Sandra Hill - [Creole] by Sweeter Savage Love Read Free Book Online Page A

with hardened pink nipples.
    But no, something was wrong with this picture. Etienne forced himself to recollect. The woman had entered his compartment, uninvited, just as he and Cain and Abel were about to embark on the most dangerous assignment of their lives. She knew about the gold and his army background. She’d knocked him unconscious. Now she ogled him like he was a griddle cake, and she was the hot molasses. And she wanted him to …surrender ?
    Suddenly Etienne knew. Another person was about to slip the knife of betrayal through his vulnerable ribs. Like Vera. When the hell would he ever learn to be more cautious? His heart skipped a beat with alarm, then began to chug slowly with fury. Just as the sitting train was beginning to chug up its engines and build steam.
    Sitting train? Etienne shot up off the floor, dumping the woman unceremoniously, and scrambled to look out the window.
    That was when important fact number four dawned on him—the most important fact of all. Panicked, he peered out the window at the train station, which was becoming increasingly smaller as they moved away. With a silent curse, he recognized the black man standing, hands on hips, next to a wagon in the distance—Abel. And he realized that he’d missed his critical stop in Memphis. This woman—whoever she was—had ruined the entire mission.
    “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