderful inch of Charlie was plastered up against his body. The scent of her was driving him crazy. She never wore perfume because of her sensitive skin, but he could smell the herbal shampoo and rose scented soap she used. His cock twitched and hardened. If he wasn't careful, he'd embarrass himself even further. Gerry didn't know exactly how he'd explain a cum stain on the front of his jeans.